She transcribes medical dictation on the graveyard shift, alone, in a windowless records office in the sub-basement of St. Aldric's Regional. She is a woman who checks things twice, because checking once already cost her almost everything.

An hour into the shift, a file closes with a provider ID that shouldn't be possible — five digits, in a system built for four — signed to a room that was decommissioned years ago and no longer officially exists. She logs it as a system error, the way the job has trained her to log everything strange, and opens the next file in the queue.

The next one is routine too. And the one after that. It's only when she stops skimming and starts listening to the voice — unhurried, patient in a way no one on the overnight staff ever is — that the queue stops feeling like paperwork and starts feeling like something being built. File by file. With her name nowhere on it, and her whole night somehow already inside it.

The Graveyard Slot — original horror fiction for the hours nobody claims.

All stories are original fiction. Every story is written and edited with human care. It's just us now.

A man in the Texas Hill Country gets paid eleven dollars a card to review trail-camera footage for hunting leases — deer, hogs, empty frames. Easy money. Then one client's card starts coming back. The same card. The same forty seconds of footage. And every time it returns, some small detail has changed.

The Coldwater Lease is a story about the things you sign off on without looking — and what's been counting on exactly that.

Episode one of The Graveyard Slot: original horror fiction read from the loneliest shift on the dial. New transmissions twice a week. Best heard alone, after midnight, with headphones.

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All stories are original works of fiction. Every story is written and edited by humans, and every episode is reviewed by human ears before air.