The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S10E20

Episode Date: April 8, 2018

It's episode 20 of Season 10. On this week's show we have four tales about forgotten friends, beastly bovines, and insidious ice. "Russian Ice Roads"† written by Eka Waterfield and performed by Dan Zappulla & Nikolle Doolin & David Ault. (Story starts around 00:02:00) "We Forgot About Muriel"¤ written by Annemarie Hartnett and performed by Kyle Akers & Nikolle Doolin & Jessica McEvoy & Peter Lewis & Jesse Cornett. (Story starts around 00:20:50) "The Path Through Lower Fell"‡ written by Gemma Amor and performed by Erika Sanderson & David Ault. (Story starts around 00:54:50) "Gaps in the Memory"† written by Olivia White and performed by Nikolle Doolin & Kyle Akers & Nichole Goodnight. (Story starts around 01:23:00) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast   Click here to learn more about the Escape the Black Farm Tour   Click here to learn more about Eka Waterfield   Click here to learn more about Annemarie Hartnett   Click here to learn more about Gemma Amor   Click here to learn more about Olivia White   Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ & Jesse Cornett¤ "The Path Through Lower Fell" illustration courtesy of Naomi Ronke Audio program ©2018 - Creative Reason Media Inc. - All Rights Reserved - No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The following audio horror presentation is intended to frighten and disturb. Join us on this dark and unsettling journey at your own list. Because behind these doors, there will be no sleep. Brace yourself for the No Sleep Podcast. It's the No Sleep Podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On the show this week, we have four tales. about forgotten friends, beastly bovines, and insidious ice.

As season 10 moves into its 20s, that means the end of the season is within sight. Hard to believe it's flown by so quickly. We have a lot of great stories planned for the remaining episodes and a very special season finale. And we're even planning some special projects for season 11 already, so you can rest assured that the entire team is working hard to make the rest of 2018, a decidedly sleepless one. And we're glad you're along for the ride. And speaking of riding, I'd say it's time to make the rock and world go round. So get on your bikes and ride. Season 10 is alive and kicking. The stories are ready. So let's start the journey. In our first tale, we meet a husband and wife on their way to her parents after a medical emergency. But as author

Eka Waterfield describes, the wife is Russian, and their track takes them to a remote northern village only accessible via dangerous wintry roads. Performing this tale are Dan Zepula, Nicole Doolin, and David Alt. So if driving in the winter worries you, be thankful you don't have to travel on Russian ice roads. When people hear that my wife's Russian, they imagine a tall blonde girl with the funny accent who wears heels for every grocery run. Reality couldn't be farther from the stereotype. Lana is dark-haired, speaks better English than I do, and is completely obsessed with sneakers.

She does meet one stereotype, though. She never gets cold, seeing how she lived in Russia until she was 18. Not in Moscow, of course. Did you know that Moscow is actually pretty warm? There are entire states in America where winters are far colder than anything Moscovites have to deal with. No, my wife comes from a tiny town far up north on the tundra, a dark, gloomy, and very cold place inside the Arctic Circle, with extremely harsh winters and even harsher people,

a place that meets the stereotypes. I've met my in-laws all of two times, including our wedding, both times in the States. Frankly, I never had any intention of visiting Lana's hometown until she got that fateful call nine days ago. My mother-in-law had a stroke. While her condition was stable for the time being, the local doctor expected the worst could happen at any minute. Transporting her to a better hospital was out of the question, as she was in no state for the kind of a journey it would require. My wife made travel arrangements immediately.

I had a valid Russian visa from a business trip to Moscow a few months prior, so I decided to go with her. Now, getting to my wife's hometown isn't easy. You're in for a flight to Moscow, then a connecting flight to Naurilsk, one of the biggest cities in the Russian tundra. From there, it's an hour-long trip down the Yenisei River, by barge in summer and on cars over ice in the winter. Urgently getting to Moscow wasn't that hard. There, however, we faced additional difficulties. First of all, apparently I couldn't fly to Naurilsk with Lana as the city was closed to foreigners. Before we could even process that, we were told that the Norilsk airport was closed for all aircraft due to poor weather conditions, which weren't expected to improve that week.

I tried to console Lana as best I could, but news of her mom getting worse drove her crazy. Soon, Lana suggested an alternative. It was possible to fly to a city a fair bit south of Norilsk, which was safe from the storms. For a modest fee, a family friend living there was willing to take a day's journey up the ice road to Lana's hometown. Well, more like a night's journey, since according to him it was better to travel at night. I told my wife she was insane. She, however, was adamant about her plan. I've done the drive so many times with my dad.

