MFM Minisode 452

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Goodbye.

Hello and welcome to my favorite murder.

The mini sode.

We read you your stories and now we update you about your stories and their responses.

That's right.

When we do a mini soad that is so compelling that Nick Terry does an animated about it.

Go to the exactly right media, YouTube, to watch.

To watch and then go ahead and read those comments under the baboon animated.

We did, and there's a lot happening.

Do you want to just kind of like tell people the story if they don't know it?

Just

real quick.

Basically, the MFM animated that was a hometown was a little girl who they went into like a safari drive-through, and the mother made the little girl get out and face down the baboons to get their side mirror back.

How was that?

That was perfect.

Thank you.

And then the people spoke.

And not not only did the people speak in these YouTube comments, Diane's daughter came to defend her honor.

The mother of the daughter who was the little girl was with, it wasn't her kid, she kicked someone else's kid out of the car.

Yes.

To square off with baboons.

Diane was like, hey, Emily, you get out and go get that mirror.

But that's Emily's side of the story.

The plot thickens.

Because Diane's daughter showed up to say, Emily didn't really tell that story accurately.

I'm sorry.

She came around to say.

Hot tea coming in.

Really quick, should we say the shit people were saying in the comments were like peak 90s parenting there?

Yeah, all kids were safe.

No thanks to Diane.

You know, Diane didn't watch the omen question mark.

Right.

There was a lot of Diane shit talking.

Yes.

So here's a comment from Diane's literal daughter.

Hi, all, Diane's daughter here.

I need to make some corrections to this story as to vindicate Diane.

I have taken this recording to my sister and mother, and we all agree that Emily has misremembered a few key facts here.

Uh-oh.

The first and most important is that my mom asked me, her daughter, to open the door and retrieve the mirror that was sitting directly next to the car door on the ground.

That's another little, it wasn't that far away.

Yes.

I refused as we were being swarmed and attacked by baboons.

Baboons.

Yes, we know that.

Secondly, Emily absolutely volunteered to slither out the door to grab it.

The baboons did charge, and Emily did not get the mirror.

Diane eventually drove to the end of the safari, and a ranger did grab one mirror that was duct taped to the car for the ride ride home to PA.

Despite the fact that my mom did ask a literal child to fight for the mirror, she asked her child to do so.

She sacrificed her own child.

Yeah.

Whose side are you on?

Yeah.

Are you on the initial daughter or the main girl, Emily, who did the slithering?

Who was not the daughter?

Who told a story like she was sent out into a safari park as a child?

Well, clearly, we need Diane's side of the story, so she needs to write in.

Diane, if you could send a video in that we would love to be able to throw to you.

And then

maybe we talk to you live.

All right, so that's the update on hometown.

That's right.

Send us your updates for hometown or your side of the story.

We want to know.

I mean, if your hometown has gotten all the way to Nick Terry level and you would like to make a correction or talk about what's real,

we're here to entertain any version of reality.

That's true.

That's what we do.

Okay, let's do hometowns.

You want to go first?

Sure.

The subject line of this email is God the mother almost got me.

Hi, Karen, Georgia, and fellow murderinos.

I've been a listener since day one.

My little sister introduced me to my favorite murder back when we were both working in a plastic factory trying to save up for college tuition.

That's about as American as you can get.

I'm so proud.

1930s?

I mean, hell yes.

Did you have to wear those things on your hair?

Yeah.

Did you have to wear protective goggles?

I hope you wore a mask because breathing in those particles can't be good for you.

No.

And also, were you assembling like a little toy?

Aww.

Okay.

Okay.

Okay, right back in and answer all those questions.

Your podcast got me through long shifts and hard days, and I've been hooked ever since.

After listening to episode 490, I wanted to share a story that still gives me chills.

The time I was almost recruited by a cult known as God the Mother.

I remember that documentary.

Picture this.

It's 2018.

I'm a senior at the University of San Diego trying to survive my core curriculum.

So that means that she made it to college.

She got that plastic money and she got her college tuition.

Amazing.

Good job.

One requirement was to take three theology or religion courses.

That's a lot.

What the fuck?

The Jesuits will get you.

Growing up culturally Catholic didn't exactly prepare me for what those professors were throwing at us, and I was desperate to form a study group so I wouldn't totally bomb the class.

