It's Halloween night, and Luna finds herself drawn to a solitary jack-o'-lantern glowing at the far end of Pender Lane—a road she knows ends in a cul-de-sac where no one lives. The pumpkin is fresh, carved with a face that seems to shift when she looks away. She hears a child's whisper from behind it, but there's no one there. Each year on this night, the same pumpkin appears, and each year, someone new is compelled to approach. Luna tells the story of the night she almost took it home.

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When I worked the graveyard shift at the Shell on Route 22, the night of October 30th was quiet. A single car pulled in just after two in the morning—a dusty sedan with a man who didn't blink. I remember the way he stood at the counter, buying a pack of wintergreen gum and a map, staring at the coffee pot like he was waiting for something. By the time I realized he had never actually driven away, the parking lot was empty, and my gas pump had registered 45 gallons to a car that only held twelve. This is a story about what you find at the edge of small-town night shifts—a rest stop that shouldn't exist, a smell of burnt sugar and wet earth, and the feeling that someone is still watching through the glass.

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It is the night before Halloween, 1987, in the small town of Harwood, Ohio. Luna's childhood neighbor, old Mrs. Kowalski, calls her over to help with one last chore before the holiday—an old brass bell in the backyard, tied to a rope hung from the oak tree. Mrs. Kowalski claims the bell must be rung exactly once at midnight on Halloween to keep something in the woods from crossing the lane. Luna thinks it's just a superstitious ritual, but as the night deepens and the wind dies, she hears the bell ring again, hours before midnight, with no one there. The story is a slow, creeping dread about a promise kept too long, a boundary drawn in the dark, and the sound of brass moving when no hand touches it. Told in Luna's hushed, intimate register as if she is still standing in that yard, listening.

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It's past midnight on Halloween, and Luna pulls into a gas station on Route 22—the only light for miles. The attendant, a man named Elias, warns her not to play the jackpot machine. But the machine has a name. It has a history. And it knows exactly what you want. A story about a small-town myth that turns out to be true, and a prize you can never redeem. Written by Luna, read by Luna.

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Luna opens door number 24 on her Halloween calendar and finds a small brass bell. It reminds her of a story her grandmother used to tell — about the old St. Agnes School for Girls, which closed in 1972 after a fire in the east wing. The school was demolished years ago, but some people still claim to hear a bell ringing from the empty lot on autumn evenings. Luna's grandmother was a student there on the night of the fire, and she never spoke of what she saw. But on her deathbed, she gave Luna a journal. The last entry is dated October 31, 1972. Luna reads it aloud for the first time, and the words feel colder than the candlelight.

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It was almost midnight on a Tuesday in late October when I pulled into the Silver Star gas station on Route 22, just outside the town of Millbrook. The place was empty except for the attendant, a woman named Delia who wore a faded denim jacket and seemed to be waiting for something. She told me about the man who came every night at the same time, bought a single scratch-off ticket, and always lost. But last week, he didn't lose. He won a jackpot so large the machine jammed. And then he didn't claim it. He just stood there, staring at the ticket like it was a photograph of someone who had died. Delia handed me a coffee and said, 'You should see the camera footage from that night.' I didn't ask to see it. I paid for my gas and drove away, but for days afterward I kept thinking about the look on his face — not joy, not disbelief, but something closer to recognition. As if he had finally found what he had been looking for, and it was worse than losing.

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December 1998. A small Christmas tree lot in the parking lot of a closed Kmart on Miller Road, on the outskirts of a town called Eastridge. Luna was eleven. She went with her father to pick out a tree. The man running the lot was old, with a crooked smile and hands that shook when he tied the twine. He told her father the best ones were in the back. Luna wandered past the rows of spruces and found a single tree standing apart, its needles black, its branches perfectly still in the wind. A small metal tag hung from a lower limb, stamped with a number and a date. The man appeared behind her and said, 'That one's not for sale.' He didn't explain why. Her father bought a different tree. That night, Luna dreamed of the black tree. In the dream, she touched the tag and the date changed. She's never forgotten that lot, or the way the man watched her leave. She looked for it again years later, but the lot was gone. The Kmart was still closed. A new strip mall stood in its place. She still thinks about the tag: 12-25-1988. Ten years before she was even born.

#FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #AllHallowsCalendar #SoloNarrated #ChristmasTreeLot #MillerRoad #Eastridge #BlackTree #December1998 #MemoryHorror #UnsettlingEncounter #ChildhoodMemory #TheTag #Luna #Atmospheric #SlowBurn #NoClosure #Anthology

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Luna pulls the fifty-second door from the All Hallows' Calendar and finds a tarnished coin stamped with a grinning jack-o'-lantern. The image takes her back to a November night in 2017, when a convenience store clerk named Danny watched the lottery machine tick out a sequence of numbers that didn't belong to any drawing. The win started with a hundred dollars, then a thousand, then a figure that should have been impossible. But the more the jackpot grew, the more the customers began to change — their smiles stretching too wide, their fingers leaving wet prints on the counter. By the time Danny called to tell me about it, his voice had gone thin and hollow, like he was speaking from the bottom of a well. This is a story about the price of getting what you want, and the quiet that settles in a town after the last winner leaves.

#AllHallowsCalendar #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #Route22 #GasStation #Lottery #Jackpot #SmallTownHorror #NovemberNight #Halloween #Moonlight #WinningTicket #Greed #ConvenienceStore #Danny #Coincidence #CursedMoney #Luna

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On the last night of October, Luna stops at a coin laundromat on the outskirts of Milford, New Hampshire, where a woman in a beige coat is folding the same load of sheets over and over. The fluorescent lights hum a half-step off. The dryers run empty. And when the woman speaks, her voice sounds like it's coming from somewhere far away — like she's been waiting here a very long time for someone who never showed up. Luna stays past closing, watching the spin cycle, listening. What she learns about the laundromat's last customer, the smell of bleach, and the click of the door locking from the outside will make you think twice about the places you pass at night without looking in.

#LaundromatOnRoute9 #MilfordNewHampshire #CoinLaundry #October31 #WomanInBeige #FoldingSheets #FluorescentHum #DryersRunningEmpty #Waiting #Loneliness #Midnight #LockedDoor #BleachSmell #UnfinishedBusiness #SmallTownHorror #Atmospheric #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast

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Halloween night, 2018. A cold front swept through Meridian, Ohio, and the streetlights buzzed orange and dead. I was nineteen, walking home from a party where someone had served cider that tasted like copper. I didn't plan to stop at Number 7 Wisteria Lane. But the porch light was on, and the door was cracked, and an old woman was sitting in a rocking chair, knitting something that looked like a child's sweater. She didn't speak. She just smiled and nodded at the empty chair beside her. I sat down because the cold was sinking into my bones, and I thought I'd rest for a minute. She kept knitting, and I watched her needles flicker in the dim light. After a while, I noticed the sweater was made of hair. Human hair. And it was the same color as mine. I stood up to leave, and she said, 'Don't go. It's almost finished.' I looked at my own reflection in the window behind her, and I saw that my hair had been cut. In uneven patches. All over my head. I ran. But the next morning, on my pillow, I found a perfect braid of hair, tied with a black ribbon. And the porch light at Number 7 Wisteria Lane was still on.

#FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #AllHallowsCalendar #Episode50 #WisteriaLane #MeridianOhio #PorchLight #OldWoman #Knitting #HairSweater #Halloween #TrueStory #CreepyEncounter #AloneAtNight #SmallTownHorror #LunaReads #SoloNarration #AtmosphericHorror

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