It's perfectly safe. You're welcome to stay behind. in Moscow if that's too much for your American sensibilities. Staying behind in Moscow wasn't an option. In the end, as usual, I gave in, and Lana got her way. We flew to our next destination. The cold hit me as soon as I stepped off the plane. It was a different kind of cold, invasive and ruthless,

and it didn't care about the layers of sweaters and socks I had on. I shivered imagining how much colder it was going to get. We met with the trucker who was to take us up north. He called himself Kolia and my wife Svetta, the Russian version of her name. Me, he didn't address at all, instead referring to me derisively as Mr. Americasha whenever he spoke to my wife. I haven't told him you can speak Russian. Lana and I were huddled up in a corner as I eyed Colia suspiciously. Honestly, I'm not sure he'd care either way.

Colia was supposed to be a few years younger than my wife, but looked much older. His skin and posture worn down by the harsh conditions of his homeland. He laughed at our American shoes and coats and said he would pack extra jackets, woolen socks, and Valenki for us, just in case. His brother helped load his truck, which looked like it had seen the fall of the Soviet Union, and then Colia sat down to enjoy a shot of Vaga, one for the road. My wife saw me Blanch at that. This isn't New York or even Moscow.

People here are a bit behind in terms of DUI. Don't worry. He won't drink enough to get impaired. He's seen drink driving kill people on the road. Well, indeed, the first shot was the last, and Colia hopped into the truck. He offered my wife the shotgun seat, which, as far as I understood Russian macho culture, was basically the equivalent of throwing a glove in my face. Whatever, as long as he got us there.

The road was a dark stretch of ice and packed snow, powdered by the fresh snowfall from that morning. Snowdrifts bordered both sides of the roads and leaked on to its surface. It was the same barren, flat stretch for miles. In the first couple of hours, we saw a few cars going the opposite way to us. Then a car going in the same direction overtook us and disappeared into the darkness ahead at an alarming speed. It was a freaking tiny rusted through Subaru. I winced as the engine sounds faded off up ahead.

Wherever that guy's heading to in a hurry had better be damn important for him to be driving so recklessly. Colia gave a derisive snort like I was being soft, but I'd caught the concern on his face in the rearview mirror as the car had sped past us. Shortly after the incident with the Subaru guy, it started snowing. Just a bit at first, then more. and more. Colia didn't seem bothered, so I tried to stay calm as well, which I managed mostly successfully until the wind joined in. Unlike the snow, it started hard from the get-go. Have you ever heard wind howling and become unsettled by the sound? Now, imagine the same, but in the depths

of a black night lit only by your car's headlights. Except for your own vehicle, the world around is silent and devoid of life, frozen until the spring. Not that you can see much through the thick snow which has become the wind's plaything, flurrying around the car, blanketing the windows. Our pace slowed to a crawl. Maybe stop and wait it out? Instead of Colia, Lana spoke up.

We can't. If we stop, there's a good chance the car won't start up again, and we'll be stuck here waiting for someone to pick us up. And it's been empty today. The realization we were at a very real risk of freezing to death hit me like a ton of bricks. I leaned back into my seat and closed my eyes, wordlessly praying for the best outcome.

The only response was the wind howling, and it sounded so strange. It would start low and quiet, and then get louder and louder until a yowling crescendo, then cut off abruptly. Then it would start again, and the sound came from different directions, each starting at a different time, like a pack of wolves howling. I opened my eyes to... obvious tension in the car. Lana and Colia were both hunched forward, peering intently through the glass for all the good it did them. Colia glanced back at me.

Don't worry. Be happy. It's all okay. Don't worry, America. He was lying. I might have been useless on the ice road, but I was a criminal defense lawyer and a good one at that. And Colia was a bad liar. There was sweat beating on his face and neck, and his voice was forced. He was scared. And that made me scared, too. Colia murmured something to my wife,

too quick and quiet for my distracted mind to decipher. She nodded. What was that? There's a village, maybe half an hour up the road, if we keep this pace. We get there and settle down until the morning. I see. Sorry.

about the delay. In reality, I was extremely happy to hear that. Bad wind, huh? Lana grabbed my hand, quick and sudden as a snake. Don't mention the wind. Another sound came through the storm, a long, tinny wall that sent shivers down my spine. It took me a few moments to realize it sounded like the wind whistling through walls, chimneys, alcoves, and then another moment to realize there were no fucking walls around through which the wind could whistle. I opened my mouth to comment, and my wife's grip tightened on my arm.

In that moment, I knew to keep quiet. We drove in tension-filled silence as a cacophony of sounds erupted through the storm. Whales and shrieks, howls and cries. No way the fucking wind was producing all of that. The sounds grew closer, louder. I grabbed my wife's hands as we both stared desperately ahead. Through the flurry, we barely made out something.

A large, dark shape reflecting our lights, or maybe piercing the darkness with lights of its own. Kolia swore and swerved to the side. We were passing another car stuck in the snow. Its blinkers flashed. Stop. What? You insane? Stop.

