We kick things off with the bizarre case of Mary Cowan — a story so messy and surreal it feels like history accidentally tripped, faceplanted, and decided to stay there. Mary’s saga plays out like a fever dream of bad decisions, wild twists, and unsettling déjà vu that makes you wonder if the universe just hits copy-paste on terrible life choices.

Then we move on to Linda Hazzard — who wasn’t just eccentric; she was basically running the “Starve Yourself to Enlightenment (and Accidentally Die)” Spa Experience™. Linda’s whole vibe radiates Kuzco’s poison—sorry, potion—energy, the kind of chaotic villainy that really should come with its own Disney musical number.

Meanwhile, Lauren is spiraling about the spider bite on her leg, which she refuses to wrap like a Christmas ham because the sound of plastic wrap makes her want to yeet herself into the void. And because life is cruel, she’s apparently allergic to either bandaids or the adhesive on bandaids, meaning even her first-aid kit has turned against her.

And Courtney? She’s sick as hell with a cold but still powers through like the absolute rockstar she is — even if she does sound like she’s podcasting from the inside of a haunted crypt.

Between all that, we still find time for several unhinged tangents — because why just tell a story when you can derail into unsolicited food opinions, existential crises, and chaos no one asked for?

It’s true crime meets villain backstory meets two co-hosts slowly falling apart in real time — all marinated in that signature Haunted and Homicidal chaos that somehow makes the horrifying downright hilarious.

💀 Grab your sage, sip your potion (not poison), and come suffer laugh with us.

Pack your sage, your chicest black outfit, and maybe a snack (because ghost hunting can easily turn into beignet hunting) — we’re off to the most haunted corners of New Orleans. We gush about our love for the French Quarter — cobblestone streets, voodoo shops that smell like incense and secrets, the gothic beauty of the St. Louis cemeteries, and every witchy happening that makes us want to move in… even if the neighbors are dead.

Naturally, we can’t go to NOLA without diving into the twisted tale of Madame LaLaurie and her infamous mansion — the kind of place that makes even the bravest ghost go, “Yeah, I’m good.” Then, because our brains have no GPS, we swerve into the legend of La Llorona, the wailing woman whose “revenge” on her husband involved drowning her kids. We’re still screaming, “Girl… WHY?” because spite-parenting to the point of ghosthood is not the flex you think it is.

Somewhere in there, we take a Weird Al appreciation break for “My Bologna,” because clearly that belongs in this episode.

Oh, and speaking of left turns — remember that time I went to an ICP concert (questionable choice), got trashed, and suddenly became a drunk detective? A guy was frantically looking for “Crystal,” only identified by her rhinestone shoes. I stormed the bathroom on a rescue mission, determined to find her. I didn’t. She vanished into the night like a glitter-footed cryptid. To this day, I still wonder — is she okay? Did she find love? Did she join a rhinestone cult? Crystal, if you’re listening… call me.

It’s haunted history, folklore, bad singing, questionable logic, and the chaotic energy of two friends in a city where even the streetlights feel haunted.

Grab your sage, clutch your crystals, and prepare your eardrums — because this episode is a double scoop of unsolved madness that’s somehow spooky, unhinged, and snack-fueled all at once.

First, we dissect the Cleveland Torso Murders, committed by the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run (who we’re 1000% convinced was Sweeney — and honestly, we will die on that hill). Dismemberments, Depression-era detectives, and the wildest game of “guess the murderer” you’ve ever heard. Then we unravel the eerie mystery of the Edgecomb Killer — another unsolved case that’s as frustrating as it is terrifying.

And because it’s us, the episode also features a guest appearance by Mischa and her now-iconic ASMR moment — starring an unapologetically loud bag of veggie crisp greenbeans from DJ&A (not sponsored… but we would absolutely take a lifetime supply).

⚠️ Disclaimer: There’s some demonic static in this episode. We don’t know where it came from. We don’t know why it’s there. We tried yelling at it, we tried sage, we even tried pretending it was “aesthetic,” but it wouldn’t leave. We could have re-recorded, but we’re either too tired, too cursed, or just vibing with mediocrity this week. Thanks for loving us anyway.

