The Hum at Night — Fexingo Horror

September 1998. The Meridian Hotel in Jasper, Indiana, has a thirteenth floor that doesn't appear on any blueprint. Luna's uncle, a maintenance man, told her about the night he was called to fix a dripping faucet in room 1307 — a room that shouldn't exist. He found a hallway that smelled of wet plaster and roses, a door with a tarnished brass 7, and a woman in a blue dress standing at the window....

In the autumn of 1998, a woman named Cora Mendez discovered that the root cellar beneath her farmhouse on Sycamore Lane in Millbrook, Iowa, was not as empty as she believed. For three weeks, she heard sounds below—a rhythmic tapping, like a finger on glass—but the concrete floor was solid. Until the night she found the key. This episode follows Cora's quiet unraveling as she descends into a space...

Luna remembers a night in late October 2019, when she took a wrong turn on a back road near the town of Harkness, Missouri. Her GPS kept insisting she drive down Dirt Road 47—a narrow lane that shouldn't have existed on any map. The road led her to a wooden gate she'd seen before, in a dream she'd had as a child. Past that gate, the headlights caught a figure standing motionless in the tall grass,...

In the autumn of 2019, Luna's neighbor on Ash Street, an elderly man named Mr. Corrigan, began tacking paper cutouts to his porch at dusk—shadows of birds, leaves, a child's hand. At first they seemed like harmless seasonal decorations. But as weeks passed, the cutouts multiplied, and the shadows they cast started moving differently from the light source. Luna watched from her window as the paper...

It was the hottest August on record in Baird, Indiana, and the porch light at 38 Cypress Street wouldn't stop flickering. Luna's elderly neighbor, a retired electrician named Mr. Hollis, offered to fix it. But the light had a history—it had been replaced four times in two years, and every previous repairman had left town within a week. Luna watched from her bedroom window as Mr. Hollis climbed the...

The night clerk at the Twin Oaks Motel in Millbrook, Vermont, had a simple job—watch the parking lot, log the guests, and maintain an old, silent television in the lobby. The motel had thirty-six rooms, but only three were ever occupied on a regular night: Room 12, Room 19, and Room 34. Room 34 was always empty, but the lights flickered on at exactly 3:17 AM every night. The clerk never told anyon...

In the summer of 1998, on a forgotten stretch of Route 17 outside the dying town of Sutter, Nebraska, there was a girl who walked the asphalt every night. She carried a plastic bag full of grass clippings and dandelion leaves, and she scattered them along the center line. No one knew where she came from or why she did it. The highway patrol called her a vagrant. The truckers called her the Feed La...

In the early winter of 1998, I spent a week at the Rattlesnake Motel on the outskirts of Bitter Creek, Arizona—a town so small that the main street ends at a dry wash. I was there to catalog the roadside oddities for a defunct travel guide, but every night, the AM radios in every room would turn on by themselves at 3:17 AM. Not static. Not music. A woman's voice, repeating the same seven words, ov...

In the autumn of 2007, Luna drives home late through the town of Bixby, Vermont, and stops at a covered bridge she has crossed a hundred times. But tonight, the bridge is different. The wooden planks feel newer than they should, the air is colder inside, and a name is carved into the ceiling—a name that belongs to a girl who went missing seventeen years ago. As Luna lingers, she hears footsteps on...

A late-night drive on an empty stretch of highway leads Luna to a forgotten rest stop near Fennimore, Wisconsin. There she meets an old man who tells her about the tower on the hill—a structure that has stood abandoned for decades, except for the light that appears in its top window every night at exactly 2:17 AM. No one knows who turns it on. No one has ever reached it. Luna decides to try, follo...

Luna tells the story of a small-town surveyor, a road that vanished from every map, and the last house standing at the end of Marrow Lane in October of 2019. She heard it from an old man named Corman who used to deliver mail along that route, back when the lane went somewhere. Now it dead-ends in a thicket of scrub pine, and the house at the end sits empty with the lights on. Corman told her what...

In the fall of 2019, Luna spent a week in the small town of Mowbray, Ohio, housesitting for a cousin. On the third night, she noticed a figure standing in the window of the abandoned house across the street—a house that had been empty for years. Each night, the figure was closer to the glass. By the final night, it was pressing against the pane, mouthing words she couldn't hear. When she finally c...

Luna recounts the autumn of 2017, when her cousin Carter took a night shift at a decommissioned Greyhound station outside Yellow Creek, Tennessee. The building had been closed for years, but the phones still rang. Carter answered—and heard his own mother's voice, five years dead, asking him to come pick her up. Over three nights, Luna listened to his tapes, watched the station from a borrowed truc...

September 1987, Gifford, New Hampshire. Luna's uncle took a night job as a janitor at the shuttered high school after the town lost its funding. It was supposed to be easy—mop the gym, buff the halls, ignore the third-floor lights that clicked on at 2:17 a.m. every night. But the lights weren't the problem. It was the sound of the lockers in the empty sophomore wing, opening and closing in sequenc...

In the winter of 2003, Luna took a temp job at a diner in a small Pennsylvania town called Harwood. The night shift was quiet, except for a regular who ordered the same coffee, black, every night at 2:17 a.m. He never left a tip, never spoke more than a few words, and always seemed to know things he shouldn't. Luna began to notice that the kitchen clock stopped at 2:17, that the diner's microwave...

In October 2019, Luna's cousin Callie bought a foreclosed house on the edge of Potters Field, Texas — a town so small the gas station doubles as the post office. The property came with a backyard shed full of rusted tools and a concrete slab stained darker than the rest. Neighbors said the previous owner, a widower named Emmett Hollis, dug holes in the yard every full moon. Callie thought they wer...

In the summer of 2019, I drove out to Simpkin's Mill, a dead-end town in central Ohio that no map agrees on. I was following a story about a sound — a low hum that had been waking people at exactly 3:17 AM for six weeks straight. I thought I was investigating a rumor. I thought the hum was a furnace or a fan. But the people I met there — the trembling waitress at the all-night diner, the old man o...