November in Clifton Forge, Virginia, after midnight. The elevator doors opened to a small waiting room — wooden bench, a single lamp, and a woman named Grace who had been sitting there since 1987. She wasn't waiting for a train or a bus. She was waiting for news that never came. This is the story of how I sat with her for forty minutes, how she told me about her daughter's drive to Roanoke, and how the telephone on the wall rang once — then stopped. No resolution. No comfort. Just the cold weight of a wait that outlasts its reason. I still think about her hands, folded in her lap, still as if she were being photographed.

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Luna takes the elevator to floor twelve again, but this time the doors open onto a high school gymnasium in Shady Bend, Nevada—polished hardwood, folded bleachers, a scoreboard reading 47–47. A woman in a red cardigan sits alone in the top row, waiting for a game that ended decades ago. Luna sits beside her and learns about the night the team came back from the dead, the shot that never missed, and the point guard who never left. As the lights flicker and the ball begins to bounce on its own, Luna realizes the game isn't over. It never was. This episode is a meditation on grief, unfinished business, and the terrible weight of a tie that can never be broken. Written and narrated by Luna.

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Luna presses the button for floor twelve in an Art Deco elevator that only has eleven floors. The doors open onto a high school hallway in Garnett, Kansas, circa 1987. A janitor named Frank sweeps the same spot for hours. The pay phone rings every seventeen minutes. Nobody answers. Luna stays long enough to learn what happens when you pick up the receiver — and why the water fountains run rusty at 3:17 AM sharp. A quiet, slow-burn episode about repetition, unfinished business, and the weight of a single unreturned call.

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It's past midnight in late autumn, and the elevator opens onto a narrow record store in Tulsa, Oklahoma—dusty, warm, and lit by a single yellow bulb. Behind the counter sits a woman named Elaine, who seems to have been waiting for Luna. She talks about the store's history, about the people who used to come in, and about the one customer who never left. The shelves are full of albums that don't exist, and the air smells of old paper and something else—something that makes Luna's throat dry. Elaine offers her a record, a blank label, and tells her to listen alone. Luna takes it back to her apartment, and when she plays it, she hears her own voice—fragments of conversations she doesn't remember, words she never said. The next night, the elevator button for floor twelve glows, and she doesn't know if she can stop herself from pressing it again.

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Luna steps off the elevator on floor twelve into a waiting room that smells of old paper and floor wax. A nurse at a sliding window, a clipboard with her own name already written, and a door that should lead to an exam room but opens onto a long corridor lined with photographs of people she almost recognizes. Every picture has a date — tomorrow's date. The nurse tells her the doctor will see her soon, but the clock on the wall has no hands, and the woman in the next room keeps asking for someone named Leo. Luna doesn't leave — she waits, because the elevator doors have sealed shut behind her, and because part of her wants to see what's behind the last door at the end of the hall.

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The button for floor twelve glowed. It always glows. But tonight, when the doors opened, I stepped into a bar called The Rusty Nail in a town called Garnet, Oklahoma. It was just after two in the morning, the air smelled like spilled beer and burnt coffee, and the jukebox was playing a song I almost recognized. The bartender was the only other person there—a man in a white shirt, sleeves rolled, polishing a glass. He didn't look surprised to see me. He just asked what I was drinking. And as I sat down, I noticed the clock behind him was stopped at 2:17. Not broken. Stopped. The second hand was still ticking, but it never moved past the seventeen. I stayed until last call. Or what should have been last call. But the clock never changed, and the bartender kept pouring. By the time I left, I couldn't remember why I'd been in that building in the first place. It's a quiet kind of horror, the kind that settles into your bones like cold. The kind that makes you wonder if you ever really left.

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Luna rides the elevator to a floor that shouldn't exist and steps into a small-town library in Garnet, where a woman named Helen tends the desk at midnight. The books feel wrong, the shelves seem to breathe, and Helen speaks of a patron who has been borrowing the same book for ninety years. Luna stays until dawn, unable to leave, and when she finally does, she finds a yellowed card in her coat pocket — due back yesterday.

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Luna recalls a night in early October when the elevator on Empty Floor Twelve opened onto the cracked concrete deck of a motel pool in Red Bluff, California. The water was lit from below, a single figure floating face-down near the deep end. No ripples. No breath. She stood on the edge and watched until the figure turned its head — not to breathe, but to look at her through the chlorine haze. What it wanted is still unclear. What it told her, in a voice that came from the filter grate, she has never repeated aloud. This is a story about stillness, about the weight of water after midnight, and about the things that wait for someone to look away.

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A solitary elevator in a forgotten Art Deco building carries Luna to a floor that shouldn't exist. When the doors part on the twelfth floor, she steps into a glassblower's workshop in the dead of a Montana winter — a studio suspended above a frozen river, where a woman named Elara works alone at 3 AM. Elara claims she's been waiting for someone to witness the final piece: a glass bell that holds the last sound ever made by her grandmother. But the bell does not ring. It breathes. And the longer Luna stays, the more she feels the cold glass watching her, the more she hears a voice she almost recognizes humming from inside the molten walls. A story about inheritance, silence, and the things we cannot stop ourselves from breaking.

#FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #EmptyFloorTwelve #ElevatorHorror #Glassblowing #MontanaWinter #TheBitterroot #Elara #GlassBell #SoundOfGrief #Inheritance #MoltenGlass #FrozenRiver #3AM #LunaVoice #SlowBurnHorror #IntimateHorror #Atmospheric

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It was February in Laramie, Wyoming, and the diner was called the Warbonnet. The waitress's name was Darla, and she'd been working the graveyard shift for eleven years. She poured me coffee and told me about the man who came in every night at 2:17 AM, sat in booth four, ordered black coffee and apple pie, and never spoke. She said he'd been coming for seven years, ever since his daughter disappeared from the truck stop on I-80. And then she told me what happened when she finally asked him his name. There's no ghost in this story. No monster. Just a man and a waitress and a counter between them. And a road that keeps going long after you've stopped.

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