MFM Minisode 464

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Hello, and welcome. This is my favorite murder.
The mini-sode. That's right.
We read you any story you send us. That's right.
It has to be an email form, though. That's the rule.
That's right.

Do you want me to go first? Sure. Okay.

This one is really quite something. The subject line is the call is coming from inside the house.

To the MFM crew and the hairy beasts in parentheses, canine, feline, and facial. And then it says, Miss you, Stephen,

that bring you joy.

And then it says, Okay, the calls I'll be referring to thankfully did not come from inside my house, but you'll understand after reading my story why I cannot watch the movie When a Stranger Calls without a team of backup quantities of black box wine to drink and rest my feet on.

That's so hilarious because I think they just mean box wine, but then they're like referencing

black box from a plane. So it's kind of like the really important wine.
Oh, I get it. Black box wine.
Yeah. Or something else.
I'm not sure, but that's what I'm assuming. Okay.

It says, I grew up in a small town called Hopewell Junction in the Hudson Valley of New York.

When I was in high school, my stay-home mom went back to work and I would come home to an empty house for about an hour.

I would usually hang out in our raised ranch's downstairs family room watching General Hospital and talking to my friends on the phone. That's all we did after school.

The only phone downstairs, oddly, was in our laundry room. You know, the yellow one attached to the wall with the curly cord.
Ours was yellow too.

One afternoon, after school, I was expecting a call from a boy who would be my boyfriend on and off for the next year.

The phone rang and I ran to get it, then of course waited a few beats before picking it up.

Should this boy think I was too anxious, which of course I was, I answered, hello, and I was greeted with silence. Hello, I said again, trying to sound flirty, yet slightly above being bothered.

No answer, just silence. I hung up, deflated.
The phone rang again before I could sit down. I picked it right up and said slightly annoyed, hello.

A man's voice, deep in monotone, this part's dirty, so if you are a mother with children in the backseat of your car, turn the radio down now. The man says, he whispers, do you want to fuck?

What? I said, thinking of nothing else to say and hoping I was hearing in correctly. He says it again.
I hung up. I was stuck to the spot, terrified.

This didn't sound like a prank call from one of my schoolmates, although my parents later would say that it was. Stevie from down the street, who was an asshole and a pervert, they said.

I jumped up onto the washing machine and I sat looking out the ground level window into the backyard. I was there when my mom came home half an hour later.
I was too afraid to move.

This was before the days of screening and voicemail. A ringing phone could mean a best friend or a boyfriend calling.

There were more calls over the next three days, always when I was home alone, asking over and over again the same dirty question until the third day, when, as I was about to hang up, before he could ask yet again, he said, I think I might want to hurt you.

Needless to say, I spent the next two afternoons with a friend at her house.

My parents had a camping trip coming up, and it was supposed to be the first time that I would be left home alone for a couple of days.

I had been so excited about it, but not a fucking chance that was happening now. I was sent down the street to stay with my grandparents, and I could not have been happier.

For me, until recently, the story ended there. No more calls.
Eventually, I returned to general hospital and phone gossip in the afternoons.

But a few months ago, more than 30 years later, my mom and I were sharing a bottle of or three of wine and talking about how hard it was to be the mom of a teenage daughter.

My mom said, I can't even tell you how scared I was when you were in high school and had that horrible caller. Oh my God.

She proceeded to tell me that when she and my dad had gotten home from their camping weekend all those years ago, my mom went downstairs to do the laundry.

She found the laundry room's window screen had been cut and that it looked like someone had tried to pry the window open with a screwdriver. Oh my God.

My parents called the police who proceeded to watch our house unbeknownst to me for a week or so. My mom also took some extra vacation time off, which I now remember.

We watched General Hospital together. It was nice.
Oh my God. My mom would have told me.

I love that she didn't tell her. My mom totally would have told me.

And she'd be like, and so if something happens, here's the plan. Thankfully, my gentleman caller either moved on to someone else or died a perhaps rightfully vicious and untimely death.

Love your voices, your views, and your vibe. Stay sexy and don't answer the phone until your mom gets home.
Leanne.