On the ice road, you help. That's the rule, remember? Colia gave her a long, hard look that I didn't like at all. That's the rule on the road. Colia eased the brakes, slowing the car without actually stopping. I opened the door and peerrower. outside. The driver of the stuck vehicle was already running towards us. I recognized the car as the Subaru that passed us earlier. Oh, thank God you people were past us. Get in, idiot. The guy shut up and

jumped in. He was just a kid, no older than 20, with dark red hair and a patchy little beard. He looked cold and terrified. When he spoke, I was surprised to realize he was British. Oh, thank God. I'm sure they'd get me. They? Colia and Lana turned to look at the kid in unison, and their looks could kill. They, uh, yeah, I mean the wind and snow. I had a sudden, abrupt feeling that his correction had come too late, even as I still had no clue what was going on.

We drove on, and the interplay of howls and shrieks outside the car became unbearable. in the silence. What's your name, dude? You a tourist, or... Steve. Steve Morrison, I'm not a tourist. I live... Anyway, it doesn't matter.

I shouldn't have been driving, but I wanted to make it home for my girlfriend's birthday. Both of you, shut up! We did. Immediately I noticed the change in the surrounding sounds. They were much louder now.

The highest-pitched shrieks rang in my ears. The low, insistent howling seemed to surround the car, and every now and then, something that sounded like an actual roar cut through the night. The car picked up the pace. I looked at Colia and realized he was flooring the gas pedal. Poor visibility be damned. His truck was lurching along as fast as it could manage in the conditions,

and yet the encroaching racket made it obvious we were nowhere near fast enough. Then the car hit something. We were all jerked forward as the truck came to a staggering halt. I hit my temple hard on the back of my wife's seat. What was that? Must have hit a chunk of ice or something. I remember focusing on Lana's lips and how pale and thin they looked. The dull resounding pain in my head exploded into something hot.

hot and overwhelming, and I collapsed into the back seat. He's passed out. I wanted to correct him, but my voice wouldn't obey me. My lids seemed to weigh a ton each. I could barely open my eyes enough to see the others huddled together, the car's flickering light illuminating their pale faces. What now? Well, let's see.

Why don't you go out and check what we hit, and if we can clear it out something? What? In the car's light, Lana's green eyes seemed very blue. We helped you, didn't we? So why don't you help us back? After all, on the ice road, you help each other. That's the rule. Colia grumbled in agreement.

Then he reached over and pulled out a rifle and aimed it at the boy. You know they're out there. Well, I guess you'd better not speak about them out loud then. Better not even think about them, really. My eyes closed against my will. I heard a door swing open and felt a rush of cold air. Finally, I passed out for real. And in my unconsciousness, I dreamt of horrified screaming

and a single terrible roar that filled the night. I came to during the day, on a couch of some local family that agreed to house us in exchange for money. My wife fussed over me. Once she was sure I was conscious and lucid, she rushed me into the car. We can do the rest of the drive in the daytime.

There's a doctor in my hometown who'll give you a look over, see if you're okay. I settled in the back seat of the car. Vague memories haunted me. Where's the kid? Steve. What kid, darling? There was no kid. We traveled alone.

I wondered how he knew what I was asking about then. This young red-headed guy. Sweetie, I'm getting really worried. You must have hit your head harder than I thought. We gotta get you checked out as soon as we get back to the States, maybe even a good once over in Moscow. I didn't really know what to say after that. We made it the rest of the way uneventfully.

Unfortunately, my mother-in-law had slipped into unconsciousness before we even set out for our drive. and she passed away several hours after our arrival. Lana didn't even get to say a proper goodbye. She is absolutely devastated right now, so I'm trying my best to focus on comforting her. We're staying here until the funeral, and I can't say I'm looking forward to the ride back.

My father-in-law graciously gifted me a proper Russian winter coat, so I went ahead and packed away my American camel, coat that proved terribly insufficient for the weather. As I was folding it, I noticed a few curly red hairs stuck to the light beige fabric, and I felt so cold. Every neighborhood seems to have that one strange house inhabited by that one strange person, an eccentric. Well, if you ask author Anne-Marie Hartnett, you'll learn about a woman whose life stirred a lot of stories and gossip, especially once she seemingly disappeared. Performing this tale are Kyle Acres, Nicole Doolin, Jessica McAvoy,

Peter Lewis, and Jesse Cornett. So let's meet the people who can only confess we forgot about Muriel. Muriel Lang was known in our neighborhood for two things. Her fancy Mercedes and picking through garbage. Every Friday morning, just as the sun was coming up, you'd find her getting a jump on the garbage trucks by motoring her car up and down Edmund Road and all around the neighborhood, digging shoulders deep into blue recycling bags, and even in the green garbage bags in case something worthwhile had been tossed out.

