The Backup Drive — Fexingo Horror

Luna inherited a backup drive from her late uncle. Inside, she found a folder labeled 'Buck Creek Unit #17 — Aunt Cora's things.' The folder contained photographs of a storage unit on Buck Creek Road in El Dorado Springs, Missouri. In every photo, a tall man in a hat stood in the background, though Aunt Cora had written on the back of the first one: 'No one else was there that day.' Luna drove to the facility on a cool October evening in 1999. She unlocked the unit, found a trunk, and opened it. Inside was a mirror. In its reflection, the man was behind her. She brought the mirror home. Now he stands behind her chair, reflected in the glass, waiting. A quiet, lingering horror about inheritance, old photographs, and the figures we fail to see.

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In this episode of The Backup Drive, Luna finds a folder on an old Seagate hard drive labeled 'Stillwater Lane' — a gravel road off County Road 12, east of Millbrook. She remembers a weekend in January 2012, when she and a friend named Claire rented a cabin there. The owner warned them not to open the basement door. They laughed it off, but at 3 AM they heard something scraping across concrete below. They left at dawn and never spoke of it again. Now, years later, the drive contains photos from that night — photos they never took. One shows the basement door open, with a shape in the dark. Another captures a figure at the tree line, arms too long, face a void. The metadata timestamps match the hour of the scraping. The owner's number is disconnected; the cabin was torn down in 2013. Luna is left with questions and a red blinking light. A quiet, atmospheric story about what follows us home.

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In the summer of 2021, a backup drive containing the meticulous video logs of a woodworker named Carl leads me to a porch on Beech Creek Road. Carl built that porch himself—treated lumber, shaker-style railings, a single rocking chair. But the videos show something was wrong with it. Strange shadows flickering across the wood grain. A low humming at night. And then the final footage of Carl walking out the back door, the camera still rolling, the screen showing only the empty chair and the sound of something heavy settling in the dark. This is what I found in the drive. This is what I can't unsee.

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Late November, 2 AM. I was scrolling through an old backup drive when I found a folder from 2008. Inside: one photo of a crossroads store at night, one video file. The video shows a sedan pulling in, a man walking to the door, and slipping inside after a pause. He never comes out. The store was demolished the next year after a disappearance. But the drive's owner? I'm still not sure I want to know who left it here. In the photo's reflection, something stood behind me — something that wasn't there when I took it. This is the story of the night the backup drive showed me the crossroads store on Old Stage Road. Quiet, lingering dread. A mile marker you don't want to pass twice.

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One rainy Tuesday night in October, Luna plugs in the backup drive and finds a video file she did not create. It shows the bathroom of a Conoco station in Roscoe, Texas — a place she stopped at three years ago, alone, in the small hours of the morning. There is no one else in the video. But the mirror in the frame reflects something that shouldn't be there. Something that moves when she doesn't. Something that seems to know she is watching. A slow-burn episode about memory, the uncanny stillness of fluorescent light, and the horror of seeing yourself when you did not want to. No jump scares. No gore. Just a single night in a gas station bathroom, and the reflection that refuses to forget.

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Luna finds a folder on her backup drive labeled 'Marrow' with date-stamped subfolders and GPS coordinates. One leads her to an abandoned farmhouse in Old Sarah's Hollow, Kentucky, on a cold October night. In the basement, a narrow pit in the concrete floor breathes warm air and makes a sound like wet clay being worked. She never sees what's below, but the drive keeps updating with new locations. A quiet, lingering episode about a place that won't stop calling.

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In late October of 2019, I found a folder on the backup drive labeled simply 'Bridge.' The photos inside were taken at night — a single-lane iron bridge crossing a creek so narrow I almost missed it in the dark. I didn't recognize the location at first, but something about the way the rust flaked off the railing felt familiar. I drove out to Jackson's Ford Road the next evening, parked at the bridge, and waited. I didn't know what I was waiting for, but the photos had a timestamp — 2:47 AM, October 31st. I came back that night with a flashlight and an old cassette recorder. What I found under that bridge wasn't what I expected. It was a voice I'd heard before, speaking words I couldn't understand, from a woman wearing a dress that looked dry despite the creek water rising around her ankles. This is what happens when you look too long at a photograph. This is what happens when you go back.

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It was late August in Cedarville, and the backup drive had been sitting untouched in a box from my grandmother's estate — one of those old external drives from the early 2000s, thick and heavy, with a green LED that blinked slow. I plugged it in expecting family photos, maybe tax returns from 2005. Instead, I found a single folder labelled 'Turtle Creek' with over a thousand JPEGs — all dated the same summer: 1999. The first few were ordinary: a white house with peeling paint, a gravel driveway, a woman in a floral dress standing on the porch. Then the photos started repeating the same house, same woman, same angle, but the light was wrong — the shadows stretched east at noon, the windows were dark when they should have caught the sun. I counted seventy-three photos of the same front door, each one slightly different — the crack in the storm door glass growing like a fault line, the woman's dress fading from floral to grey, her face turning away from the camera until, by photo #200, she was just a silhouette in the doorway. The last photo was taken from inside the house looking out. The back of a woman's head, grey dress, standing at the sink. The window above the sink showed the driveway — and in the driveway, headlights. A car I recognized. Mine.

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It was October, the third week of the season, and I was in a rented cabin on Wilderness Trail in Tamworth, New Hampshire. The drive was supposed to be full of old family photos from the 1990s—someone's summer vacations, a child's birthday party, a woman in a yellow dress on a porch. Instead, it showed me a window I didn't recognize, filmed from the inside of a dark room. The footage was silent, dated 1998, and the woman in the yellow dress was looking out at the same trees I saw from my own cabin window. I thought it was a mistake, a glitch in the metadata. But the more I watched, the more I felt that the room in the video was the very room I was sitting in. This episode is about what I saw through that window, and what I couldn't unsee.

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It was the summer of 2019, just past midnight on a Tuesday in July. I was parked at the dead end of Red Hill Road in a town called Prosperity, South Carolina—a town that had stopped prospering about forty years ago. I had the backup drive with me, plugged into my laptop, and I was scrolling through the folders when I came across one labeled simply 'Red Hill.' Inside were fourteen videos, all shot from a phone camera held at waist level, all taken in the same place: the mouth of a storm drain at the bottom of the hill. The first thirteen videos were uneventful—just gravel, darkness, the occasional distant car. The fourteenth video was different. It showed something coming up out of that drain. Not running water. Not an animal. Something that moved like it had joints in places joints don't belong. And in the final seconds of the footage, it turned toward the camera. This is what I saw. And this is why I don't go near storm drains anymore—especially not the one on Red Hill Road.

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