Saints of the Salt Flats — Fexingo Horror

On the edge of the world's largest mirror—a salt flat so white it blinds—there are shrines. Small, white-washed altars, some with offerings of dried flowers or handwritten notes, others dark and empty. Luna returns to this strange landscape each episode to open her leather journal and read a story tied to the salt. These are not ghost stories. They are records of the desperate, the devout, and the disappeared: a bride who walked into the salt and never returned, a geologist who found a crack that led not down but sideways, a sect of flagellants whose prayers left salt-encrusted wounds. The salt preserves everything—footprints, tears, memories. And sometimes, it preserves the thing that followed you home. Each episode stands alone, a self-contained fable of belief and erosion, of faith corroded by a landscape that listens. Luna's voice is the only constant, a lone signal across the white static. Somewhere out on the flats, the saints are waiting. They know you're listening.