Everything had potential. From torn clothes to cracked dishes to disgustingly used scrub brushes, she figured still had some use left in them. She wore a frayed knitted beret to hide her thinning hair, and even though she considered herself well-dressed, her expensive clothes were torn and tattered, and she wore them until they were literally falling off of her body. Born in Germany to the wealthy Peter and Monica Lang,

she'd been an ugly duckling from the start. Everyone but her mother took delight in seeing just how ugly and useless she was. I've seen pictures of her as a girl, and she wasn't exactly pretty, with enormous glasses and a prominent overbite, but can you imagine being told from the time you're in diapers, that no one would ever love you? At least Muriel had a mother who loved her. Monica tried to protect her,

though knowing how things turned out it might have been better for everyone if Muriel had been taught to be a fighter. After her father died, her mother married a businessman from here on Prince Edward Island and brought Muriel and her brother Leon to live with him in a former parsonage. Hugo Burke was eccentric

and far more of a father to Muriel than her late father had ever been. Leon, who had inherited the Lang family's cruel streak, left home as soon as he could and ultimately settled in London, and the small family of three secluded themselves in that big old house. According to Muriel, they were happier than they'd ever been. The neighborhood grew up around them, and our small village eventually became a suburb.

The dirt road that they lived on was paved, and new houses went up. Generations of children grew up on that road and sometimes returned to take over the homes from their parents, breeding a whole new generation of Edmund Road kids. I was one of them. My grandparents had bought the house on the opposite side of the wooded area behind Muriel's house. When my mother and father divorced, Mom and I moved in with Grand and Pop, and we became Muriel's neighbors.

Not that I had ever met Muriel in those days. I don't think any of the neighbors met Muriel, or her mother and stepfather. It was that house. You know the one. Most older neighborhoods have one. Sitting around at a backyard barbecue, no one invited Muriel or her family to. Mothers and fathers speculated about whether the people who live in that house are religious nuts or inbred or just plain crazy. Us kids would try to scare one another by making up stories about murderous hermits and child molesters and ghosts.

One rumor that stuck was that there was a cemetery in her backyard. Even the adults told that one. Even though no one had ever really gotten a good look at the house from the front, let alone the back. While the neighbors were speculating, Muriel and her family were living their lives. They ran their errands like everyone else, except they did it in a big maroon Mercedes. They gathered around a big console radio and listened to hymns and opera. They kept to themselves, but they liked it that way. The first time anyone bothered to march up to their front door and knock was Halloween in 1988.

I was six years old and dressed up like Spider-Man, carrying around my big pillowcase and excited to reach the end of the road because there was lady who always went all out, dressing as a terrifying witch and giving out the best chocolate bars. I can't remember who suggested it. It was probably one of us kids, whining about potentially missing some additional bit of candy by skipping a house. Either way, we ended up trudging past the hedges and through a jungle of unkempt plants to the big front door of the parsonage, looking anxiously back at the parents who lingered at the end of the walkway before knocking timidly. It was Hugo who answered. There was nothing outwardly strange about him.

He was a plump old man with white mutton chops and a tuft of wild hair on top of his head to match. He wore a crisp white shirt and a thin black tie, black suspenders and black trousers. And on his feet he wore quaint tartan slippers. To be honest, he kind of looked like Santa Claus without a beard. What's this? My soul, Monica, we've got a mad bunch of creatures here on our doorstep. What do you suppose they want? The kid next to me shied away, but I giggled.

I liked his accent. I liked everything about him. I thrust my pillowcase out in front of me. Trick-or-treat! Do I really have to pick just one? Monica, come over here and look at this. Deeper in the house, someone muttered something I couldn't make out. Behind him, a woman I assumed was Monica appeared with an elated look on her face.

I'd later find out it was actually Muriel, who had never done anything like trick-or-treating in her youth. I'd also find out later that Muriel was a teacher at a friend. French school in town, but also never took part in the school's Halloween activities because Monica forbade it. Hugo chuckled and rubbed his hand through his hair, the friction making it even wilder. Oh, I suppose I have a little something I can give you silly youngsters. He winked, then toddled over to a table just beyond the door. I'm sure that at the end of the walkway the parents were straining to get a peek inside,

but I was too excited at the thought of maybe getting the elusive can of pop from the nice old man. What I got was a roll of penny. I shit you not. We all did. Hugo dropped them in our pillowcases as gleeful as if he was giving us whole candy bars. Now I hope that'll be good enough to keep you little devils from coming back to play tricks or not. We muttered unenthusiastic thank-yues and shuffled back down the walkway. Our bags heavier, but without the precious loot we had wanted.

As soon as we were back on the road, our parents dug into our pillowcases to inspect what we had been. given. Then exchanged bewildered looks as they held the brown paper rolls in their palms. No one else went to knock on that door that night, or any other Halloween night. Add cheapskates to the list of things people actually knew about our neighbors. When Hugo died, no one in the neighborhood knew, because no one associated with Muriel and her family. It wasn't like when my grandfather died, and everyone came along with cakes and pies and sandwich platters. I was in my 20s and in university the next time I saw Muriel. A tropical storm had passed over our part of the island and had taken down a tree that was on their property, but it landed on ours.