I was walking alone one evening after dance practice, trying to get home, when a girl about my age smiled and waved me over.

She asked, Have you heard of God the Mother?

At first, I was curious, even a little relieved.

I'd been actively looking for a group of study buddies to help me survive this class, and this sounded promising.

She explained that the group of mostly women met off campus to discuss matriarchal themes in religion.

All right.

Sounded kind of cool, right?

But something felt dot, dot, dot, off.

They smile plastered to your face.

Do you want to hear about God the mother?

Have you met God the mother?

Now try to smile, but not use your eyes.

Have you met God the mother?

Can't do it.

The more she spoke, the more uneasy I became.

The vibe turned from friendly to weirdly intense.

I tried to excuse myself, but she started following me around campus.

Oh, no.

That's when I decided to fuck politeness and embarrassment.

I spotted a cute guy coming out of the campus store and ran up to him, pretending we know each other.

Genius.

Best thing to do.

Thankfully, he caught on immediately and played along.

The girl eventually backed off and he stayed with me until campus police arrived and gave me a ride home.

Man, that is how you hit on someone.

That's so good.

It doesn't matter if there's no one following you.

Hey, sir, right?

Oh, my God.

There's someone following me.

Can you protect me?

Hey, will you shop with me at this Marshall's?

There's someone following me.

There's someone following me through this Marshalls.

It's

I stuffed a shirt in my purse earlier.

The next day in class, everyone was talking about the news.

Apparently, this God the Mother group, as seen on USD's campus, had ties to human trafficking.

Oh, fuck.

They were targeting local college students, especially women, through those supposed study groups that were actually fronts for kidnapping.

Holy shit.

To this day, I think about how close I might have come to becoming one of those stories we all talk about.

I've never forgotten the student who helped me or that gut feeling that told me something was wrong.

What if it had been him who was the problem and she got in his car?

I'm sorry, but you just can't trust anyone.

He's like, I'll help you, rich little girl.

I am God.

I'm also God the mother.

Jesus.

Stay sexy.

And if something seems too good to be true, it probably is XOXO, Debbie.

Nice.

Yeah.

That's good.

Good escape.

I'm not going to to read you the title of this one.

Okay.

It just starts.

Hi, big fan.

My incredible grandma who passed.

I'm so sorry, but we didn't explain why we're so glammed up right now.

If you're going to watch us on YouTube, like now's the time to start because we look fucking glam and flawless.

I'm wearing fake eyelashes.

I am too.

We had a photo shoot just now and we were like, let's film now because we're never going to look better.

I thought that'd be a little breadcrumbing for people to come over to the video part.

To the exactly right media, my favorite murder YouTube.

Join the the Van Colt.

Join the Van Colt, whatever.

Get your tour tickets.

My incredible grandma, who passed away in 2022, had the most incredible stories.

As she got older, she lost her filter and got progressively sassier.

Hi.

She also had a hard time finding doctors that she liked.

Okay, we're set up.

After years of looking, she finally found someone that she trusted and could also get along with.

What do you think she was like?

I mean, how long are you in a doctor's appointment that you're not getting

people home immediately?

He took her arthritis seriously and she finally felt like she was making progress.

One day, he was just no longer available, not on the clinic website, canceled appointments, and no one at the clinic would talk about him.

Finally, my mom, who was accompanying my grandma to all her appointments, decided to Google him.

And she found that he had lost his license for all caps, experimenting with animal-grade Botox, meant for like dogs with arthritis, in his own face and also his mom's face.

No, what?

Who are you mad at in this story?

They did it to themselves.

Anyway, I don't know that my grandma ever really trusted another medical professional again, but it was a great addition to the arsenal of incredible stories from my grandparents, unseating the time my grandpa got kicked out of McDonald's because one of his friends, they were all over 80 at the time, tried to throw a chair at one of the other friends.

Oh, shit.

Oh, they were like the old man coffee group in McDonald's.

Talking shit.

Aren't their chairs bolted to the ground for that reason, probably?

Yeah, where are their loose chairs at McDonald's?

this is a questionable story your grandpa lies my grandparents were the coolest hannah hannah i'm so sorry what i said about your grandpa i was i was lying i'm the liar here wow i love photoxyl photox in your face and in your mom's face just get little whiskers can i have it here here here and here

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Goodbye.

