The Dark Somnium - Mrs Willison's Homemade Jam (Content Warning)

Episode Date: June 28, 2023

This Creepypasta scary story is from the nosleep subreddit, written by FamilialDichotomy, Make sure to check out the original post and support the author:"Mrs Willison's Homemade Jam" https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/5rp2qf/mrs_willisons_homemade_jam/This story contains content that some might find Triggering/Disturbing Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

As a kid, I was a picky eater, like I assume most children are. As my parents tell me, my eating habits transcended normal childhood proclamations of, I don't like broccoli, and evolved into a refusal to eat absolutely anything of substance. Things other children might eat and enjoy, like chicken nuggets, spaghetti, or even hot dogs, were shunned by toddler me. It got to the point, they say, where they and my pediatrician became concerned for my health. I stopped growing properly, falling well below the typical percentiles for children's height and weight, and the rest of my development seemed stunted as a result.

Phrases were tossed around, like failure to thrive and tube feed. In the end, my parents were forced to feed me calorie-loaded milkshakes made with nutrient-enriched formula every night in a bid to get me to gain weight. Honestly, I don't know why they put up with it. I sound like I was a little shit. The milkshake regime extended past toddlerhood and into my childhood. At five years old, I was still refusing to eat food, despite the countless nights my parents sent me to bed hungry for refusing to even try my dinner.

I was still small for my age, and spent more than a little time in the hospital due to the starvation of my body. My parents would later tell me that they were sure I was going to be taken away by the state because of how emaciated I appeared. Thankfully, they were in constant contact with doctors who monitored the situation. so there was undeniable proof that my case wasn't due to neglect. At six years old, when I should have been starting school, I was still a small kid. My body never received enough nutrients to grow properly, despite my forced feedings,

and as a result, my speech and physical movements were stunted, leaving me a six-year-old that had behaved more like a three-year-old. Again, I don't know how my parents coped. I can remember the day I discovered a food I actually liked. It was September 22nd, 1997. I was at the grocery store with my mother, sitting in the child seat of the cart because my frail legs couldn't handle walking for too long. Mother looked tired and weary, and I can remember staring at the deep lines that seemed etched into her face as she pushed the cart silently through the small store in an attempt to find something or anything that could tempt me to eat. And then I saw it.

A jar of jam. I'd tried jam before and hated it, the texture, the stickiness, the overwhelming sweetness, vile, but this jar, it seemed different to my six-year-old mind. I pointed it out to my mother. My bony finger extended to the glass jar with the plain white label that read, Mrs. Willison's homemade jam. What, sweetie, what do you see? My mother's voice was almost as weary as her face as her eyes followed my outstretched hand.

When her gaze landed on the jar, her head snapped back toward me like it was elasticated. You want that, Markey? The excitement in her voice was barely contained. You want to try that? I nodded my head. My mother grabbed the jar of jam off the shelf faster than I'd ever seen her move before. She even smiled. I couldn't remember the last time I saw her do that.

We paid for the jam and left the store without so much as bothering to shop for the rest of our groceries. Herried me out to the car, excitedly strapping me into the seat, before placing the jar of jam in the front almost reverently. This was the first time I was actually showing interest in food. She was thrilled. The town I grew up in was small, populated by a mere 350 people. The drive from the grocery store to my house took under five minutes. Really, we could have walked if I wasn't so frail. When we got home, Mother excitedly ushered me into the house with the jar of jam.

clenched tightly in her hand. Immediately, she sat me down at the table, as if she were afraid I'd suddenly change my mind and refused to try what I had picked out. But my mind and gaze were focused on that jar. It didn't look like the other jams I had tried. It didn't seem lumpy or thick, and there were no seeds. Something about it intrigued my dull little mind, though I can't explain what it was, even now. Here, Markey, you want to try this? My mother held out a spoon laden with jam. It was a deep red and seemed to glisten under the kitchen lighting.

I remember taking the spoon carefully and raising it to my face, peering at it closely, anxiously, my mother waited. Slowly, my tongue darted out to taste it. I can't even describe to you what that first taste was like. Imagine the most amazing thing you've ever eaten, coupled with the most euphoric you've ever felt, and that would get you close to what the experience of tasting that jam was for me. I ate everything off the spoon in seconds and silently asked for more. My mother, with tears in her eyes, handed me another spoonful, which I lapped up eagerly.

After my fifth spoonful, my mother was openly sobbing and dashing for the phone to call my father and tell him the wonderful news. Meanwhile, I remained entranced by the jar. As a child, I wouldn't have been able to describe the taste of you. My palate being limited as it was, but as an adult, I can tell you that it's a deep, rich flavor, a combination of sweet and savory that was perfectly balanced. It didn't taste like strawberries or raspberries, but a combination of the two mixed with some sort of saltiness that seemed to heighten it.

I suppose it's a lot like how some people like salted caramel, the combination of sweet and salty. It was bliss. My father stopped by the grocery store on his way home from work and bought another jar. And so, for the next two weeks, that became the only thing I ate. I would have jam for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, followed by my enhanced milkshakes in the evening. My parents were thrilled. They hoped that my sudden liking of this food would lead me to liking other foods, too.

Then, one day, when my mother and I went to the grocery store to buy more of the jam, we found the spa on the shelf where it usually sat empty. Mother, slightly panicked, rushed to the front of the store to ask if they had any more of Mrs. Willison's homemade jam. Sorry, we're all out right now. My mother's face fell, and she threw a worried glance in my direction. When will you get more? The clerk scratched his beard thoughtfully.

