In the winter of 2017, Luna's cousin bought a decommissioned church in the little town of Harrow, Ohio, and discovered a stained glass window hidden behind drywall in the basement. The window was not in the church's records. It showed a figure that was not a saint. Luna came to look at it in late January, at twilight, and what she saw in the glass kept her awake for three nights. This is the story of that window, and the quiet dread that follows you home from a place that should have been empty.

#FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ThingsInTheAttic #StainedGlass #HarrowOhio #DecommissionedChurch #StAgathas #StainedGlassWindow #CousinBen #Twilight #Winter #2017 #Basement #HiddenWindow #Unsettling #Atmospheric #SmallTownHorror #PodcastHorror

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In the summer of 1998, Luna's aunt inherited a condemned farmhouse along Bitter Creek, Oregon—a place the locals called the Cradle House. The previous owner, a reclusive woman named Elara Finch, had vanished two decades earlier, leaving behind a nursery full of cribs, each one holding a single porcelain doll. Luna spent three days helping clear the house, but it was the sound she heard on the second night—a faint, rhythmic creaking from the upstairs nursery—that she still can't explain. This episode is a slow, intimate descent into a house that wasn't empty, and a reminder that some lullabies are meant to be forgotten.

#BitterCreek #CradleHouse #PorcelainDolls #ElaraFinch #Oregon #1998 #Nursery #Creaking #Lullaby #Vanished #Attic #Farmhouse #Horror #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ThingsInTheAttic #SoloNarration #AtmosphericHorror

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It was the summer of 2009, and I was housesitting for a retired librarian in the hills outside New Cassel, Pennsylvania. The house was a three-story Victorian at the end of Old Mill Road, with a wraparound porch and a cellar that smelled of damp stone. I didn't think much of the man who came to the door on the third night — not until I saw what he was carrying. He had a leather box, a thing of shadows, and a collection that made me understand why some memories should never be stored away. This is a story about a man who collected shadows, the price he paid for them, and the one shadow that would never stay in its box.

#TheManWhoCollectedShadows #OldMillRoad #NewCasselPennsylvania #ShadowCollection #Housesitting #LeatherBox #Summer2009 #LonelyRoads #UnseenHorror #DampCellar #VictorianHouse #RetiredLibrarian #MemoryShadows #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ThingsInTheAttic #FolkloreHorror #AtmosphericHorror

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It was October of 2019, and I was driving through the back roads of Yarrow County, Oregon, when a handwritten sign on a fencepost caught my eye: 'Sewing Machine — $20.' I didn't need one, but I pulled over anyway. The woman who answered the door was thin, pale, and spoke like she hadn't used her voice in years. She led me to a dusty garage, where an old Singer sat on a table. She said it belonged to her mother, who had died in that house. 'She's still here,' she whispered. 'Still sewing.' I bought it. I didn't ask what she meant. But that night, in my motel room, I found a spool of thread in the drawer — black silk, wound tight, and when I touched it, the needle started moving on its own, stitching nothing, stitching the dark air into a shape I almost recognised. I tried to throw it away. But the machine kept turning up. In the trunk of my car. Under my bed. Every time I opened a closet, there it was. And the thread was always a little longer, a little more tangled, forming loops that looked like cursive handwriting. I never saw the woman again, but I think about her every time I hear a sewing machine. This is the story of what I brought home.

#FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ThingsInTheAttic #SewingMachine #YarrowCounty #Oregon #October #Singer #CursedObject #SilkThread #Needle #Haunted #Residue #Mother #Ghost #Spool #Stitch #Possession #AtticHorror #FoundObjects

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October 1998. A stretch of Sycamore Street in Bellamy, Ohio, where the leaves don't fall. Luna's aunt Vera was a dressmaker who never turned a client away, no matter how late they knocked. But when a woman in a veil arrives after midnight, asking for a gown that fits 'just so,' Vera takes measurements that don't match any living body. The dress is finished by dawn, but the woman comes back. Again and again. Each time, the measurements change. The last time, Vera measures nothing at all. A story about the things we sew shut, and the clients who never leave.

#BellamyOhio #SycamoreStreet #VeraTheDressmaker #TheWomanInTheVeil #MidnightClient #DressForm #PinsAndNeedles #October1998 #NoLeavesFall #Bodice #SeamRipper #HollowMeasurements #Thimble #DawnDress #EmptyBobbins #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ThingsInTheAttic #AtticHorror #FoundObjects

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In the summer of 1989, my cousin Eli and I found a row of wooden stilts sunk into the mud of Stillwater Creek, outside our small hometown of Portage, Indiana. They stood in perfect formation, too tall and too straight, rising from the stagnant water like teeth. Local kids said they belonged to a man who drowned there years ago—a man who walked through the marsh on those stilts, hunting something nobody would name. We thought it was a story. But one night, we went back with flashlights and saw something moving between them. This is what we saw, and what happened to Eli afterward. It's about the things we forget on purpose, and the things that won't let us forget.