The subject line of this email is horse camp run by drug dealers.

Perfect.

So it just starts so period.

I'm a city girl from Queens, New York, who would spend summers in the Catskills visiting my mom's family and generally annoying my father by fighting with my sister.

Our usual sibling bonding, but with a forest aesthetic.

My sister was obsessed with horses, and I was still undecided with them at that point.

My dad would take us to a place that claimed to be a ranch when it really was a bar with some horses out back.

I want to go there.

Lying to kids just to get them to a bar.

You love it here.

Go over there.

Dad, it's a parking lot.

I'm sure this was his place of choice because it was cheap.

The summer I was 10, we went on a ride early enough in July from my sister to see their Camp Flyer, a week-long camp where one could learn horsemanship skills.

My parents caved to my sister, and of course, if one of us was going, both of us were going.

Horse camp was, in fact, just a bunch of girls cleaning the stables and running around unsupervised for four hours a day with horses.

As a 10-year-old, I learned two things.

Number one, horses are dicks.

Very true.

Yeah.

Very true.

They're like worse than cats.

They're so tense and strong

and finicky.

Not in a bad way, like good for them, but like, what are we trying to do?

Well, and also bad for nine-year-old girls who think that they're going to walk up and touch their cheek and make friends forever.

No, horses don't fucking play that way.

And then they put their head back and they show those huge veneers.

I have those.

And they eat your apple.

I do too.

As a 10-year-old, I learned two things.

One, horses are dicks.

Two, it's not called horse camp.

Did you know that horse?

It's not called horse camp.

Did you know that horses who don't like saddles will bloat out their stomachs when you're putting them on?

Cool.

I've told you that story of my cousin Stevie and I riding his horse lady who just walked around in a field free and easy, free range.

She's like, fuck these kids.

Stevie put a saddle on her one day and she bloated out like this.

So I was riding behind him and we just very slowly went all the way over to the side and then fell off.

The horse was laughing so hard at this

horse language at you.

Do not try me.

I'm not doing this with you.

I learned this on day two when trotting, and suddenly my whole saddle went sliding sideways on the horse.

The amazing part is your feet are in the stirrups, right?

So you're going with it.

I wish that was the worst of it, but two days later, when on a trail, my horse was bitten by the horse behind me.

Horses apparently do this when they have beef and took off into the woods at high speeds.

What I had learned at horse camp was echoing through my brain.

The lead expert said day one: if anything happens on your horse and you are scared, all caps, do not scream.

If you scream, it will make things worse, which is why, as I pulled the reins over my head and prayed to the horse gods to make the sanibles stop, I did not let out a squeak.

I waited 20 minutes to be found and jumped off the horse to let out a string of profanities quite impressive for a 10-year-old and refused to get back on, stating, I hate horse camp.

Only to be told, um, horses don't go to camp.

This is equestrian riding camp.

I'd later like drop the reins and walk into the river.

Bye-bye.

Float away.

Yeah.

See you on the flip, motherfucker.

Now I'm going to rafting camp.

Once I got home, I learned the next important lesson.

Whatever the camp is called, if my dad paid for a full week, I was going back for the full week.

Oh, shit.

After finishing out the week, I, in fact, found a great respect for horses and the knowledge I never wanted to ride one again.

My sister went back to this place for years until it was finally shut down because the owners were arrested for selling meth out of the bar.

Apparently, the side hustle of horse camp wasn't enough for them.

So remember, always check your horse's saddle before getting on and maybe check that the camp that you're sending your kids to isn't run by drug dealers.

Wow.

And that's just signed C.

Great story because you could have just told us about the meth dealers.

That's a great story.

Yeah.

That was great.

And also, I'll never get on a horse.

I'm personally like, I have a healthy fear of horses, and I think people should for their children, too.

Yeah.

Like it takes one gardener snake to fucking spook a horse.

The problem is with us farm people, we fucking love being on horses.

And I went to horse camp with my friend Jennifer Gearing, and most of those things happened to me.

And we were taught vaulting, which is when you run beside the horse and jump onto it.

Don't do that.

And like we had to do a show at the end to show people we could do it.

Book camp.

I mean.

Book and cat camp.

Sounds cool.

They must have that.

They must have that.

That's called the public library.

