Imaginary — Fexingo Horror

Late November 2022, a few miles outside the town of Jasper, Ohio. I was driving home from a funeral when my car started making a noise I couldn't place. I pulled into the Fox Creek Gas Station — a single pump, a convenience store that smelled of old coffee and motor oil. The man behind the counter, Henry, had been working there for thirty-seven years. He told me about the handprint. The one that appears on the inside of the station's back window every night around 2:47 AM. Not a smudge. Not condensation. A small handprint, like a child's, pressed from the in...

Luna finds a child's snow globe in a closed-down motel room, its tiny scene shifting and growing night by night. A story about a boy who believed his imaginary friend could bring spring, and what happened when the snow never stopped falling — even inside the glass. Set at the Gull's Rest Motel on the outskirts of Meridian, Connecticut, in late November 2019. Quiet, cold, and unfinished.

#FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #Imaginary #SnowGlobe #GullsRestMotel #MeridianConnecticut #ImaginaryFriend #Winter #Childhood #Loneliness #Frozen #Glass #Snow #Dollhouse #CrayonDrawing #Anthology #SoloNarrated #Luna

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A cold winter night at a diner on Route 9, where a waitress named Clara leaves a crayon drawing under a napkin dispenser. Luna traces the artwork back to a child named Leo, who disappeared from a neighboring town six years ago. The drawing shows a stick figure with no face standing beside a house with a red door. But the details in the crayon — the way the grass is colored black, the window drawn as a dark square — suggest something else. Clara doesn't remember leaving the drawing. The security footage from that night shows the napkin dispenser lifting by itse...

In the summer of 1998, a seven-year-old girl named Alice Voss went missing from the shore of Lake Vanish, a small, stagnant body of water in northern Minnesota. Her mother, Celia, spent the next two decades searching the woods and the water, refusing to believe her daughter drowned. In 2019, a real estate developer drained the lake to build a luxury subdivision, and at the bottom, in the silt and the weeds, they found something that was not a child's body. It was a porcelain doll, wearing a yellow sundress identical to the one Alice had on the day she disappeared...

October 1987. Luna's cousin Margie takes a summer job cleaning out the abandoned canning factory on Elm Street in Bellflower, Indiana. The factory has been closed for twenty years, but the smell of peaches never left. Margie finds a row of ovens still warm, a ledger with names and dates, and a locked door at the end of the basement hallway that hums. She stops calling after the third week. Luna drives out to find her.

#BellflowerIndiana #ElmStreet #CanningFactory #TheOven #Margie #Ledger #Basement #LockedDoor #PeachSmell #October1987 #SmallTownHorror #AbandonedBuilding #Disappearance #SiblingHorror #Atmospheric #SlowBurn #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast

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In the attic of the Bluebell Inn, Luna finds an antique toy chest that once belonged to a girl named Abigail. Inside are crayon drawings of a faceless family, a half-finished dollhouse, and a child's diary that grows more disturbing with each page. As Luna reads, the room grows cold and she hears footsteps—small, deliberate, circling the attic floor. The chest closes on its own. The diary's final entry is today's date, written in a hand that is not her own. A story about things that wait to be found, and the children who never left.

#Bl...

It was the summer of 2003, and I was house-sitting the Bluebell Inn, a faded Victorian B&B on the edge of Lost Creek, Vermont. The inn had been closed for years, but the owner—a woman named Mrs. Ellison—asked me to stay there, just to keep an eye on things. Every night, I found a fresh crayon drawing on the floor of the child's bedroom, left by no one I could see. A stick figure of a child holding hands with a taller, faceless figure. The child's face was always the same—a wide, desperate smile, but the eyes w...

Luna returns to the Bluebell Inn in Oakwood, Vermont, during the fall of 2019. A guest named Margaret has been leaving notes about a dollhouse in room 208 — a dollhouse she claims is not a toy but a record of something she cannot remember. Luna visits the room after Margaret checks out and finds the dollhouse arranged exactly as Margaret described: a miniature version of the inn, with tiny figures in each room. But one room — room 208 — is empty, save for a single figure lying on the bed. Luna takes the dollhouse home, and over the following weeks, she watches the figure...

