Cold Wake — Fexingo Horror

Cold Wake — Fexingo Horror

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Cold Wake — Fexingo Horror episodes

  • The Man Who Heard the Hymn at Grey Gull Point

    October, just past midnight. A retired fisherman named Elias lives alone in a cottage at Grey Gull Point, Maine. For weeks, he's been hearing a hymn sung by a single voice from the water—a woman's soprano, clear and cold, rising above the surf. He tells me he's never seen her, only the faint glow of a lantern moving among the rocks below the tide line. One night, he rows out to find the source. What he hears up close changes the way he looks at the sea. This is a story about longing, loneliness, and the sound that follows you home. Told from the deck of a North Atlantic trawler, with the work-light swaying and the net darkening.

    #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ColdWake #GreyGullPoint #Maine #Elias #hymn #voice #rowboat #lantern #October #midnight #lighthouse #shore #solitude #water #folklore #atmospheric

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    7 min
  • The Man Who Hauled the Anchor at Cold Harbor

    Luna tells the story of Elias, a fisherman from the quiet coastal town of Cold Harbor, Maine, who discovered a massive anchor in the shallows one autumn night—unattached to any ship. What started as a curiosity became an obsession as he returned night after night to haul the chain, never reaching its end. His daughter Agnes recounts how the anchor pulled him under, and how the chain still sounds from the deep on still nights. A slow-burn maritime horror about what lies beneath the known waters.

    #ColdHarborMaine #Anchor #Chain #TheManWhoHauledTheAnchor #MaritimeHorror #SlowBurn #Obsession #LostFisherman #StillWater #NightFishing #Luna #ColdWake #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #SoloNarration #Atmospheric #MaineCoast #DeepWater

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    7 min
  • The Man Who Counted the Links at Mistake Island

    Winter, 1987. I spent a week on Mistake Island — a scrap of rock off the Maine coast — helping a retired lighthouse keeper named August inventory the old fog bell station. The bell had been decommissioned and shipped to a museum years before, but August swore he still heard it at night, ringing from the water. I thought it was grief or solitude. Then he showed me the chain — a rusted length he'd been hauling up from the cove, link by link, counting each one. The chain was still attached to something. Something that rang back. This is a story about listening too closely to things that should stay quiet. About the weight of a line you can't stop pulling. And about what rings when no bell is there.

    #MistakeIsland #Maine #FogBell #Chain #August #LighthouseKeeper #Winter1987 #ColdWake #OceanHorror #SlowBurn #WhyWeListen #TheCallFromBelow #HorrorStories #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #SoloNarration #HushedTerror #WhatLivesUnder

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    8 min
  • The Woman Who Heard the Bell at Hardscrabble Point

    Late November, a night so thick with fog you could taste the salt. Luna sits in the keeper’s cottage at Hardscrabble Point, Maine, with a woman named Elara. Her husband’s trawler went down three weeks ago. Now, every night, she hears a bell ringing from the cellar — a small handbell, not the fog bell on the reef. She says it’s him, trying to come home. Luna listens as the sound rises through the floorboards, and what Elara does next will stay with her forever. No ghosts, no gore — just a woman, a bell, and the space between grief and madness. Recorded on deck, in the dark, with the sea below.

    #HardscrabblePoint #MaineCoast #NovemberFog #Handbell #Lighthouse #Elara #Grief #Sea #Cellar #Sinking #Trawler #Loss #ColdWake #Anthology #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #SoloNarrated #Atmospheric

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    6 min
  • The Woman Who Weighed the Net at Dunn's Harbor

    On a cold November night in 1997, Luna hears a story from an old fisherman in Dunn's Harbor, Maine. Martha Coyle, a solitary fisherwoman, hauled her net one last time before winter. But the net came up heavy—not with fish, but with something that bent the lines and left a wet weight in the boat. She never told anyone what she found, but the net still hangs in her yard, dripping even on dry days. A quiet, sinking tale of what the sea gives back.

    #ColdWake #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #SoloNarration #Luna #DunnsHarbor #Maine #Fisherwoman #Net #SeaHorror #Atmospheric #SlowBurn #NovemberNight #MarthaCoyle #Weight #DrippingNet #Unresolved #Anthology

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    5 min
  • The Woman Who Saw the Face at Haddock Cove

    September fog rolls thick over the Gulf of Maine, and Luna is alone on the deck of the trawler when she hears a voice—her own name, spoken from the water. Leaning over the rail, she sees a woman's face floating just below the surface: pale, eyes open, lips moving in words that never reach the air. No body follows. No rescue is needed. But later, on her arm, a wet handprint that stays cold for days. This is the story of a drowned woman whose promise to return found its way through the fog. Set near Haddock Cove, Maine, in the autumn of 1998, it is a quiet encounter with a grief that never really left.