That's true.

Okay.

Get a library card.

Grandma's house.

Get a library card.

Get a library card.

Here is a 30-plus-year-old summer ghost story.

Ooh.

Hey, Karen in Georgia.

Not a day one listener, but so glad I found you when I did.

The sound of your voices keeps me sane on a daily basis and escape from the shit show we call reality in 2025.

Fuck yeah, baby.

Stay sane.

Today I was listening to Minnisode 441 and you asked for summer ghost stories.

Yes, because we're like, anyone can tell a winter ghost story.

We're like, is Arizona haunted?

Because it's hot.

Oh, right.

So there must not be ghosts.

Do you have a like summer?

We did that.

I thought about sending this story in several times before, but your specific call for summer ghost stories finally gave me the kick in the ass.

I needed to write this all down.

Finally.

Every summer as a kid, we would do a two-week family vacation on Cape Cod.

Sounds amazing.

Rich.

We rented various houses over the years, but there was one in particular that we returned to several years in a row, starting in the summer of 1991 when I was 12.

Built in 1826 as a Methodist church, the house was essentially one cavernous open space with a few flimsy half-walls added in to create bedroom areas.

The worst.

The worst.

Because if those walls don't go all the way up to the ceiling, you can hear your parents fucking.

I mean, or just anybody farting.

I mean, like, it's the worst.

Okay, above the living space was the kind of attic that just gives you the chills the moment you put your foot on the stairs.

Yeah, Cape Cod's probably so haunted.

So, it's all those sailors, fishermen, wives,

pirates.

The attic was set up as an artist studio.

From what I understood, the artist had died and his children wanted it to remain completely untouched.

Paintbrushes and canvases were still laid out as if he would return at any moment.

Most nights, my sister and I would hear noises coming from the attic.

It sounded like heavy footsteps and creaking floorboards.

I tried to never be the last one awake at night, but sometimes all I could do was lay there waiting for the first terrifying creak.

You're trying to rush off to sleep.

You're like, ambient, ambient, ambient.

Get me out of here.

Got to go.

Sometimes the footsteps would wake me up at midnight.

My sister and I would often run to each other's beds, and she's seven years older than I am, so I knew I wasn't crazy, or wake our parents when we got too freaked out.

My way too chill dad would always explain it away as probably a squirrel in the walls.

They never heard a thing, and I don't think they believe us to this day.

I've thought of the house often since then.

Last December, after a visit with my parents, who eventually bought a house, not that one, thank God, and retired to Cape Cod, I started doing a deep dive on the history of the house.

No one remembered the address, but I found it by digging through Google Maps and online historical archives.

So satisfying.

In 1925, an artist named C.

Arnold Slade purchased the abandoned 1826 Methodist meeting house and had it dismantled and reconstructed on Savage Point, the blustery hilltop location of his home and compound of cottages.

He took basically a Methodist church and moved it and rebuilt it somewhere else.

Put it back up.

Yeah, that's like begging to be haunted.

The church was turned into a studio and exhibition space where Slade displayed copies of his iconic war paintings, as well as his current portraits and New England landscapes.

Slade's summer rental cottages in Quirky Church Studio became known as Sladeville.

When Slade died in 1961, his wife sold Sladeville to an artist, Peter Hooven.

Hooven lived in the house and used the attic as his studio in his death.

Do you want to guess what year?

Yep, you guessed it.

1991, the summer we started renting there.

What?

So the second artist died the year they started.

And then they were like, whoop, let's bring in this family for a vacay.

They were the next ones in.

Yeah, and he died there.

He died young, only 57 years old.

And all of my internet sleuthing has brought zero answers about how he passed.

I now have no doubt that there was at least one, if not two, spirits inhabiting the space above us all those nights.

Plus, churches in Massachusetts in the 1820s, probably lots more spooky shit there.

Yeah.

For sure.

Yeah.

Stay sexy and don't vacation in super haunted, abandoned churches turn deceased artists' studios.

I can't believe I got that.

Ilona, she, her.

It's really creepy that only the kids heard it.

Oh, for sure.

That's like, well, now we know we're dealing with ghosts.

That's not good.

Yeah.

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Goodbye.

The subject line of my last email is, welcome to Squirrel Town, USA.

Hi, friends.

Is that too presumptuous?

