検索キーワード： 著者 "Fexingo" すべてのカテゴリー

In a dim listening room, the turntable hums. Luna sets the needle on a worn LP, its label inscribed with a single phrase: 'Side B.' These are the stories that never made it onto the commercial release — the outtakes, the B-sides, the recordings that were supposed to be erased. Each episode of Side B is a standalone tale from the margins: a forgotten demo tape that reveals a musician's hidden crime, a locked-groove loop that traps a listener in a single moment of terror, a dubplate pressed from a séance's audio. The register is intimate, hushed, as if Luna is sharing a rare find from her ...

At a lonely highway rest stop, Luna unfolds a paper map across a cracked picnic table and begins to read. Rest Stop 9 is an anthology of self-contained horror stories, each one a traveler's tale overheard in the glow of a dying vending machine. The tales are drawn from the forgotten margins of America: a hitchhiker who never left the passenger seat, a payphone that rings with warnings from the dead, a gas station attendant whose smile hides a century-old hunger. Luna's voice, intimate and hushed, draws you into each story as if you're sitting beside her, the night pressing in from all sides. ...

A child's life-jacket, strap broken, floats against a dock at twilight. The lake that took her is still, black, and patient. In each self-contained episode of The Lake That Took Her, Luna tells a story about water that remembers — lost swimmers who never surface, cabins where the tap runs red, fog that carries voices from the opposite shore. These are not ghost stories; they are stories about what the lake holds beneath its glassy surface. A woman hears her drowned daughter calling from the bathtub. A fisherman pulls up a boot with something still inside. A boy counts the ripples after a ...

Inside a lighthouse on a jagged coast, Luna takes up the keeper's logbook each night. The stories she writes are not her own — they are the confessions, warnings, and last words of those who have come before her. Each entry is a self-contained tale: a captain who hears his drowned crew singing in the fog, a lighthouse keeper whose isolation gives birth to a second self, a shipwreck survivor who discovers the island is not what it seems. The Fresnel lens casts rotating beams across the pages, illuminating horrors that prefer the dark. Here, the sea keeps its secrets, and the lighthouse is a ...

Luna sits in a candlelit chamber, iron key cold against her chest. In her palm rests a silver pin engraved with a sigil she cannot name—but she knows it opens doors. The Order of Quiet Things is an anthology of doors: old ones, hidden ones, doors that should never have been built. Each episode is a keyhole, a threshold, a story that begins with a single step into the wrong room. From a woman who finds a door in her basement that leads to a hospital that burned down in 1957, to a man who inherits a key that opens every lock in a town that erased itself from maps—these are tales of spaces ...

In a forgotten theater off Bleecker Street, Luna sits alone under a ghost-light, pulling back the velvet curtain on a story that refuses to stay on the page. The Theater on Bleecker is a serialized horror podcast about a struggling off-Broadway company that uncovers a play written in 1928 — a play that seems to rewrite itself, casting actors in roles they didn't audition for, and demanding a final performance that has never been completed. As the company rehearses, the line between stage and reality frays: props move on their own, lines appear in scripts that no one wrote, and the ghost of ...

Inbox Zero is an anthology horror podcast where each episode is a sealed email you should have deleted. Luna reads from a single folder — messages from the dead, the damned, and the desperate. Some are chain letters that count your breaths. Others are automated replies from systems that shouldn't exist. One is a meeting invitation with no end time. The ritual is always the same: a familiar subject line, a sender you recognize, a body that shouldn't be there. The stories are self-contained, but they share a world where digital communication is a haunted threshold — every notification a ...

From the mud and morphine of a field hospital, Luna reads letters that never reached their destination — each one a story of the war within the war. In Wartime Whispers, every episode is a self-contained tale drawn from the correspondence of soldiers, nurses, and civilians caught in the machinery of conflict. These are not stories of combat, but of the quiet horrors that thrive in the margins: a nurse who tends to a wound that won't stop whispering, a soldier who receives letters from a dead wife, a radio operator who picks up a signal from a unit that was never deployed. Luna's voice, low ...

In a quiet child's bedroom, between crayon drawings and a dust-filled dollhouse, Luna unfolds the stories that live in the spaces where childhood meets the uncanny. IMAGINARY is an anthology of tales about the things that children see but adults refuse to believe — the silhouette in the closet that never moves, the friend with no name who waits under the bed, the laughter from an empty room at 3 AM. Each episode is a self-contained story, but together they form a mosaic of the forgotten, the dismissed, and the terrifyingly real. Luna's voice is a hush, like a secret shared between siblings ...

A hotel hallway that never ends, a row of doors leading to rooms that shouldn't exist. Luna checks in at a roadside inn in the Oregon Cascades and finds a corridor that stretches a mile longer than the building permits. Each episode of The Long Hallway is a standalone story tied to a different door — Room 207 with its mildew that writes warnings on the wallpaper, Room 314 where the dead bride still waits for her honeymoon, Room 412 that opens onto a field of frozen sunflowers under a moon that doesn't move. The hallway itself is the constant: a liminal space where time loops, where the ...