Who was it?

Also, like the parents keeping the hugest shoe drop from that story. And being like so chill about it.
They even went on their vacation. Yeah.
But they sent her to the grandparents.

Like pretending to be chill for your child's sake is like such a gift.

Well, and also that's back in the time when it was like peeping Tom was supposed to be funny, and a prank caller was just, it's just some boy in your class.

Like, no one treating any of that stuff like they should. And the fact that he only called when she was home alone means she was probably being watched too.

So it probably was a neighbor, but that doesn't mean that's not a good thing. No, it isn't.
So scary.

Oh my God, how terrifying. Okay, this one is called Thank You Replacenta Donation.
Oh.

Hey team, I normally listen to your podcast in the car, but as I was listening to the latest mini-sode yesterday, I got home with only a few minutes left on the show, so I paused.

This morning, home from work with a cold, I picked up the episode again, and Georgia began talking about placenta donations to train cadaver dogs. Remember the mini-sode I did a few weeks back?

I'm so glad I wasn't on my way to work because I immediately burst into tears in my kitchen. Almost a year to the day before I started listening to your podcast, a close friend had gone missing.

Her home, a clear crime scene. It took hours for the police to find her buried in the backyard.
Those hours of waiting are dreadful.

Your brain can't comprehend what's happening, so you feel some sense of hope that it's not real, but you're also so sick with worry that you know you couldn't be in the situation if there wasn't a chance that the worst had happened.

In the end, the absolute worst had happened. My friend was killed in a violent crime that had nothing to do with her.

It is terrible for this to happen to anyone, but Emily was truly filled with light. She made you want to be as good as she saw you.

I have lived through that panic of searching for a missing loved one twice now.

And to know that I, at 12 weeks pregnant, can soon help other families in that situation gives me greater relief and joy than I can describe.

Thank you to Lauren for a message that felt timed just for me and to the MFM team for the platform on which to share it. SSDGM, Elyssa.
Wow. I know.

It's like, you think you're just reading a story about a placenta and then you're actually making people cry in their kitchen. Well, and also, like, we're just passing the word

that this is a thing you can do, a way to help. And then it's like, hit, it gets to the right person.
I love that. Guys, amazing.

Mike check one, two,

are we recording?

Hi, I'm Michelle Bernstein, an award-winning chef, restaurateur, and mom. I have a lot on my plate, including my psoriatic arthritis symptoms.
That's why I was prescribed Cosentix.

It helps me move better. Cosentix Secukenumab is prescribed for people two years of age and older with active psoriatic arthritis.
Don't use if you're allergic to Cosentix.

Before starting, get checked for tuberculosis. An increased risk of infections and lowered ability to fight them may occur, like tuberculosis or other serious bacterial, fungal, or viral infections.

Some were fatal. Tell your doctor if you have an infection or symptoms like fevers, sweats, chills, muscle eggs, or cough.

Had a vaccine or plan to, or if inflammatory bowel disease symptoms develop or worsen. Serious allergic reactions and severe eczema-like skin reactions may occur.

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We're going to go to a trash dad world now, so it's a bit of a term. All right, let's go.
This is howdy-ho, murderinos.

Your recent call for accidental kidnapping stories reminded me of the time I framed my trash dad for kidnapping.

Here's the story: it's the late 80s, and I'm around two years old doing my best to make my mom's life miserable.

She was apparently complaining about the excellent work I was doing in this regard to my dad, who had the gall to respond that I was a perfect angel, so my mom must not know how to handle me.

Knowing a trash dad statement when she heard one, my mom replied that my dad could take me with him and do the grocery shopping then.

Genius.

As my dad tells the story, the grocery shopping went fine until we went to leave and I noticed one of those old-fashioned little rides that they used to have in front of stores and insisted, daddy, daddy, I want to ride the horsey.

Since I'd been so good, my dad figured, why not? And put in a quarter. I ecstatically rode that little mechanical horse until the time ran out.
They are pretty amazing. Yeah.

Those old ones really are kind of like

a little kid. My god.
It's a good action, but then the horse is so real looking. It's like kept getting a single merry-go-round horse.
Or the one that would just go in a circle with the little C.