I went with my grandmother to knock on their door and tell them that my cousin was coming by to cut the tree. Monica asked if we were going to sue, and my grandmother just chuckled and said there was no harm done. She just wanted the tree out of her backyard. This endeared grand to Muriel and her mother, and she found herself the recipient of endless boxes of donuts and other treats they picked up during her errands. Muriel did everything her mother said. That's how the garbage collecting started. Old Monica had it in her head that she might run out of money, in spite the fact that they owned and rented out properties in desirable neighborhoods and could afford to drive a Mercedes. The first time I saw Muriel digging out of a garbage can was at a gas station, her mother watching

critically from the passenger seat of their luxury car. I used to say that they were a little like that mother and daughter team from Grey Gardens, content in their eccentricities and completely unaware of how different they were. Muriel was left lost by her mother's dad. She was was 60 when it happened. The first thing she did when she came home from the hospital was tell my grandmother, because she had no one else except for a brother in London who hated her. I guess you could say we couldn't get rid of Muriel after that. My grandmother isn't the type of person to be cruel or rude, and I think she enjoyed Muriel's company more than she let on. She was the one who helped Muriel sort through the mess of paperwork that came next. This is how we learned so much about Muriel.

Muriel had never even had a bank account of her own. For years, she had given her paycheck to her mother to put in the bank and was given an allowance from that. Monica was the one who decided Muriel should stop working as a teacher, and so Muriel had retired and her mother had taken over managing the pension funds. They rarely bought food, instead seeking out every church supper that was held in the county and beyond, no matter the driving distance. Now Muriel was a 60-year-old woman who had never lived and didn't know how to live, and so my grandmother helped her, and Muriel started to talk. She'd been in love, but she didn't elaborate. She hadn't bought any new clothes in over 20 years because that was a waste of money, and she could either find new clothes in the garbage

or at a yard sale. She didn't own a microwave or a television, just her radio, and Monica had never let her listen to new music. Her brother Leon, now living just above the poverty line after a lifetime of bad financial decisions, called her every day at 9 p.m. London time to make demands she's sometimes fulfilled and sometimes ignored. He'd lost the fight in court to be given control over all his mother's assets and now picked smaller battles such as pressuring Muriel to buy him expensive things to ship to him. He wanted her to sell the house and go to London to take care of his invalid wife, something Muriel had to be talked out of in early days. She picked her battles as well. She had a feisty streak, as my grandmother put it. Muriel may not have had the spine to say no to buying him

a leather jacket, but she did enjoy getting under his skin by singing the only pop song she knew to him when he got on her nerves, Elton John's crocodile rock. He was a religious zealid and would call the music devilish while she kept on singing out of tune. She kept her house spotless, getting on her hands and knees to scrub the floor like her mother had instructed her to, and the only room that was kept messy was their junk room. She called me a young one, even though I wasn't so young anymore. Here comes the young one. How is youth today?

I'm just fine today, Muriel. Did Grand tell you I left you some tea? I'd take into giving Muriel the chamomile tea that came with my variety pack because I load this stuff, and Muriel took the gift like I had given her the Hope Diamond. Eventually, some of the other neighbors would approach Muriel while she was out and about with her junk hunt. And while no one would argue that Muriel wasn't still kind of a weirdo, she became our weirdo, a part of our community at last. And she was thrilled.

The day it happened was like any other day. I pulled into the driveway at my grandmother's home and popped the trunk to get the load of groceries I brought with me. At that point, I had moved back into my childhood home to help my grandmother now in her late 80s, and so seeing Muriel sitting with Grant on the veranda was no surprise. Muriel popped by often, and even though she was never invited into the house,

my grandmother never turned her away. I unloaded the groceries and approached the front door. Now, here comes youth. Good afternoon, Muriel. Hot day, isn't it? It's funny how you remember otherwise forgettable details. I remember Muriel's torn skirt and wrinkled blouse. I remember her fanning herself with the newspaper she was holding.

Our newspaper, actually. Muriel always came by for the paper when Graham was finished with it. I got my news online, so I wouldn't miss it. Nate, ask what Muriel did today. What did you do today, Muriel? I was in the parade. It took everything I had not to laugh out loud and risk her thinking I was going to make fun her. There was only one parade in town that day. You watched the Pride Parade? Did you have fun?

No, I was in the parade with men who dress like movie stars. I walked with Betty Grable and Snow White. Muriel, how did you manage that? Apparently Muriel learned about a barbecue that was hosted by a group of local drag queens to raise money for homeless LGBT youths. Not one to pass up a free meal the devoutly Catholic Muriel had gone to the barbecue where she was told by a particularly fabulous drag queen that her torn skirt was very punk and retro, then promptly recruited her to walk in pride

with the charity's group, which she accepted on the promise of another barbecue following the parade. I chatted with her a few more minutes on the veranda and then went inside to put out the groceries, laughing to myself that only Muriel would end up in a pride parade for a free hamburger inside of potato chips.