It feels right.

That's in parentheses.

And then it says, Olean, New York is about 1.5 hours south of Buffalo and for some reason believes it has the most squirrels in the world.

Whoa.

There's absolutely no way they could know this, but I think...

One squirrel running just everywhere.

He's so busy.

He's amped up.

Yeah.

There's absolutely no way that they could know this, but I think they needed something to cling on to so that they could feel important.

For whatever reason, squirrels were the answer.

We all need something.

Yeah.

And squirrels work.

This got extremely out of hand when one day I was in high school and I awoke to the news that someone had planted 28 four-foot-tall concrete statues of squirrels around the city.

And then all caps, 28.

Each was painted differently to represent either where it was placed or just whatever the hell the artist felt like doing.

For example, there was a Ronald McDonald one outside of McDonald's.

A Ronald McDonald's squirrel.

No.

There was a banker outside the bank until someone stole the concrete sack of money it was holding, and then they had to move it inside.

A starry night one for shits shits and gigs.

It's Vanco Starry Night.

Squirrel.

A Wizard of Oz one.

And one just titled, Hey Mom, Guess What?

That's Dedicated to the Troops.

That might be a reference.

That might be personal.

Yeah, true.

Our Chamber of Commerce had everything when it came to squirrel swag, including t-shirts that said peace, love squirrels, ornaments, card games, maps on where you find all of them, and you guessed it, a squirrel calendar.

Wow.

Since it's a small town and people got bored, a lot of these have been vandalized or stolen.

Of course.

Do you love an artist splits?

Can we get artist blitz emails in your small town?

Or you guys just fucking do a thing overnight and you're like, that felt like it was like City commissioned, like they've kind of forced it.

I hope they asked for.

the public to vote on the money.

Like, how much did that cost?

Okay, go on.

I don't know.

Yeah, we'd like a full cost report, please.

Immediately.

So lost or stolen, vandalized or stolen, which honestly, good for them for running off with those because they probably were heavy as fuck.

But we definitely still have enough to live up to our name.

To this day, I have no idea who greenlined this project or if they're now gallivanting around to other towns pitching these ideas.

I escaped Squirrel Hell USA and now live in Denver with my husband and dog, Butter.

Aww.

Butter.

Butter's a good dog name.

I turned my husband into a murderino early on, and now almost every time we're in the car, he says, Can we listen to murder?

And I turn on the most recent episode of MFM.

Oh,

a drag-along.

Stay sexy and don't steal concrete money from a squirrel, Taylor.

Wow.

She did it.

She did it.

I love that report.

Also, because that's a little bit of like, it feels like the Circoville Pumpkin Festival vibe.

That, yeah, for sure.

Or the cocaine bear.

You know what I mean?

Yeah.

We want to know what's going on in your town.

This is our thing.

Yeah.

We love it.

Leave us alone.

Or come by and say hi.

Or come by.

My last one is a trash siblings story, but it's so, so funny.

Hi, I just listened to Minnisode 443 about the snake in the bathroom.

Remember the little kid put the snake in his sister's bath when she was in the bath?

And remember that I, too, have experienced a snake in the bathroom.

But that's not what this story is about.

Because when the writer said that her four-year-old brother put the snake in the bathroom, I immediately murmured, trash siblings.

And the quotes are like this, where one's up, you know, trash siblings

to myself.

And it unlocked a long-forgotten memory like open sesame.

So here we go.

This is such a good idea.

Trash siblings.

I just want to say this, and my sister loves to tell this story.

I used to have this magical gift when I was like around five or six of my parents would be like at a restaurant with their friends and we had to entertain ourselves in basically like an old Italian dark

restaurant.

In the like entryway.

In the entryway.

Play with the cigarette machine.

Every time I pulled, I would get a pack of cigarettes every single time.

That to me is a good trash sibling story where my sister had to take me to the bathroom.

It's like, well, I'll take you by to play the cigarette machine and see what happens.

You scored big on the cigarette machine.

So here we go.

I am the youngest of five siblings, all born three years apart in the 70s and 80s.

You can make your own assumptions about my parents' parenting style.

Was I forgotten at the grocery store more than once?

Absolutely.

Did I sit in the way, way back at the station wagon without a seatbelt?

Sure did.

Yeah.