On the vast, unbroken plains of the American heartland, the horizon is a lie. Luna takes you to 'The Lonely Plains', an anthology of self-contained horror stories rooted in the isolation and ancient dread of the high prairie. Each episode is a standalone tale — a sod homesteader who hears his own name on the wind, a grain silo that hums a forgotten hymn, a fence line that walks itself at midnight. The unifying thread is place: the grass that hides old bones, the sky that watches too closely, the silence that waits for a scream. Luna's voice, low and intimate as lamplight, guides you through ...

In a dim nursery, a baby monitor crackles with static — and in the green-black haze, shapes move. Goodnight, Sweetheart is an anthology of stories about the things that watch from the dark. Luna whispers each tale from the rocking chair's edge, her voice the only warmth in a room where the curtains stir without wind. Here, a lullaby turns wrong, a forgotten crib holds secrets, and every nightlight casts shadows that breathe. No two stories are the same — a grieving father hears his daughter's voice in the static, a night nurse learns the pattern of the unseen, a child's toy remembers more ...

Every day, we scroll through endless video recommendations—thumbnails promising the mundane, the bizarre, the unsettling. In 'The Recommended Tab,' Luna explores what happens when those algorithmic suggestions turn predatory. Each episode is a self-contained story about a person who clicks on a video they shouldn't have: a livestream from an empty nursery, a repair tutorial for a device that doesn't exist, a vlog from a town that was demolished decades ago. The videos are always ordinary at first, but the comments are frozen, the view count never changes, and by the end, the viewer realizes ...

In a candlelit chapel office, Luna opens a worn black leather notebook — the private journal of Father Aldric, an exorcist who vanished in 1987. Each episode reads an entry from his meticulous records: the patient interviews, the physical signs, the liturgical rites, and the moments when something in the room changed. But the notebook is not merely a historical document. As Luna turns the pages, she begins to notice discrepancies — dates that don't line up, names that appear in later entries before they were introduced, and a recurring line of Latin that translates to 'I am still writing.'...

Deep in the national parks, where the trail maps end and the wilderness grows thick, Luna sits at a ranger station porch and reads from a logbook that was never meant for public eyes. In Park Service Stories, each episode stands alone as a self-contained account of something that happened out here—a camper who walked into a ravine and walked out again forty years younger, a fire lookout tower that receives signals from no known frequency, a pack of coyotes that follow the same ritual every full moon. These are not ghost stories told around a campfire; they are official reports, witness ...

Every hospital has its graveyard shift, but St. Jude Memorial’s overnight log records things the day staff would never believe. Luna, an orderly who works the 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. stretch, transcribes the strange, the tragic, and the unexplainable from a desk bathed in flickering fluorescence. In this anthology, each episode is a self-contained story culled from that log—a patient who never arrived but whose chart is full, a code blue called on an empty room, a janitor who mops the same spot of blood for thirty years. The tales are quiet and slow-burn, rooted in the mundane terror of a job ...

A laptop hums in a dim home office. The external drive's red LED pulses like a heartbeat. Inside: thousands of unsorted folders, each a life. Luna opens them one by one — not to restore data, but to listen to what was buried. The Backup Drive is an anthology of digital excavation: corrupted JPEGs that still move, audio files that loop a single scream, spreadsheets that predict your death, and forgotten chat logs from a conversation that never ended. Each episode is a self-contained story of data that should have stayed lost — a found-footage horror for the age of external storage. Luna's ...

Game Trail is an anthology horror podcast set in the deep woods of the American Northeast, where the quiet of snowfall masks something far less natural. Each episode follows a different person—hunter, hiker, logger, lost child—who steps off the marked path and into a territory where the rules of the world shift. These are stories of cold dread, of tracks that double back on themselves, of things that watch from the treeline and never blink. Luna guides you through these isolated encounters with a steady, low voice, like a campfire tale told by someone who has seen the woods at night and ...

Luna sits behind the glass counter of a forgotten pawnshop, where every object holds a story — and every story holds a debt. In this anthology, she unpacks the histories of items left behind: a tarnished pocket-watch that counts down to something unspeakable, a vintage gun that has fired only once, a child's music box that plays a lullaby for the dead. Each episode is a self-contained tale of the people who traded their possessions — and sometimes their souls — for a few dollars. From a wedding ring that carries a curse to a photograph that changes with each viewer, the pawnshop's ...

In a small Catholic chapel where votive candles gutter before a saint's turned-away face, Luna kneels in the pew, rosary beads clicking between her fingers. This is the gathering place for stories from the borderlands of faith — where devotion curdles into obsession, where the sacred turns sinister, and where the line between sin and salvation blurs into shadow. Each episode of Saints and Sinners is a self-contained tale that explores the dark corners of religious belief: a priest who hears confessions from someone who died decades ago, a relic that grants prayers at a terrible cost, a ...