Oh my god, it was like the, it felt like you were on the top of the fucking world. Yeah.
As a little baby. Okay.

My dad complied with my demands a couple times until he was out of quarters and patience. He tried to calmly explain to me that it was time to go.

My trash dad apparently was unaware that you can't reason with terrorists or two-year-olds.

I refused to get off the mechanical horse, crying about making the ride go again until my dad finally grabbed me and threw me over his shoulder.

I took this as my cue to start screaming, help, help me. Oh my God.
And reaching out in desperation to anyone and everyone in that grocery store parking lot.

Realizing how this must look, my dad hurried towards his truck before anyone could call the police. No.

Which is also what a real kidnapper would do. So not helping yourself look less sus there, dad.
Unfortunately, these were the days before power locks or seatbelts were standard, let alone car seats.

And I was clever enough to know how to pull up the lock and on the car door and escape out the side before my dad could get in behind the wheel. Oh my God.

I don't know how long this Scooby-Doo skit of chasing me around the car went on, but eventually he managed to keep me in long enough to get us on the road before any sirens pulled up.

So this is a two-year-old with no car seat. Yeah.
Just get in and like stand on the seat like you did on the ride here.

And then unlocking it and running into a busy parking lot because it's so funny and fun. And I'm like, oh my God.

I had to have parking lot danger explained to me so many times as a kid because I would just suddenly get an idea and be like, now I need to be back at the car really fast.

Needless to say, by the time we got home, my dad was too trash dad to admit he was wrong, but he did swear to my mom that he was never taking me to the store again.

Oh, my dad, Jeff, passed away three years ago. And while he was definitely a trash dad, although I think in this story, I was more of a trash kid, I still miss him every day.

Sharing the stories he liked to tell, like this one, helps keep him close. I hope you enjoyed it.
Stay sexy and believe your wife when she says your kid is a pain in the ass. Ivy.

Oh, Ivy. Ivy.
You had a real good dad.

I love him. I'm like, oh, really? Yeah.
Then how about why don't you take her and enjoy yourself?

Yeah. Well, I had a kidnapper one as well.
Okay.

Okay. A few weeks ago, you asked for kidnapping stories, so here's mine.
In spring 2017, my best friend and I planned a girls' weekend in Stockholm. Sweden? Sweden.

In true celebratory spirit, we ordered champagne on a two-and-a-half-hour flight, and we were happily tipsy by the time we landed.

In hysterics, we made our way to immigration, desperately trying to compose ourselves.

I handed over my passport and stepped into one of those glass airlock booths, basically just a mini jail that opens only when you're cleared. You know what I'm talking about.
My door opened.

I was free. My friend stepped in next, and that's when the immigration officer started frowning, glancing from her to the computer, then back again.
I joked, uh-oh, they don't want you in the country.

You're in trouble.

Don't go through immigration drunk. No jokes.
If you're going to be drunk, no jokes. No jokes.
No, you're not funny. No.
Nothing is funny. No.
They're not going to be funny with you.

Then the officer picked up the phone. Within seconds, armed police surrounded us.
We were escorted to a small room and seated across from two uniformed officers.

Still half laughing, we nervously cracked jokes, trying to figure out what we could possibly have done.

That's when they said it. They believed I had kidnapped my best friend and was trapping her out of the UK.
Cue stunned silence. I stammered, what? No, we have return tickets.

Because apparently traffickers always buy round trips. Then came the twist.
The officer explained that my friend had triggered an Interpol alert.

She had been reported missing in 2015, and then it clicked.

Back in July 2015, her birthday, she'd gone out celebrating with an old friend, partied for two straight days, and completely lost track of time. What birthday was it? Yeah.

Meanwhile, our group was frantically calling everyone we knew. And by Sunday morning, we reported her missing to the police.
When she finally came home, thinking it was still Saturday,

she was shocked by the panic she'd caused. The police closed the case, or so we thought.
Apparently, someone forgot to tell Interpol.

After a few phone calls and some awkward laughter, they confirmed everything. I was not a kidnapper.
My friend was not a trafficking victim.

