Empty Floor Twelve — Fexingo Horror

Empty Floor Twelve — Fexingo Horror

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Empty Floor Twelve — Fexingo Horror episodes

  • The Man Who Tended the Pines at Midnight Cemetery

    Luna recalls a night in the autumn of 2019 when her car broke down near the town of Harlow, Ohio — a place she'd only seen on a faded gas station map. She walked to the only light still on: a small caretaker's shed at the edge of Midnight Cemetery. The man inside, Elias Croft, was polite, soft-spoken, and slightly too still. He offered her tea and a place to wait for a tow. As they talked, she noticed his hands — clean, but with dirt packed so deep under the nails it looked like ink. He spoke about the pine trees that lined the cemetery's oldest section, how they 'remember things.' When he walked her out to show her the grove, she saw that each pine had a small brass plaque at its base — not for the dead buried nearby, but for the trees themselves. Names. Dates. And one that read: 'Elias Croft — 1887–.' He didn't see her face as she read it. He was looking up at the branches, smiling. The tow truck arrived at 3:11 a.m. She never asked why the date had no end. She never returned. But sometimes, late at night, she wonders if the pines remember her too.

    #EmptyFloorTwelve #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #MidnightCemetery #HarlowOhio #EliasCroft #CemeteryCare #PineTrees #AutumnHorror #SmallTownHorror #Caretaker #BrassPlaques #Undying #AtmosphericHorror #SlowBurn #AmericanGothic #NightDrive #LunaNarrates #ElevatorHorror #LiminalSpace

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    6 min
  • The Woman Who Watched the Foxglove Motel

    August 1987. A dead-end stretch of Highway 9 in eastern Kentucky, where the blacktop blisters and the air smells like crushed jimsonweed. Luna pulls into the Foxglove Motel at half past midnight—not by choice, but because her car's water pump gave out two miles past the county line. The clerk is a man named Dwayne who doesn't look up from a paperback western. He hands her the key to Room 7 without asking her name. The motel is a horseshoe of cinderblock painted the color of a faded bruise. Vines crawl up the sign. The pool is drained and full of leaves. Luna doesn't sleep. She sits on the edge of the bed with the lamp on, watching the curtain move in the AC's breath. At 3:17 AM, she hears a woman's voice from the parking lot—not shouting, not calling for help. Just saying the same name, over and over, in a tone that doesn't sound human. This is not a story about something that chased her. It's about something that waited.

    #FoxgloveMotel #Highway9 #EasternKentucky #Room7 #DwayneTheClerk #Consumption #Cinderblock #Vines #Drainedpool #317AM #Thewomaninthepines #August1987 #Fever #Singing #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #EmptyFloorTwelve #Anthologyhorror #ElevatorHorror #LiminalSpace

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    9 min
  • The Weight of the Moon on Cold Spring Road

    In the winter of 2018, Luna's car died just outside of Cold Spring, New York, a town that seems to hold its breath between November and March. She ended up at the Last Diner, a place with greasy menus and a single waitress named Dee who moved like someone carrying a secret. That night, a man in a too-thin coat sat alone in a booth by the window, nursing coffee he never drank. Dee told Luna his name was Arthur, and that he came every night, waiting for a phone call from his daughter who died on this road fourteen years ago. But the phone never rings. And the headlights that sweep the window after midnight don't belong to any car. This is a story about grief that loops like a stuck record, about the places where the dead still have routines, and about the moment you realize the machine holding everything together is just a coin slot and a prayer. No jump scares. Just the slow understanding that some roads don't let you leave.

    #EmptyFloorTwelve #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ColdSpring #TheLastDiner #Arthur #Grief #TheDeadStillWait #Winter2018 #NewYorkState #ClosedLoop #PhoneThatNeverRings #Headlights #Route9D #DinerHorror #AtmosphericHorror #SlowBurn #Luna #ElevatorHorror #LiminalSpace

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    8 min
  • The Salt Hollow Motel

    Luna recounts a night in January 2019 when she stopped at a roadside motel in the New Mexico desert, a place called Salt Hollow. The motel was nearly empty, the air tasted like old brine, and the clerk behind the bulletproof glass gave her a key to a room that wasn't the one she paid for. That night, she heard singing from a locked linen closet — a woman's voice, thin and cracked, singing a hymn Luna hadn't heard since childhood. In the morning, the closet was empty, but the key in her hand was warm, and the clerk asked if she'd had a good night as if nothing was wrong. Luna left before dawn, but the singing followed her, faint and far away, like a radio left on in an abandoned house.

    #SaltHollowMotel #NewMexicoDesert #LinenCloset #Hymn #Key104 #TheWomanWhoSang #JanuaryNight #I40 #RoadsideMotel #BulletproofGlass #OldBrine #CrackedVoice #FrozenDesert #UnlockedRooms #Luna #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #Anthology #EmptyFloorTwelve #ElevatorHorror

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    8 min

About Empty Floor Twelve — Fexingo Horror

From the publisher's feed

In a building that should only have eleven floors, there is a button for twelve. Empty Floor Twelve is an anthology horror podcast where each episode is a self-contained story set in the same decaying Art Deco elevator — a machine that sometimes opens onto places that don't exist. Luna narrates tales of passengers who pressed the wrong button and found themselves in a floor of endless corridors, a floor where the walls breathe, or a floor that remembers every person who ever rode the elevator. The stories are slow and atmospheric, like the hum of old cables and the smell of brass polish. Sometimes the doors open on a quiet suburb where everyone's face is the same; sometimes they open on a room that contains only a telephone that rings with your own voice. What unifies these stories is the elevator itself — a liminal space that doesn't just move between floors, but between realities. Luna's voice is the only constant as passengers step out and never return. Each episode is a complete descent into the unknown. The button for twelve is always lit.