Luna returns to the Moonflower Trailer Park on a humid August evening in 2009. A single-wide at the end of a cul-de-sac, a child's dollhouse in the yard with lights that flicker on at dusk. The woman inside, Mrs. Marlene, insists her daughter still plays with it — even though her daughter disappeared three years ago. Luna stays to watch. The dollhouse windows glow. A small hand waves from the upstairs bedroom. And then the front door of the trailer swings open, just an inch, as if someone is waiting. Moonflower has a vacancy sign that never turns off.

#Mo...

In the autumn of 2022, Luna spent a week at the Bluebell Inn, a nineteenth-century bed-and-breakfast in the fading town of Larkspur, Vermont. The innkeeper's daughter, a seven-year-old named Alice, slept with a nightlight shaped like a crescent moon and insisted the attic was crying. Luna volunteered to check the attic and found a child's cradle, hand-carved from oak, rocking on its own. From the closet, a slow creak and then a whisper—not a child's voice, but a woman's, dry and splintered, saying 'Again.' That night, Luna woke to find Alice standing at the foot of the bed, ho...

On a hot July night in 2007, a playground in the small town of Lost Creek, West Virginia, became the center of something that none of the parents would talk about. Luna recounts the story of a young girl named Ellie who found a chalk drawing on the blacktop — a perfect outline of a child, filled in with careful detail. The drawing wasn't there the day before. And it wasn't rain that washed it away. Through Ellie's eyes, Luna traces the slow unease that settled over a neighborhood when a child notices something the adults refuse to see. A story ab...

A woman named Grace moves into a rental house on Willow Creek Road in the autumn of 2021. The backyard has a sandbox the landlady insists she keep covered, but the neighborhood children keep digging it up. Grace meets a girl named Lily who draws the same thing every day—a house, a tree, a stick figure in a window. When Grace finally looks inside the house in the drawing, she sees something that makes her pour concrete into the sandbox at midnight. This is a story about what children see and what we teach them not to say.

Luna recalls a summer afternoon in 1999, when she was twelve and living on Magnolia Street in the small town of Stillwater, Oklahoma. A new girl named Alice moved into the yellow house at the end of the block. Alice drew with chalk on the sidewalk every day—elaborate pictures of a woman with no face, a tree with no leaves, a house with no doors. The drawings changed overnight, and the faceless woman began to step closer to Alice's front door each day. Luna watched from her bicycle, too scared to speak to Alice, too curious to leave. The la...

In the summer of 1997, on a dead-end road outside Red Bluff, Oregon, there was a white wooden fence that ran for nearly a mile along the edge of a fallow cornfield. Every few feet, someone had painted a child's handprint in red—hundreds of them, all the same size, all facing the road. I first saw them from the window of a Greyhound bus, and I got off at the next stop. That night, I met a woman named Elara who lived in the last house on the road, and she told me that every spring, a little girl in...

Luna stops for gas at a derelict station on a long stretch of Route 11 in eastern Oklahoma. The attendant is a young girl named Ivy who lives in the station with her grandfather. Ivy shows Luna a dollhouse in the back room—a perfect replica of the station itself, with tiny figures that move when no one is watching. Luna leaves at dawn, but when she checks her rearview mirror, the station is gone. Weeks later, she receives a package containing a single dollhouse room: a miniature of her own apartment, with a tiny figure of Luna asleep on th...

Luna finds a child's crayon drawing hidden behind a loose baseboard in room 7 of the Painted Lady Inn—a faded Victorian on a dead-end road in Dunmore, Pennsylvania. The drawing shows a little girl holding the hand of a tall faceless figure, and a row of smaller figures underneath with X's for eyes. That night, she hears the sound of crayon on paper coming from inside the wall. She peels back the wallpaper and finds more drawings, each one a record of disappearances. The last one is dated this month, and it shows the little girl standing alone, reaching to...