And we were finally released, escorted back by some very handsome Swedish officers who found the whole thing just as funny as we did.

We did what any sane woman would do after being detained for fake kidnapping. We went straight for more champagne and carried on with our girls' weekend.
Nice.

Stay safe and don't let your best friend sell you into the human trafficking market. Goodbye, Anna Marie.
Anna Marie, you joke now. Yeah.
What if that was an international incident?

Also, I love the way they lock in the person that's kidnapped, and the kidnapper is just over there hanging out. No one puts that together.
No, no, no, yeah. Like, both of you get over here.

Mike check one, two,

are we recording?

Hi, I'm Michelle Bernstein, an award-winning chef, restaurateur, and mom. I have a lot on my plate, including my psoriatic arthritis symptoms.
That's why I was prescribed Cosentix.

It helps me move better. Cosentix Seccukenumab is prescribed for people two years of age and older with active psoriatic arthritis.
Don't use if you're allergic to Cosentix.

Before starting, get checked for tuberculosis. An increased risk of infections and lowered ability to fight them may occur, like tuberculosis or other serious bacterial, fungal, or viral infections.

Some are fatal. Tell your doctor if you have an infection or symptoms like fevers, sweats, chills, muscle aches or cough.

Had a vaccine or planned to, or if inflammatory bowel disease symptoms develop or worsen. Serious allergic reactions and severe eczema-like skin reactions may occur.

Learn more at 1-844-COSENTIX or COSENTIX.com. Ask your rheumatologist about Cosentix.

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Okay, this story is pretty epic. I'm not going to read you the subject line.
It starts, Dear Karen in Georgia, when I was a freshman in high school, I went to school in an old prison.

And then in parentheses, it says, in true murderino fashion.

However, it was in a small town in rural North Carolina, so it wasn't as bad as it sounds. Basically, it was just a building with tiny barred windows and cinder block walls everywhere you looked.

Well, one day on my way to class, I was cutting up with my best friend, Abina, per usual and running late. We were turning a corner in the empty hallway when I made a particularly funny joke.

As I turned to make sure that she was indeed laughing, I tripped over my nerd-tastic rolling book bag and walked face first into the cinder block wall.

No problem, I thought. You trip all the time.
Everything's fine. That is until I backed away from the wall, spit one of my front teeth into the palm of my hand.
That's right.

I had walked into the cinder block wall with my mouth open and chipped off over half my front tooth. Panic set in.
The world was spinning.

I had only had my braces off for a few months now, and I was going to go around looking like a hillbilly for the rest of my life. I was 14 and my life as I knew it was already over.

As I re-situated the offending rolling book bag, I took off in a mad dash that would hopefully keep me from seeing any of my fellow classmates who would want to stop and chat.

Unfortunately, my luck that day was bad and getting worse. I turned the corner in a hurry and ran smack dab into the boy that I had the biggest crush on, nearly toppling us both.

I awkwardly tucked my upper lip over my teeth to hide my new gap, grunted sorry without without making eye contact, and proceeded to run like the wind.

After giving my principal a heart attack, she called my mom and I was eventually whisked away to the dentist.

In between sobs and informing my mom that I would never be able to smile again, I remembered to ask about our 15-year-old dog Nick that had been sickened at the vet.

I had not quite used up enough bad luck that day because that's when she handed me his collar out of her purse and told me that he had passed away. No.

Needless to say, I was a wreck at the dentist's office.

I couldn't enjoy all the attention I was getting as every employee had to stop by my room to see the girl who had knocked her tooth out simply by walking into a wall.

Miraculously, the break in my tooth was so clean that my dentist was able to glue my front tooth fragment back on. Jesus.
And it is still holding on to this day.

Oh, and the boy that I nearly mowed down in the school hallway, he is now my husband. Oh my God.

And anytime I pick on him for doing something embarrassing, he isn't shy to say, at least my front tooth isn't one being held together with super glue.

Cheers to you, fabulous ladies, and all the ways you've brought joy to my life and countless others. I can honestly say that I wouldn't be the person I am today without y'all.