This week, we take a frosty plunge into full-blown terror, starting with the bone-chilling legend of the Wendigo—a winter-loving, flesh-hungry cryptid who prefers its humans plump and panic-seasoned. We unpack the folklore, the eerie ceremonies once used to keep it at bay, and whether that existential dread you feel every December might just be… a vibe or a Wendigo.

Then, because we hate ourselves, we take a sharp left turn into the haunted Clown Motel—a place so cursed it garners multiple "absolutely the fuck nots" and a full-on panic spiral from Lauren. Between the ghost clowns, dusty dolls, and photos that feel like they’re watching you breathe, it’s safe to say Lauren tried to quit the podcast mid-recording. No, seriously. She was out.

This episode has it all: Wendigos, haunted hotels, emotional damage, and enough clown-based trauma to fuel your nightmares for a month.

Stay haunted. Stay homicidal. And say absolutely the fuck not to clowns.

Also, here is the link to the digital book by Christopher Sebela - I lived in a Clown Motel 

This episode dives headfirst into the dark and tangled world of some truly chaotic killers. First up is Hattie Whitten, a small-town poisoner with big-time body count energy. Then we descend into the unsettling and confusing pit that is Ottis Toole—a walking red flag who made a career out of grotesque crimes and false confessions, most notoriously alongside his equally deranged partner-in-lies, Henry Lee Lucas. These two were less a dynamic duo and more a disaster in denim.

⚠️ Trigger Warning: This episode includes discussion of the Adam Walsh case and Ottis Toole’s disturbing and disputed involvement. Listener discretion is strongly advised.

And because nothing can stay serious for too long around here, Mischa makes a guest appearance—providing top-tier ASMR with her enthusiastic crunching of chips and queso from Lauren’s favorite local Mexican joint. Yes, she has excellent taste. No, she’s not sorry.

Murder, manipulation, queso, and canine cameos—it’s a little horrifying, a little hilarious, and a lot of no thanks.

In this episode, Lauren and Courtney take you to the notoriously haunted 1886 Crescent Hotel—not to be confused with croissants, a buttery French pastry, though the vibe is equally flaky. We dig into the paranormal history, the infamous mirror where ghostly hands supposedly reach out (um, no thank you), and share why this hotel is on our bucket list... but only if that bucket comes with sage and holy water.

But wait—there’s more! We also get into the eerie phenomenon of the Black Eyed Kids (not to be confused with the Black Eyed Peas—though both are known for unsettling people). One particular BEK allegedly eats apples with ketchup, which is somehow more disturbing than the ghosts. (fuck them kids)

Meanwhile, Lauren’s husband is on a personal mission to steal her Lucky Charms, because apparently they're magically delicious even in a paranormal crisis.

It’s haunted, it’s homicidal, and it’s full of chaotic no-thank-you energy. 

Oh, and here's the link to the "Ghost of the Crescent Hotel" by Still On The Hill (and no, Lauren STILL didn't listen to it!)

This episode is a full-blown rollercoaster of true crime and total brain fog. We start with the unsettling tale of Nannie Doss, the sweet-smiling serial killer known as the Giggling Granny, who poisoned her way through husbands like it was a hobby. Then we unravel the nonsense that is Bitch Boy Brian “Penelope” Pennell, a man whose crimes are as ridiculous as his nickname is earned (that we gave him because fuck that guy). We cover their arrests, sentencing, and the absolutely unhinged details that left us staring into the void.

Meanwhile, we try (and fail) to wrap our heads around task forks—what are they? Why are they? Our flabbers are ghasted. We are in major confusion.

In a tragic turn of reality, we also mourn the recent loss of Ozzy Osbourne, whose absence hits hard and heavy. Michael Jamal Warner has also sadly passed, leaving a mark on the world that won’t be forgotten. As for Hulk Hogan… let’s just say our grief levels are appropriately muted, given his racist tendencies.

It’s chaos. It’s crime. It’s the kind of episode that makes you question your to-do list and humanity.