Route 19, west of Nowhere, Kansas — a motel with a room that shouldn't exist. Room 11 at the Bluebird Motel: no key, no window, no door from the outside. Luna heard about it from a trucker named Walt, who stayed there once and left something behind. A story about a motel owner who never speaks, a ledger with a single repeated name, and a room that only appears when it wants you. This is not a ghost story. It's a story about a place that remembers you better than you remember yourself.

#BluebirdMotel #Room11 #Route19 #Kansas #Walt #Ledger #Ghost #Me...

April 1982. The Driftwood Motel on Route 60, just outside Flatwoods, West Virginia. Luna's friend Clara inherits the motel from a great-aunt she never met, and goes to clear it out before the bank takes it. The rooms are stale and ordinary — except for Room 9, where a dress hangs in the open closet, swaying slightly, even though there's no breeze, no fan, no vent. The dress belonged to a girl named Margaret who vanished in 1974. Clara's investigation into Margaret's disappearance leads her to the dry well behind the pump house, and to a truth about the motel's owner that no one in...

The Gull's Rest Motel sits on a lonely stretch of Oregon coast where the fog never really lifts. It was November of 2003 when I stopped there, dead tired, and found a snow globe in the nightstand drawer. Inside was a tiny motel, identical to the one I was standing in. And inside that motel's window was a light, dim but steady. I shook it, and the snow fell, and the light in the tiny window went out. Then the real window behind me went dark. The power was off. I was left in the dark with that cold glass...

Luna remembers the summer she spent in the tiny town of Hemlock, West Virginia, working the graveyard shift at the only gas station for thirty miles. Every night around two, a boy would appear on the swing set behind the abandoned white church across the road. He never crossed the street. He never spoke. But he always waved. Luna tells the story of the night she finally walked over, and what she found on the swing. A quiet, slow-burn episode about isolation, the weight of unspoken grief, and the things that refuse to be forgotten. Set in the July...

In the summer of 2004, a seven-year-old boy in Elkhorn, West Virginia, built a treehouse in his backyard with his father. By August, he was the only one who could see the woman in the window. His mother blamed grief over the lost dog. His father blamed an overactive imagination. But when the boy started leaving sandwiches on a branch and sleeping in the treehouse every night, they had to look closer. This is the story of what waited inside those four plywood walls, the smell of damp pine and something older than the wood itself, and the whisper that...

In October of 1997, Luna spent a night at the Driftwood Motel on the outskirts of Deerton, West Virginia — a damp, peeling place off Route 60 with a flickering vacancy sign and a wall in room 9 that wouldn't stop whispering. This is the story of what she heard through the plaster after midnight, and the woman in the photograph taped to the bathroom mirror. No one else checked in that night. No one else checked out.

#DriftwoodMotel #DeertonWV #Route60 #TheMurmuringWall #Room9 #October1997 #Whispering #Photograph #Plaster #WestVirginia #MotelHorror #LunaNarrates #SoloNarration #AtmosphericHorror #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #Imaginary #Anthology

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It's July 1997 in Moonflower, West Virginia, and Luna is visiting her cousin at a trailer park pressed up against the edge of Monongahela National Forest. The park is quiet, the air thick with heat and pine, and at the far end of the gravel road there's a swing set that nobody's children play on. Luna's cousin warns her to stay away from it, but she can't stop watching it at night — the way one swing moves without wind, the silhouette of a small shape sitting on it just past midnight. What she finds when she finally walks over changes ho...

On a cold February night in 1992, Luna stops at the Painted Pony Motel off Route 19 in West Virginia. A place with a faded sign, a cracked swimming pool, and a room that wasn't quite empty. The night clerk gives her a key to Room 12 without looking up from his magazine. Inside, she finds a child’s rocking horse in the corner — paint chipped, mane frayed, and still gently rocking. She thinks it's a draft from the heater vent. But the vent is sealed shut. Over the course of the night, the rocking doesn't stop. It speeds up when she turn...