    #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #HaddockCove #Maine #Fog #Ghost #WomanAtSea #Trawler #ColdWake #Luna #Voices #Handprint #Fishermen #SeaHorror #Atmospheric #SoloNarration #Encounter #Mystery

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    7 min
  • The Woman Who Saw the Rope at Grayhook Bank

    Luna recalls a night in late October, 2019, on the deck of the Cynthia Marie, thirty miles off Grayhook Bank. The trawler's net snagged something heavy — not a rock, not a wreck, not a whale. The captain, a woman named Ellen Orris, insisted on hauling it up instead of cutting it free. What came over the gunwale was not catch. It was a length of wet rope, tied in a loop, and tied again, and again, in knots that seemed to have no ends. Luna watched Ellen's hands as she tried to untie them. She watched her face as the rope began to move on its own. This is a story about the weight of what we choose not to cut loose. About the warmth of something that should be cold. About a rope that, when you touch it, feels like it is still deciding whether to pull or to hold.

    #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ColdWake #GrayhookBank #EllenOrris #TheRope #NorthAtlantic #Trawler #DeepSeaHorror #Knots #October #NightFishing #LunaNarrates #SoloHorror #AtmosphericHorror #MaritimeHorror #SlowBurn #Unsettling

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    8 min
  • The Woman Who Saw the Wake at Stillwater Bend

    Luna sits on the deck of the North Atlantic trawler *Persephone* at two in the morning, a half-mile off the coast of a town called Stillwater Bend. She tells the story of a woman she met there six years ago—a woman named Della who lived in a house at the end of a gravel road that dead-ends at a marsh. Della had a husband who went out on a skiff and never came back. And then she started seeing a wake on the marsh at night. Not a boat. Not a fish. A wake with no source, moving against the wind, heading toward her porch. Luna was hired by Della's sister to check on her, and what she saw over three nights turned the marsh into a place she still can't look at without counting the seconds between ripples. This is a story about grief that refuses to sink, and the shape it makes when it surfaces.

    #StillwaterBend #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #SoloNarrated #NorthAtlantic #MarshWake #DellaMorrow #GriefHorror #DarkWater #NightOnTheWater #LunaTells #PersephoneTrawler #MaineCoast #OctoberFog #NoBoat #TheWake #StillWater #ColdWake

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    9 min
  • The Man Who Saw the Sonar at Grayhook Bank

    Off Grayhook Bank, November 2009, the trawler Mary Ellen picked up a sonar return that looked like a church spire rising from the mud. The skipper, a man named Harlan Corbitt, spent three hours circling that patch of water while the rest of the crew watched the screen and felt something press against the hull from below. Luna tells the story of what Harlan saw when he finally dropped a chain over the side — not a wreck, not a rock, but something that had been waiting for the right depth, the right time of year, the right engine thrum to wake it. The Mary Ellen made port two days later with a dead fathometer, a shattered chain, and a man who could not stop whispering numbers under his breath.

    #ColdWake #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #GrayhookBank #MaryEllen #HarlanCorbitt #SonarReturn #November2009 #FishingTrawler #NorthAtlantic #DeepSeaHorror #SomethingBelow #SkippersLog #ChainAndRope #WhisperedNumbers #PodcastHorror #SoloNarration #LunaReads

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    9 min
  • The Keeper of the Trawl Net at Little Rest

    In the winter of 1998, on the frozen pier of Little Rest, Maine, Luna heard a story from a woman named Elara who kept a trawl net in her cellar. The net was old, its twine black with age, and it seemed to catch things that no longer lived. Elara didn't fish with it. She hung it from a beam and let the darkness pool in its mesh. Luna follows the story from Elara's kitchen to the net's final haul on a night when the tide didn't come back. A quiet, salt-stained episode about what the ocean leaves behind when it stops giving—and what comes up through the holes of a net that was never meant to be mended.

    #ColdWake #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #LittleRest #MaineCoast #TrawlNet #Winter1998 #Pier #Elara #Cellar #BlackTwine #OceanHorror #Tide #DarkWater #LostFishermen #HauntedNet #AtmosphericHorror #SoloNarrated

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    6 min

About Cold Wake — Fexingo Horror

From the publisher's feed

Cold Wake is a maritime horror anthology where each episode is a self-contained voyage into the black Atlantic. Luna stands on the deck of a North Atlantic trawler, the sodium light casting long shadows as she tells stories of fishermen who haul up things that should never be caught — sentient knots of net, voices from the deep that answer questions no one asked, and wrecks that refuse to stay on the seafloor. The register is salt-crusted and whispered: the slow creak of a hull, the distant foghorn, the shock of cold water on skin. These are tales of isolation, of men who have seen too much darkness beyond the horizon, of creatures that wear the shape of scavenged souls. Every episode is a standalone story, but all are bound by the same icy ocean and Luna's steady, intimate narration — as if she's beside you in the dark, pointing a trembling finger at something just out of sight. There is no rescue here, only the tide pulling you under.