As the youngest of five, I was generally expected to tag along and try not to get myself killed.

So when I woke up one morning and told my family that a bat attacked me in my sleep, they immediately brushed it off.

When I insisted that all caps, a bat was in my room, it flew down, landed on my head, and flew away.

They simply gaslit me and told me that I was dreaming.

This went on for weeks and not a single sibling believed me.

Trash.

Exclamation mark.

Well, what do you know?

A few weeks later, while we were all in the family room watching a movie, a fucking bat flew in.

They're like, finally, he's making his fucking entrance, letting everyone know he's not a ghost bat and I'm not.

I love it.

It's like everybody else is going to have their bat reaction.

Right.

And they're they're just like, oh, we're friends already.

Oh, this old thing that you said didn't exist.

Danny, he and I are friends.

Yes.

And you guys are so scared.

Danny the bat and I go way back and I've literally been telling you about it.

That's right.

No, no, you're dreaming.

I wish I had a better name than Danny.

Oh well.

Let's just try it again.

What about like Herbert?

Herbert the Bat.

What about some of the B.

Oh, what's up?

Because it would be bad.

Bert the bat.

There we go.

Do you see how it just puts it right up there?

Yeah, Bert the Bat.

There we go.

We did it.

Yeah.

I like that we were talking like that, like it's going to get cut out or something.

Never.

Okay.

A fucking bat fluid.

My dad immediately tried to catch it while we all squealed and my mom looked for something to put it in if my dad, in fact, did catch it.

And me, I just sat there like the smug little kid I was because I fucking told you so.

Yes.

We never did catch the bat and assumed it eventually died in the attic or flew out one of the windows.

Gross.

To this day, my siblings still say that there was never a bat.

Even though they saw it with their own eyes.

Yep.

I'm now in my late 30s and what I would consider to be a full grown adult, but to my siblings, I will always be the baby.

Sigh.

Thank you for being the soundtrack to my life.

I've been listening since the very beginning, and I'm so grateful to have your steady voices in my life.

Stay sexy and just accept being the youngest.

Richie, we won't.

We can't.

Emily, hi from Germany.

P.S.

The snake in my bathroom was a water moccasin, pretty dangerous and scary.

Weeks of sleep was lost until the snake was found by a drunken friend who grabbed it and threw it in the pillowcase.

Oh, to be young and dumb.

So we got snakes, we got bats.

That whole bat story.

And then they just touch a water moccasin story and leave?

Are they bad?

Emily?

I don't know water moccasins.

Oh, they're completely poisonous.

They kill you.

Oh, shit.

Yeah, those are bad ones.

Jesus, Emily.

Well, victory.

What a victorious email that was.

Send us your trash sibling stories, whatever you think that means, whatever it means to your heart and to your soul.

And I think the burden of being the youngest sibling stories can go on forever.

You need them.

I mean, I got used to being like tied up in a sleeping bag

to be tortured, but I was like, I'm going to like it.

And I just sit in the sleeping bag in the dark.

Like I can breathe.

I'm fine.

I never thought of that twisteroo of like, I'm enjoying myself.

Yeah.

That's the only way you can get them.

Well, thanks for enjoying yourself, everyone, for listening.

Yeah.

And stay sexy.

Don't get murdered.

Goodbye.

Elvis, do you want a cookie?

This has been an exactly right production.

Our senior producers are Alejandra Keck and Molly Smith.

Our editor is Aristotle Aceveda.

This episode was mixed by Liana Spolachi.

Email your hometowns to myfavorite murder at gmail.com.

And follow the show on Instagram at MyFavoriteMurder.

Listen to MyFavorate Murder on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

And now you can watch us on Exactly Right's YouTube page.

And while you're there, please like and subscribe.

Goodbye.

Bye-bye.

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Kevin and Rachel and Peanut M ⁇ Ms and an eight-hour road trip and Rachel's new favorite audiobook, The Cerulean Empress, Scoundrel's Inferno, and Florian, the reckless yet charming scoundrel from said audiobook.

And his pecs glistened in the moonlight.

And Kevin, feeling weird because of all the talk about pecs, and Rachel handing him peanut M ⁇ Ms to keep him quiet.

Uh, Kevin, I can't hear.

Yellow, we're keeping it PG-13.

M ⁇ Ms, it's more fun together.

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