In late October, I stayed a week at the Painted Lady Inn on Marigold Street in Port Haven, New York, a rambling Victorian with twelve guest rooms and a third-floor window that faced a brick wall. The innkeeper, a silver-haired woman named Mrs. Holloway, warned me on the first night — do not open the curtains in Room 9 after midnight. I thought it was a quirk, a superstition, a story for the guests. But I was tired, and I forgot. At 12:03 AM, I pulled the cord. The light from the room fell onto the wall opposite, and I saw shadows th...

Luna recalls a night in late October, 2016, when she stopped at a roadside inn in Moth Creek, Pennsylvania — the Moth and Lantern. The innkeeper, a weary woman named Margaret, warned her not to use the back staircase after midnight. The stairs, she said, sometimes held onto people. Luna, tired from the road, ignored the warning. What she found on the third floor landing was not a staircase at all — but a corridor that seemed to breathe, lined with doors that shouldn't exist, and a faint weeping that came from behind one of them. This episode is about the architecture of g...

Luna recounts a night in early autumn at the Sleepy Hollow Motel off Route 22 in West Virginia—a place where every room has a closet door that won't stay shut, and where a boy named Caleb left a message in crayon on the wallpaper. She tells the story of how the motel's owner, Mrs. Hartley, learned to live with the thing that lives in the walls, and why she never turns on the overhead light after midnight. A story about what children see, what parents refuse to believe, and the sound of a small hand pressing against the inside of...

In the summer of 2004, Luna stayed at a rundown motel off Route 22 in Pennsylvania. The room had a crayon drawing taped to the wall — a child's scribble of a stick figure holding hands with a tall, faceless shape. The clerk said the previous tenant, a little girl, had vanished from the room three nights before. Luna couldn't stop looking at the drawing. The longer she stared, the more the faceless figure seemed to shift. By morning, she understood why the girl had drawn it — and why she never left.

#BlueSpruceMotel #Route22 #Pennsylvania #CrayonDrawing #MissingChild #FacelessFigure #MotelHorror #Summer2004 #Chil...

In the summer of 1997, a stretch of Route 9 outside Bedford, Ohio, became known for a single roadside relic: a white wicker cradle that appeared overnight in a field of Queen Anne's lace. No one knew where it came from, but everyone knew not to stop near it. Luna was fourteen that July, riding in the back of her uncle's pickup, when she saw the cradle for the first time. She tells the story of what happened when she finally convinced her cousin to pull over — the sound that came from inside it, and the thing that stood up from th...

West Virginia Route 55, three miles south of Hendricks. A Wednesday in late October, just past midnight. I pulled over because my headlights caught something in the ditch — a baby's cradle, upside down, half-buried in dead leaves. The trailer it came from was fifty yards off the road, door hanging open, one window lit. No one answered when I called. The cradle was still rocking when I found it, but there was nothing inside. Just a smell like warm milk and wet plaster, and a child's voice counting from the dark of the trailer's bedroom. I counted with her until I...

On a rain-soaked night in Oct 1997, the Moonflower Motel on the outskirts of Maysville, West Virginia, lost its phones. The manager called a young operator from the town's dying telephone exchange to fix it. She found a switchboard that hadn't been used in decades, still warm. The calls coming through weren't from any line she knew. They were from rooms that had been sealed shut since the 1950s. This is the story of what she heard on the switchboard that night, and the one room she opened to find the source.

#FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #MoonflowerMotel #Switchboard #MaysvilleWV #Operator...

Luna sits in a child's bedroom, a crayon drawing in her hands, and recalls a night she spent at the Whispering Pines Motel in Linnville, Missouri, during the autumn of 2016. A motel clerk with a knowing sadness, a room that smelled of cedar, and a dollhouse in the corner that wasn't listed on the inventory. The dollhouse had a tiny family inside—a mother, a father, a little girl. But the little girl's face was scratched out, and every night the dollhouse rearranged itself. Luna found the maid's log, with notations about 'the girl' and the dollhouse. She stayed th...