Stay sexy and don't use a rolling book bag. Jennifer.
And then it says, P.S., I could never use a rolling book bag again. And then here's a picture of her as a 14-year-old with a broken tooth.

Oh, oh, she's a little baby.

She looks pretty stoked. Or she's on good dentist drugs.
Yeah, I wonder what's going on. She's like, haha, it's kind of funny for a second.
The idea that it's her future husband, though, is

cutest, cutest. And I wonder if her like running into him and blowing him off like made him go like, oh, who's that? She didn't talk to me.
Why isn't she being nice to me? I must know more about her.

Right. Okay, this one is my last one.

I'm not going to read you the subject.

Hello, everyone. When I was about four years old, my mom worked overnights.
And so I would sleep in her bed, which was on the first floor, while all my older siblings would sleep upstairs.

My mom's room had two doors where one led into the living room, while the other was a door that opened up to the basement.

I was half asleep one night and had to use the bathroom and my four-year-old self used the wrong door and fell down a full flight of cement basement stairs and hit the wall at the bottom.

Like these days, I feel like they would have childproofed that door when they were pregnant. Entirely.

I don't remember what happened next, but when I woke up, I was in the hospital and my mom filled me in.

She said, my brother's dog, who conveniently enough we just adopted two days before, must have heard me crying in the basement and would not stop barking for over an hour until my brother became so annoyed and was going to put her outside.

And when he came downstairs, he heard me crying and found me down there, almost bleeding to death. And they took me to the hospital.

It took an hour for the brother to get out of bed to stop the dog barking. That's such a brother thing.
Constant barking. But the parents didn't get out of bed.
No, they weren't there.

They were working overnight. Oh, sorry.
I wasn't paying attention.

I had lost a lot of blood and suffered a bad concussion. Holy shit.
My mom said she thought I was weirdly calm and didn't seem very shooken up by it.

And so she asked, were you scared being down there in the basement? Remember, she's four years old.

And though I remember nothing, my mom swore I replied with, quote, no, the lady that was down there with me kept telling me it was going to be okay and stayed with me until someone came.

She was the best.

What?

My mom couldn't believe it. And she said she grilled me about it more later.
And I slowly started forgetting more details about the lady and everything that happened.

But my grandma had just passed away, not even a year before that. And my mom truly believes it was her that helped calm me down during that time.
Oh, a little baby in the basement. Dying.
Dying.

I just thank God that we got that dog a few days before because otherwise the doctor said I would have bled out. after a bit longer.

And even though I suffered a head injury, I promise I'm not a murderer and will continue to SSD GM. Thank you, ladies.
You make my workday fly by. Kay.
Kay.

That ghost was like keeping her awake, too, which is what you do when you have a concussion, right? That's right. You can't go to sleep.
So she's just like, everything's going to be okay. Stay calm.

Stay calm. Well, we'll just have this dog bark for 50 more minutes till your goddamn brother gets out of bed.
Don't panic because then your blood will fucking pump out faster.

Like this ghost, it's grandma ghost. Grandma ghost.
But it was like a lady, so she didn't know the grandma.

Yeah, but I also bet like the mom just needed to feel better about it being just some random old lady. Yeah, exactly.

Just like no stranger ghosts. Just whoever used to, somebody used to live in that basement.
She's like, I'm a renter, but I'm going to make you feel better. So does your ghost stories, your

falling downstairs stories, your being a little kid, and your brother puts your life in danger because he's lazy and a teenage boy. Dude, my favorite murder at Gmail.
And thank you guys for listening.

Stay sexy. And don't get murdered.

Goodbye. Elvis, do you want a cookie?

This has been an exactly right production. Our senior producer is Molly Smith, and our associate producer is Tessa Hughes.
Our editor is Aristotle Acevedo. This episode was mixed by Liana Squalachi.

Email your hometowns to myfavorate murder at gmail.com. Follow the show on Instagram at MyFavorite Murder.

Listen to MyFavorite Murder on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Or watch us on YouTube, search for MyFavorite Murder, and then like and subscribe.
Goodbye.

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