When I heard her groan as she stood, I went back to the veranda. Muriel, when I moved back here, I brought in another vacuum cleaner. Do you want the old one? It still works just fine. As usual, she carried on like I'd given her a million bucks. She thanked me and went on her way, only to return 15 minutes later to tell me that the vacuum worked perfectly, and also to bring me a bag full of individual sugar packets she had been

pilfering from local fast food joints. She means, well, but she can drive a person crazy at times. You should screen her visits then. If she knocks on the door, don't answer. and later you can tell her that you are out with your sister. I can't do that. Why not? I feel bad for her.

She hasn't got anyone except for that prick of a brother. She'll be fine. She's managed on her own for a couple years now. Muriel returned later that evening to bring the newspaper back, even though my grandmother had told her to keep it. I was outside having a cigarette while I waited for the grill to heat up and discreetly watching her coming and going and wondering if spending $100 bucks at Walmart to get her some new threads

would be worth not seeing her in whole-ridden pantyhose again. As far as anyone has been able to figure out, I was the last one to see Muriel. There's been so much speculation about it since it happened, and so many good people who genuinely liked Muriel have been called Heartless and held up as an example of what's wrong with the world today. Here's what you need to know about how this happened, and why. In this spring, Muriel was in a car accident.

She was at fault rear-ending another car at a busy intersection. She stopped driving. The first reason was she was simply afraid to do it. She had never been in an accident before, and the whole experience terrified her. The second reason is that she didn't want to spend money on anything ever. Getting a new car costs money, and the Mercedes had barely passed its inspection before the accident.

Her mother had drilled into her head, even as she had Muriel collect pop bottles and cans on the side of the road, that the only car worth driving is a Mercedes. and Mercedes cost a lot of money. No matter how many times people told her just to get a Honda or a Kia or something, she insisted that when she could buy another car, she would buy a Mercedes. She bought a bus pass instead and took her garbage collecting on foot. Some days taking the county line bus for almost an hour and a half so she could cover even more ground.

Also, in the spring, her brother started calling the police when Muriel started to screen her calls in anticipation of his daily harassment. She didn't have a cell phone and she wouldn't pay $20 for a phone with color ID, so she rarely answered it in case it was Leon. Even when Grand wanted to get in touch with her, she had to walk up to Muriel's house.

The police came around the first few times and she explained about Leon, and after a while, the police and Muriel agreed that it was a bother to everyone for them to take his calls seriously. This one is on me. When Muriel asked if I would drive her to the bank so she could pay her utility bills,

I took her and suggested she set up automatic payments. She took my advice and no longer had to go to the bank to pay her bills. The money was just automatically drawn from her account. Then there are community mailboxes. We used to have door-to-door service until Canada Post replaced these with community mailboxes that are scattered along the roads. Postmen don't come to the door unless delivering a bigger package. Since Muriel didn't know what Amazon was, let alone had an order from it, and her shithead of a brother never bothered to return the favor of sending her gifts from England, Muriel never. her gun packages. Finally, and this is most important, Muriel was now in charge of the rental

properties that her mother had left her, and she found the whole thing intimidating, which allowed a family of four drifters to live rent-free for nearly a year, and then make off with most of the appliances. Spooked, Muriel confided in both my grandmother and her lawyer that she was actually considering moving to London to live with Leon. Both tried to talk her out of it, but she only said that she was considering it. These are the things that allowed what happened to have. happen. It's not that nobody cared about Muriel enough to prevent it from happening. It's just that everything had aligned in such a fucked up way that there was no preventing it. Just as fate had determined that Muriel would finally become her own independent woman when she was in her 60s, so had fate

determined how Muriel would die. We didn't hear from her the day after I gave her the vacuum cleaner, which was unusual, but not unheard of. She sometimes came home late from an excursion and went right to bed. Grand remarked on it, but we figured she was out collecting. or was busy sorting bottles in her kitchen. Two more days passed and still no Muriel. My grandmother worried a little, then walked up to knock on her door. Muriel didn't answer,

and my grandmother worried a little bit more. She probably got the first bus and is eating her way through every free meal and free sample in town. She usually comes by for the paper. She's never been away this long. A week passed. Still no Muriel.

My grandmother knocked a few more times. She stopped and talked to the guy who lived across the street from Muriel, Tom. He mentioned that he hadn't seen her in a few days, but that Muriel had been going to talk to a travel agent about how much it would cost to fly to London. That just infuriated my grandmother. If she went to live with him and be his slave,

I'll give her such a boot in the ass. London is a long way to go to give someone a boot in the ass. Two weeks went by, and then a month. Still no Muriel. Grand reached her plateau of Warrior. around that time. She could have at least called me before she left. Why hasn't she at least written me a letter?