In March of 2019, Luna stayed at the Bluebonnet Inn outside Kerrville, Texas, hoping for a quiet writing retreat. The innkeeper's daughter, a seven-year-old named Clara, kept leaving a worn stuffed rabbit outside Luna's door. Each night the rabbit moved closer to the threshold, and each morning Clara insisted she hadn't placed it there. When Luna finally looked inside the rabbit's seam, she found a tiny handwritten note in a language she couldn't read — and a single strand of hair that wasn't from a rabbit. This is the story of that rabbit, and the thing that wanted to come inside.

June 1997, Lone Pine Motel, Nevada. A man named David checks in to room 14 after a long drive. He notices a child's kite tangled in the power lines above the parking lot. The motel manager warns him not to touch it. That night, David hears the kite string scraping against the window. When he looks out, the kite is gone, but the string is still there—stretching down from the wires, past the asphalt, and disappearing under his door. What follows is a story about something that should not have been airborne, and a bargain made with a voice that sp...

October 2022, two in the morning on a dead-end street in rural Pennsylvania. Luna's friend Nora calls her from a rental house — a cheap Airbnb she booked for a solo writing retreat. The house is old, the photos were inaccurate, and by midnight it's clear she is not alone. But no one breaks in. The disturbance is coming from inside — from a presence that seems to know her name, her childhood nickname, the one only her grandmother used. Luna drives thirty miles to pick her up, arriving to find Nora sitting on the front porch in her pajamas, the front door...

I spent one night at the Wisteria Inn, a crumbling bed-and-breakfast outside a town called Mercy, West Virginia, in the dead of winter 2019. The innkeeper was an old woman named Mrs. Harlow who warned me not to go into the basement after dark. I found a child's tooth under a loose floorboard in my room, wrapped in a page torn from a Bible. That night, I heard something scratching from inside the wall — small, persistent, like a child trying to get out. The next morning, Mrs. Harlow was gone. The inn was empty. And the tooth was back under th...

In the fall of 2019, a woman named Ada rents a room at the Morgan Run Motor Lodge in Tucker County, West Virginia. She's there to photograph abandoned buildings along the river, but the motel's handyman keeps leaving her gifts: a jar of creek stones, a bird's skull, a note asking her to meet him at the old outhouse behind the bait shop. She goes—because she's curious, because she's lonely, because the windows of her room look onto a dark stretch of forest that seems to be watching. What she finds in the outhouse is not a man. It's a...

It was August of 2008, just past midnight on a two-lane highway outside of Abilene, Texas. I pulled into the Rusty Nail Motel because I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. The clerk gave me room 14 without looking up from his magazine. The photograph was already hanging above the dresser when I walked in—a Polaroid of a woman with her face scratched out, but not by time. The ink was fresh. The scratches were still curled at the edges. I tried to sleep but the air conditioner hummed a note that wasn't mechanical. And the walls—they weren't just thin...

August 1987. A roadside inn in rural West Virginia, just off a stretch of Route 60 that nobody drives at night. Luna arrives late, checks in, and notices a child's swing set in the overgrown backyard—rusty, motionless. But by midnight, the swing is moving. Not creaking, not groaning, but swinging in perfect silence, as if someone is riding it. The innkeeper's wife, a woman named Miriam, tells Luna about her daughter Eleanor—seven years old, missing since 1979. Eleanor loved that swing. Every night since she vanished, the swing moves on its own. But tonight, something is different. The swing is high...

October 2022. A bed-and-breakfast in northern Vermont, just off Route 100, called the Birch Hollow Inn. The place had been operating for a hundred and twenty years — same family, same rules, same guestbook bound in red leather. I was there for four nights, cataloging the property's history for a preservation grant. The first two nights were ordinary. The third night, I found a spare key under a ceramic toadstool on the back porch. I didn't use it. I returned it. But the next morning, something had changed in every room. The furniture had been rearranged — exactly one inch to the left. The...