#ThingsInTheAttic #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #StiltsAtStillwaterCreek #PortageIndiana #Summer1989 #MarshHorror #CreekLegends #DrownedMan #StiltWalker #Eli #Cousins #Flashlight #Mud #WhatWeSaw #DontLookBack #ForgottenThings #AtmosphericHorror #AtticHorror #FoundObjects

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It was the summer of 1998, and I was house-sitting for my aunt in the hills outside of Mercy, Oregon. Her Victorian farmhouse had a piano room I was told to never enter. The piano itself was a Steinway baby grand, locked, with a single key resting on the felt inside the lid. At night, it played—not music, but a single note, B-flat, over and over, like someone testing a microphone. I thought it was the house settling until I saw the dust patterns on the floor: footprints from the stool to the door, but none leading back. This episode is about the woman who used to live there, the promise she made to her daughter, and the note that never stopped sounding.

#ThePianoAtMeridianHouse #MercyOregon #Steinway #BFlat #HouseSitting #Summer1998 #AtticHorror #UnfinishedBusiness #Promise #Piano #VictorianFarmhouse #LockedRoom #DustPatterns #Footprints #SingleNote #LunaStory #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ThingsInTheAttic #FoundObjects

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In the summer of 1998, Luna and her mother moved into a rental house on Elm Street in Grimshaw, Illinois — a dry, tired town two hours south of Chicago. The house had a strange renovation: a bricked-up doorway in the hall closet that led nowhere. Luna's mother said it was just bad workmanship. But Luna noticed things — a child's voice humming after midnight, the smell of wet plaster, a crayon drawing left inside the wall when the contractor finally cut through. This episode is about what was sealed in that space, and what it means to live beside a wound that was never meant to be opened. It is quiet, sad, and stays with you.

#Grimshaw #ElmStreet #TheBoyintheWall #BrickedUpDoorway #CrayonDrawing #Humming #Summer1998 #RentalHouse #Illinois #SmallTown #ChildGhost #Renovation #ConcealedRoom #WetPlaster #BlueCrayon #MotherDaughter #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ThingsInTheAttic #AtticHorror

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In the summer of 1997, I spent a week at my grandmother's cabin on Lake Winema, a small man-made reservoir in central Illinois. The cabin was quiet, the lake was low from drought, and I found a photograph tucked behind a loose board in the closet. It showed a woman I didn't recognize, standing on the dock with a man whose face had been scratched out. That night, I heard footsteps on the dock and a woman's voice calling a name I'd never heard. The next morning, I asked my grandmother about the photo. She told me the woman was her older sister, Claire, who drowned in the lake in 1953. But she said Claire had no boyfriend, no man in her life. And then she said something that made my blood run cold: Claire's body was never found. The water level had dropped that year, too. I went back to the closet. The photo was gone. The loose board was nailed shut. And that night, I heard the footsteps again, closer this time, and a whisper against my window: 'You found me.'

#LakeWinema #CentralIllinois #1953Drowning #FamilySecret #GrandmothersCabin #ForgottenPhoto #ScratchedOutFace #DroughtYear #Summer1997 #MidwestHorror #AtticMemories #TheUnseen #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ThingsInTheAttic #LunaNarrates #SoloNarration #AtmosphericHorror #AtticHorror #FoundObjects

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In October 2004, Luna's cousin Marlene took a job house-sitting the Stoker House, a crumbling Victorian at the dead end of Reservoir Road in Ashland, Ohio. The job had one rule: never open the door to the attic stairs. But the taps ran red, the furnace breathed in the walls, and someone—or something—was counting the hours until midnight. Marlene stopped answering her phone on the third night. When Luna drove out to check on her, she found the house dark, the back door unlocked, and a single word written in mildew on the bathroom mirror: STOKE. This is the story of what Luna saw through the crack in the attic door, and what she heard when she finally turned on the hall light.

#FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ThingsInTheAttic #StokerHouse #ReservoirRoad #AshlandOhio #HouseSitting #AtticDoor #RedWater #Furnace #Mildew #October2004 #CousinMarlene #RustyNails #CountingHours #Midnight #UnlockedDoor #Ep5 #AtticHorror #FoundObjects

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