I realized how much my grandmother had actually come to care for Muriel and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She's a grown woman, and let's face it, is it so hard to believe that someone as strange as she is would have just left. I know. I just miss her, Nate. Three months. No one had seen Muriel anyway.

our garbage and recycle bags were left tied at the curb and no one was the recipient of her odd gifts we forgot about murray saying it out loud like that i suppose i'd have to agree with what everyone says about the people in our neighborhood we are terrible we are uncaring we forgot about this unforgettable woman and frankly some gave a sigh of relief before they banished her from their memories there's one person who didn't forget about muriel though leon I'd like to think that he was worried about her and that's why he was so insistent but it's more likely he was just tired of being ignored

we couldn't see the flashing blue and red lights through the trees so my grandmother and I didn't know that anything was going on just down the road then came the wail of a fire engine we were curious but not curious enough to investigate in the middle of the night if it wasn't for Tom

the across the street neighbor we probably would have heard about it on the news Tom was a fireman at our local station and he was one of the first one to enter the house after the police. Once he left the house, he called our next door neighbor Jim, who came over to break the news to Grant. I'm sorry, Sophia. They found Muriel's body in the house.

Muriel had been dead for a quarter of a year. There was no car to miss, so no one noticed a beat-up Mercedes that never left the driveway. Her pension went into the bank, and her bills came out. She didn't regularly attend any one church, so there were no fellow parishioners who'd wondered why they hadn't seen her in a while. Her mailbox filled with flyers

until nothing more could fit, and then they stopped delivering. She'd had an accident in her junk room and couldn't call for help. She'd broken her leg in a fall off the ladder she had been using to reach something, some old piece of garbage that was worth nothing to anyone but Muriel.

Two loaded shelves had come down with her, pinning her with debris. She had died alone in her big dark house that was hidden behind unkempt hedges and an untrained lawn, surrounded by the crap that she'd picked out of the garbage. Calls to the police by Leon were treated with the same urgency they always had, meaning little at all. He ultimately resorted to another stab at taking legal action to get her to respond to him. It was only after his London lawyer contacted Muriel's lawyer that someone realized that something

was terribly wrong. What came next was surreal. The investigation, the media latching on to her death, Local reporters frothing at the mouth for their chance at a major award by telling Muriel's story. They knocked on doors and contacted us on social media. I even received a phone call at work. They wanted to know everything about Muriel and the life she led. And they wanted to know about us. The people who the public had decided let this happen to Muriel. How could this old woman have died alone in her house like that?

Why didn't anyone check on her? Why didn't anyone call the police when she hadn't been seen? News reports were merely accusatory. Online commenters were brutal, going as far as calling us murderers for not doing much else to help Muriel. People who didn't know Muriel at all declared she was unwell, mentally unfit to take care of herself, and everyone paid her. They didn't know her. We knew her. She was our friend. I tried to keep my grandmother from all that talk. She was upset, though. She had tried to check on Muriel, hadn't she? learning that her friend might have heard her knocking and weekly called out for help kept Grant up at night.

I'd hear her in the kitchen in the wee hours crying to herself. I let her be for a while, but one night, about a week after Muriel's body was carried out, I got up and sat down with her. Stop blaming yourself. I should have called the police myself. I shouldn't have let it go for so long. Grant... I can't stand.

about how she died alone like that. Poor Muriel, she was my friend. I ran into Tom at the mailbox about a month later. Tom was one of those guys who never seemed to stop moving. He'd lived across the street from us for about 10 years before he moved up the road and across from Muriel. Like me, he had grown up on Edmund Road, albeit about a decade later.

He was a boy who liked his noisy toys and drove everyone nuts. and he was more than a little arrogant. To be honest, he was kind of an asshole, but he was a nice guy and most everyone liked him. Grant always had hated him, but he once volunteered to drive Muriel over to exchange her bottles and he kind of grew on her. He was an outdoorsy guy, but always well-groomed.

Standing at the mailbox, he looked like he hadn't washed his hair in about a week, and his clothes were wrinkled. Jesus, you look like shit. I just got up. Miranda told me if I was. I didn't get out of the house and check the mail. She was going to key my truck. Rough night?

I haven't been sleeping much in the last few weeks. He didn't need to elaborate. I just nodded. My grandma's the same way. I can only imagine what it was like for you. I wouldn't bet on it. Yeah. Sorry.

Yeah. Sorry. It's just you folks don't know the half of it. What do you mean? Ah, nothing. You don't need to hear it. I noticed his hands were shaking as he locked his mail slot, and I placed my hand on his arm. Do you need to talk to someone?

I've got a counselor from work for that. I'm off on leave, by the way. I think I'm all talked out. But, you know, if you don't mind coming over to the house for a beer, I wouldn't mind just shooting the shit. I dropped the mail at home. walked up to Tom's place. Walking by Muriel's house gave me such a strange and sad feeling.

