Yule Wraith — Fexingo Horror

Luna recalls a December night four years ago on a lonely farm road outside Lost Creek, Vermont. Driving home from a late shift, she spotted a woman in a white coat standing under a gate strung with a single wreath of yew and frozen holly. The woman did not speak, only pointed down the snowed-over lane. The next morning, Luna learned the woman had died in that exact spot twenty years earlier — and every Yule since, she appears to anyone who looks too long at the wreath. A quiet, uneasy story about what happens when the dead still have a message and the living are afraid to receive it.

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Christmas Eve, 1987. Luna visits a small Vermont town and hears about a local tradition — leaving a single item on an old covered bridge as an offering to something that walks the frozen river. It started with a little girl's mitten. Then a man's watch. Then a wedding ring. Luna talks to the last person who tried to leave something, and what followed him home. A story about what we give up, and what we get back — but never what we wanted.

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On Christmas Eve, 1987, Luna's aunt sends her to fetch water from St. Cera's Well — a sulfur spring in the woods behind their Vermont farmhouse. The well has a tradition: leave a coin, speak a wish, and the water will carry it down. But Luna finds the well frozen solid, and a single white mitten on the ice. That night, a woman in a blue coat knocks at the door, asking for the mitten back. Luna's aunt tells her to say nothing. But the woman keeps coming back, each time a little closer to the house. A story about the things we owe the dark, and the cost of a wish granted.

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December 1987. A snowed-in farmhouse on Starling Road, just outside of Kalkaska, Michigan. Luna's grandmother used to tell her about the Yule log — the one that must burn all night, from dusk until dawn, without being stoked or turned. If it goes out before sunrise, something comes down the chimney. As a child, Luna thought it was a fairy tale. But on the coldest Christmas Eve of her life, in a house she'd inherited but never really known, she lit the fire at four in the afternoon. And she learned why the old ones never, ever let it die. This is a story about a rule that sounds like superstition until you break it. About what waits in the flue, listening. About the smell of ash and wet wool and something else — something that should never, ever burn.

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Luna returns to a frozen stretch of road outside the town of Millbrook, New Hampshire, where a woman named Iris has been leaving the same message on the church answering machine every night since Christmas Eve. The message is always the same: a child's counting rhyme, backward, in a language that sounds almost like English but isn't. Luna goes to the church to meet her and finds a woman who hasn't slept in days, a bell rope frayed to a single thread, and a silence in the sanctuary that rings louder than any bell. The Ford is a place where the water runs black even under ice, and the bell has a crack that leaks something thin and cold into the air. Iris tells her about the game, the one she played as a girl, the one where you count down from ten and then don't stop. Luna leaves before midnight, but the counting follows her all the way home.

#FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #YuleWraith #LunaReads #BellAtStNiniansFord #MillbrookNH #Iris #ChristmasEve #CountingRhyme #Backwards #Bell #CrackedBell #BlackWater #FrozenRiver #Sanctuary #Sleepless #Game #FrayedRope

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December 1987. A stranded driver on a back road in northern Vermont. A farmhouse with a single lit window. An old woman who speaks of a bell that rings only when someone is about to die. Luna listens from the porch as the snow swallows the sound, and the woman asks her to stay until morning. A quiet, lingering story about the weight of waiting, the kindness of strangers, and the things we cannot outrun.

#FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #YuleWraith #StGwendolensCrossing #Vermont #1987 #Farmhouse #Bell #OldWoman #Snowstorm #Stranded #DeathOmen #PorchStory #Candlelight #MasonJars #ChristmasEve #HushedDread #Atmospheric

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December 1998, just outside the village of Thornwood Hollow, New Hampshire. I was driving home from a late shift at the diner when the fog rolled in so thick I had to pull over. That's when I saw the old iron bell hanging from a branch over the frozen river. Everyone in town knew the story—the bride who drowned on her wedding night, the bell that tolls for those who've lost their way. But no one told me what happens if you answer it. That night, I learned why the old-timers never drive that road after dark, and why my grandmother always kept a pocketful of salt in her coat. A quiet, haunting tale about what we carry, what we leave behind, and the toll that can never be paid in full.

#StMargaretsFord #ThornwoodHollow #NewHampshire #TheBell #TheDrownedBride #Fog #December1998 #CountryRoad #DinerShift #Salt #OldIronBell #FrozenRiver #YuleWraith #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #SoloNarration #AtmosphericHorror #GhostStory

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On Christmas Eve, 1987, Luna's cousin Rosalind takes a shortcut through the old cemetery gate at St. Jude's Church in Millbrook, New Hampshire. The gate's iron bell rings once as she passes — but no one is there to ring it. That night, her grandmother tells her the story of the Yule Wraith: a figure that follows travelers who hear the bell after dark, leaving a single red ribbon on their doorstep by morning. Rosalind finds the ribbon. And then the footsteps begin, circling the house in the snow. A quiet, creeping folk horror about inherited warnings and the doors we open by ignoring them.

#StJudesGate #MillbrookNewHampshire #ChristmasEve1987 #YuleWraith #IronBell #RedRibbon #FootstepsInSnow #GrandmothersWarning #CemeteryGate #OldHolidayTraditions #FamilyHistory #FolkHorror #SoloNarrated #LunasVoice #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #AnthologyEpisode #WinterHorror

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December 1987, the last farmhouse on Hollow Road before the woods take over. Luna’s grandmother always said the wreath on the door had to be made fresh each year—yew and holly, bound with red thread—and that it must never be hung after dark. But this year the snow came early, the sun set before she finished, and the thing she saw standing at the edge of the cornfield didn't move until she touched the ribbon. A story about old traditions, the things they keep away, and what happens when you break the rules one time too close to Yule.

#YuleWraith #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ChristmasHorror #WinterHorror #CrescentRidgeFarm #HollowRoad #YewAndHolly #RedThread #Cornfield #December1987 #Tradition #Threshold #Wreath #Snow #Dusk #OldMagic #Luna

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Luna recalls a Christmas Eve drive down an unfamiliar county road in upstate New York, where a single wrought-iron gate stood open in the snow. Inside, an old stone church with a bell tower that shouldn't have been there. A man in a dark coat stood at the door, beckoning her inside for a service she couldn't find the next day. The bell rang at midnight — but the clapper never moved. A story about what we find when we are lost, and what finds us when we stay too long.

#YuleWraith #FexingoHorror #HorrorPodcast #ChristmasEve #Bell #StElian #UpstateNewYork #Church #LostDriver #Snow #Midnight #Ritual #SilentBell #Door #Gate #Candle #LunaNarrates #Anthology

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