March 1998. A frozen pond on the outskirts of a town called Treadwell. Luna was housesitting for a friend's aunt—just a few days, feeding a cat and watering geraniums. But the property had a small icehouse at the back of the lot, a remnant from when the pond was commercially harvested. The aunt warned her not to go near it. 'It's not safe,' she said. 'The floor's rotten.' But the cat kept slipping through a gap in the boards, and Luna had to follow. What she found inside wasn't decay or ruin. It was something preserved. Something that had been waiting for decades. This episode is about a single evening in a small town, a wooden building that held more than ice, and the moment Luna realized that some things are sealed away for a reason. The ice on the pond was three feet thick that winter. And the cold inside the icehouse was something else entirely.

#TreadwellPond #Icehouse #March1998 #Housesitting #SmallTownHorror #Preserved #Frozen #TheColdRoom #TalesFromTheColdRoom #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #LunaNarrates #TrueStoryHorror #AtmosphericHorror #SlowBurn #CreepyEncounter #WhatWasInside #DontOpenTheDoor

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October 1998. Luna's cousin Margaret bought an old farmhouse outside Thompson, Vermont — Honeysuckle Farm — with acres of overgrown apple trees and a stone root cellar she found charming. But the previous owner, Mr. Ashworth, had a clause in the deed: 'Never lock the root cellar from the inside.' Margaret laughed it off until the night she lost the key. The lock clicked behind her. And something that had been waiting in the dark corners of that cellar... began to move. A story about a door that shouldn't stay shut, a bargain whispered in the dark, and the smell of earth after rain — a smell that follows you home.

#HoneysuckleFarm #RootCellar #Vermont #October1998 #MargaretAshworth #TheBargain #LockedDoor #EarthAfterRain #OldFarmhouse #AppleTrees #StoneCellar #NoEscape #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #TalesFromTheColdRoom #LunaTells #AutumnHorror #DoorThatShouldNotOpen

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Luna tells the story of a man she met while driving through the town of Edgecombe, Massachusetts, in the autumn of 2018. It was a cold October night, and she stopped at a diner near St. Agatha's Cemetery, where she encountered the groundskeeper—a quiet, weathered man named Harlan. He spoke of the quiet hours he spent among the headstones, of a particular grave he tended every day without fail, and of the soft, rhythmic sound that came from it at dawn. Luna shares the details of their conversation, the weight of his routine, and the unsettling truth she discovered when curiosity got the better of her. This is a story about devotion, solitude, and the thin line between tending the dead and being haunted by them.

#StAgathasCemetery #Edgecombe #Harlan #TheGroundskeeper #October2018 #RedwoodDiner #Grave62 #Dawn #RhythmicSound #QuietHorror #SmallTown #Autumn #Cemetery #Luna #TalesFromTheColdRoom #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #Anthology

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December 1987. A train station in Wallbridge, Vermont, closed to the public for thirty years. Luna's aunt Marjorie worked the last shift before they locked the doors. She never talked about it. But after she died, Luna found a key among her things — brass, tarnished, stamped with a number that doesn't match any locker or door in the station's blueprints. The key led her to a basement corridor no one remembered building, a door that shouldn't exist, and a sound like someone breathing behind it. A quiet, slow-burn story about inherited silence, the weight of a place that refuses to be forgotten, and the question of whether some doors are left unlocked on purpose.

#WallbridgeStation #VermontHorror #December1987 #AuntMarjorie #BrassKey #BasementCorridor #DoorThatShouldntExist #BreathingBehindTheDoor #InheritedMemory #ClosedStation #AbandonedPlaces #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #TalesFromTheColdRoom #SlowBurnHorror #AtmosphericHorror #SmallTownSecrets #QuietDread

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October 1987. A dry autumn in the town of Cold Spring, New York. Luna's friend Cora — a quiet woman who worked at the local diner — began walking the same country road every night after closing, following the harvest moon as it rose over the farm fields. She said it helped her sleep. But as the weeks passed, the moon seemed to hang lower. The road felt longer. And the figure she saw standing at the edge of the corn — tall, too thin, with a face that caught the light wrong — started to get closer each night. Cora stopped speaking to anyone. She just watched the sky. This is the story of what Luna saw when she followed Cora one night, and what waited for them both at the end of Farmer's Lane.

#ColdSpringNY #Cora #HarvestMoon #Farmer'sLane #Cornfield #October1987 #StandingFigure #Moonlight #Diner #Luna #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #AtmosphericHorror #SlowBurn #NightWalk #RuralHorror #TalesFromTheColdRoom #Episode12

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October 1987. A town called Pender's Hollow, tucked between two ridges where the radio goes to static. Luna tells the story of a woman named Cora who house-sat for a summer neighbor — a larchwood house at the end of a dead-end road, number 14 Briar Lane. The instructions were simple: water the plants, feed the cat, don't open the basement door. But the cat kept scratching at it. The phone kept ringing with no one there. And the heat — even in October, the heat coming up through the floorboards was wrong. This is a story about what happens when you're alone in a house that doesn't want you to leave. It's about the smell of wet stone and old iron, and a door that opens by itself at 3:17 every morning. No ghosts. No knives. Just a door, a crack, and the question of what lives in the space a house was built to hide.

#FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #TalesFromTheColdRoom #PendersHollow #BriarLane #Cora #BasementDoor #October1987 #HouseSitting #LarchwoodHouse #TheSmellOfWetStone #ThreeSeventeen #DeadEndRoad #CatScratching #PhoneRinging #HeatFromBelow #DoorThatOpens #LunaReads #ColdRoomHorror #CellarStories

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On a bitter November night in 1958, Luna's great-aunt Marian took the temporary keeper's post at Gull Rock Light, a solitary tower off the coast of a small Maine town called Heron's Reach. The job was simple: keep the lamp burning and the fog bell ringing. But on her third night, she began to notice something wrong with the beam—a shadow that crossed it irregularly, too low for any ship, too fast for any bird. That same night, the bell started ringing without her touching it. Marian tried to rationalize it: a loose cable, a seal climbing the rocks. But when she climbed the tower stairs to check the lamp, she found something written in the salt rime on the glass: a name she didn't recognize, repeated in a child's looping hand. This is the story she told Luna only once, in the last year of her life, and only after Luna promised not to laugh. A story about cold stone, flickering light, and the kind of loneliness that opens a door that should stay closed.

#TalesFromTheColdRoom #GullRockLight #HeronsReachMaine #LighthouseHorror #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #Marian #November1958 #TheBell #TheBeam #SaltRime #WrittenOnGlass #BitterNight #Loneliness #GhostStory #AtmosphericHorror #SlowBurn #FogBell #ColdRoomHorror #CellarStories

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In the basement of Fairhaven Town Hall, the records go back farther than they should. Luna knew a man named Carl Renshaw who spent forty years filing property deeds, birth certificates, and death notices in that windowless room. His job was to keep the town's history in order, but somewhere around 1983 he started noticing things that didn't belong—documents dated before the town existed, photographs of people who were never born, and a single entry in the marriage ledger for a couple whose names kept changing every time he looked at them. This is a story about what lives in the margins of official records, about the gaps between what is recorded and what is true. It is also a story about the night Luna found Carl sitting alone in the archive room, holding a single manila folder, refusing to look up. She has not been able to forget what he said to her, or the way the light from the single bulb seemed to pull away from his face as he spoke. This episode was recorded from memory, and from the notes she made afterward while her hands were still shaking.

#FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #TalesFromTheColdRoom #Fairhaven #ArchiveHorror #TownHall #CarlRenshaw #UncannyRecords #Basement #PaperHorror #Memory #GapsInHistory #Misdocumented #SmallTownSecrets #Luna #Anthology #SlowBurn #Atmospheric #ColdRoomHorror #CellarStories

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In the summer of 2008, I worked a temp job at the Millbrook Water Treatment Plant in western Massachusetts. The night shift was supposed to be quiet—just me, the hum of pumps, and the slow dance of gauges. But on the third week, I started noticing things that didn't belong: a single wet footprint on the concrete floor, the smell of algae where there was no standing water, a low singing that seemed to come from the pipes themselves. This is the story of what I found in the settling tank, and why I still check my bathtub drain before I turn off the light. It's not a ghost story. It's about something that lives in the water we drink—and maybe in us too.

#MillbrookWaterTreatmentPlant #NightShift #WaterHorror #SettlingTank #SingingPipes #AlgaeSmell #Footprints #Summer2008 #WesternMassachusetts #TempJob #InfrastructureHorror #SlowBurn #Atmospheric #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #TalesFromTheColdRoom #LunaReads #EntityInTheWater #ColdRoomHorror #CellarStories

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October 1997. Luna works the night shift at St. Isidore's Hospital morgue in Millbrook, Vermont. It's a quiet town, and the dead are mostly peaceful — car accidents, heart attacks, the occasional overdose. But one night, a body is brought in from the old Meyer farmhouse. John Orris, sixty-seven, died alone in his bedroom. Except the paramedics say his jaw was dislocated, his hands were bruised, and his eyes were wide open. Luna preps him for the morning's autopsy, alone in the cold room with the fluorescent lights humming. She cleans his face, closes his eyes, labels his toe tag. And then she sees it — the faintest movement under his closed lids. His eyes are moving, like he's watching something from behind his own dead face. She tells herself it's a reflex, a muscle twitch, a trick of the light. But she doesn't sleep for three days. And the next night, when she opens the drawer to check on him, his eyes are open again. She closes them. She tapes them shut. The next morning, they're open. This is the story of the seven nights she spent with John Orris. And what she saw in his eyes on the seventh night.

#StIsidores #MillbrookVermont #JohnOrris #Morgue #ColdRoom #DeadEyes #October1997 #HospitalHorror #Paramedics #MeyerFarmhouse #Autopsy #NightShift #Luna #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #TalesFromTheColdRoom #SmallTownHorror #SleepDeprivation #ColdRoomHorror #CellarStories

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