Everything looked exactly the same as it had been, like the house was still keeping its secrets. Tom greeted me and I said hello to his wife, Miranda, before he led me downstairs into the rec room. I just moved the bar fridge down here. I can't stand sitting in the garage with the door open anymore. I can't stand looking over at the house. It really hit you hard, didn't it?

Muriel was a fucking fruitcake, but she was a nice lady. She didn't deserve to go out like that. He changed the subject to his rec room. Now that his kids were teenagers, he had had grand plans to turn this into his man cave. It seemed to me like he rambled a lot through his plans, like he was just talking for the sake of talking, and he remained on the edge of his sofa cushion the entire time.

His wife called down to let him know that she was off to work, and as soon as her car's engine growled, he got to his feet, Thank Christ. Come up on the deck. I followed. And once we were on the deck, you dug into the storage bench alongside the barbecue and pulled out a joint. I'd be stoned all the time, but Miranda hates it. Here, help yourself. I'm good. Thanks. I take pills to sleep. This I have to get through the day. All of this because of what happened with Muriel?

I never should have gone in that. house. I went in first because she was so skittish. I figured seeing a familiar face would calm her down if she was in trouble. I should have stayed in the truck. I should have let the other guys go in there. Was it really bad? I didn't want to know, but I couldn't stop myself from asking. Tom drew on his joint again, seemingly in a daze. And then he met my stare. Do you really want to know the details? No, I don't But I want you to tell me Tom stretch his arm out to me

The weeds pungent stink invading the air around me Here, take it I took it I hated pot But Tom looked like he would cry if I didn't When I passed it back to him he inhaled deep I noticed that he'd started to tear up It was bad enough that she died alone like that

Trapped like she was with no one around to help her That's enough That's not all that happened to her, though. I sat on moving as creeping fingers of dread danced along my spine, waiting for him to pull himself together. And Tom asked me a question that chilled me. Did you know that Muriel was feeding the rats that live back in the pond? I didn't even know what to think about that.

Wildlife was always a problem out here, especially now with so much development going on around us. Foxes, coyotes, lynx, and the bane of the bayon of the animals. everyone's existence, the mice and rats. She had mentioned that they were getting into her car when she had it and chewing up the upholstery. Grand sent her off with some traps and a little bag of poison. She had pie pans full of bird seed all across the floor.

They were in every room. I don't know what the fuck she could have been thinking. Feeding rats. I was the first one to see her. She was buried under all her crap. I could tell from the stink that she was dead, but... Oh, God, I wasn't ready. I wasn't ready to see.

Tom snuffed into his hand to muffle a sob, but it didn't do any good. He was losing it quickly, and I should have made him stop. Not just for himself, but for me, because I did not want to know. But I couldn't. I needed him to finish talking. Tom? She broke her leg. She couldn't get up.

She bled to death. The floor was black with her dried blood. Those rats, they killed her. They killed her. And then they crawled inside and kept on feeding. I don't know whether they ran out of food in the pans or if they just went for her first because she was meat. Muriel didn't have a face when we found her She was hollowed out

And they were still picking at what was left when we broke in I wanted someone to tell me that the fall killed her But it didn't They ate her Oh no I'd heard enough. I bolted out of my seat and threw myself with a railing, then puked everything in my stomach over the side.

I don't remember much about the next half hour or so. I vaguely remembered Tom crying his eyes out behind me and a loud hum in my head. I comforted him when he told me he was sorry for telling me. I told him he needed to get help, to do whatever it took to live with what he'd seen. The hardest thing I've ever done was to walk through our front door and look at my grandmother in the face,

knowing how her dear friend had really died. she can't ever know her guilt over not checking on Muriel has already taken part of that indomitable spirit the truth would destroy her Tom moved a few months after he told me what happened he and Miranda split up she got the house and still lives there but Tom couldn't do it

I looked him up on Facebook and he's moved across the country he's not with any fire department any longer but is on disability for his PTSD I hope he'll be okay Leon got Muriel's house in the and no surprise there. He sold it and the new owner tore it down to build her own McMansion wherever the parsonage was. When my grandmother talks about Muriel, she smiles and I smile along with her. But it's hard to retain the memory of the strange woman with the knitted beret and tattered clothes

driving around her rusting Mercedes, knowing what I know. It was a long time before I was able to go a full day without that horrible image of Muriel my mind had created flashing up at me. If I think about how horrible her death must have been and how long she had suffered and make myself think of the woman who greeted me with a hello young one every time and sang out in John to infuriate her brother.

If I could go back, I wouldn't have dismissed her absence like I did. I would have broken a window to get inside to make sure she was all right. I might have gotten to her in time. As much as I'd like to some days, I won't ever forget Muriel. It's to.

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