You see, it's actually made by a local lady, Mrs. Wilson. She sold it to Hector to resell in the store. She said she only had so many jars available, and no one else seems to like it, but your boy there. I was beginning to grow irritated from being in the cart and not having had my jam for lunch. My fussing drew mother's attention, and she stared at me worriedly. Is there any way I could get Mrs. Willenson's address or phone number? That jam is the only thing Mark will eat. Like is common in most small towns, everyone knows the business of everyone else.

So the clerk was aware of my parents' struggles in getting me to eat food. He must have felt sympathetic towards my mother's sudden stress because he searched in the back office for the invoice that held Mrs. Willison's address. That afternoon, Mother and I sought out the elusive jam maker. She lived in a cottage on the outskirts of town in a gingerbread-style house that would be described as an idyllic nowadays. When Mother knocked on the door, a young woman answered. She was small, with blonde hair and a tight bun and a sad face.

Can I help you? Her voice was soft, and, years later, Mother would tell me that there was something about Mrs. Willison that was so dejected and forlorn. But desperation is a wonderful motivator, and my mother wanted to keep me eating, so she pasted on a smile and explained the situation to the young woman at the door. Oh, that is so wonderful. Mrs. Willison exclaimed, smiling for the first time since she came to the door. I am so happy he likes it.

It's an old family recipe, and when Hector said it wasn't selling very well, I thought maybe I messed up the batch. My mother asked if Mrs. Willison had any more jam, and with a smile, the woman retreated into her house and returned a moment later with a box. This is the last of it. I've kept a few dars to myself, but since it seems so unpopular, I didn't think I was going to make another bat. This is amazing. Mother said, seeming to sag under the weight of the box and the relief she felt. I don't know what it is about this jam he loves so much.

Mrs. Willisson laughed. I'm just glad I didn't mess it up the way I was thinking I had. My mother offered to pay the other woman, but she refused, saying that seeing someone enjoy her creation was payment enough. We left with a dozen jars. We managed to stretch those out for several months, though I hated having to ration my precious confection. One day, a few weeks after I had turned seven, we saw Mrs. Willison in town. She waved a cheery greeting to my mother and waddled her way over, her round, protruding stomach, making her slightly off balance. Congratulations!

My mother exclaimed when she drew nearer. Mrs. Willison thanked her and rubbed her stomach. I stood there wondering if she had any more jam to give me. I haven't made any recently. She said an answer to my brisk question. But maybe soon. I was annoyed but resigned. My mother was just happy I was finally starting to act like a normal kid who ate and talked.

So what if all I ate was jam, she thought. At least I was eating. A few more weeks passed and we were. ran out of jam. The grocery store no longer stocked it, so mother and I made a visit to Mrs. Willison. When she answered the door, I noticed her stomach wasn't round anymore, and she once again looked sad. She invited us inside, the offer of jam having me run into the house before my mother had a chance to reply. I sat patiently at her round kitchen table while she spread jam onto slices of bread. My mother watched in earnest as I looked at the bread suspiciously before picking

it up and nibbling it. To my relief, the sweet and savory taste of the jam overpowered the bread taste and I greedily ate it down. My mother sagged in relief, seeing this as another victory in the battle of my eating habits. I ate several more pieces of toast with jam while Mrs. Willison and mother talked. I ignored their conversation in favor of eating my treat, occasionally catching words like stillborn and devastated, but paying no mind. Before we left, we left, we were. My mother hugged Mrs. Willison tightly. She didn't have any jam to give me that day, but promised me soon. I left with a full belly and the anticipation of more of my sweet treat soon.

For years this pattern went on. Mother and Mrs. Willison developed a sort of friendship, and when we would go and visit every few months, they would sit at Mrs. Willison's kitchen table and talk while I ate jam. Eventually, Mother began putting the jam on other foods to see if I would eat them. I tried chicken, beef, bananas, and apples, all smothered in my delicious jam and ate every bit. Mother and father practically sobbed in relief. By the time I was 12, I was eating more foods, but still relied on the jam. If it didn't have jam literally coating it, then I wouldn't try it.

That jam seemed to mask every other flavor, and I used it like people use ketchup or gravy. In this time, Mrs. Williston seemed to age quickly, and her production of jam. She told me and mother that it was hard on her body, making the jam. It was a long process and very labor-intensive. I worried about the day when she might no longer make it for me, but she simply patted my head and told me that she'd make it as long as I wanted it. I smiled. By the time I was 18, I was better with food, but still hated the taste and texture

of it. Mrs. Willisans jam was the only food I'd ever actually liked or wanted to eat of my own accord, she still supplied me with it. Her frequency of batches lessened to only once a year or more, but when I finally got those jars of the rich red goodness, I was thrilled. After high school was over, I moved away for college, but every time I returned home, I made sure to stop in and visit Mrs. Willerson. She seemed to grow lonely as she aged, and I often wondered where her husband was, or if she even had one. When asked what she did for work, she just said she was in the business of making people happy.

I wasn't sure what that meant, but figured it was something to do with her amazing jam. More years passed. Despite my unusual tendencies as a child, I grew into a rather successful normal man. I work in data entry, which is as boring as it sounds, and am married to a wonderful woman who, at first, was annoyed with my weird eating habits, but came to accept that I just don't like the stuff. It doesn't matter what it is. I just don't like food.

I have never, and likely will never, eat food for the joy of it, unless we count jam, of course. My wife doesn't like it, but she's used to it now, I think. A few weeks ago, we returned home to visit my parents. As I've been doing for years, I made a point to visit Mrs. Willison. She's older now, and time has been unkind to her. Her body seems frail, as if it has carried heavy burdens for years, and she no longer stands upright, But she still smiled when she saw me, and smiled even wider when she met my wife.

We had a nice visit, her getting to know my wife and catching up on what has been happening in my life. Just before I left, she gave me a box of jam. I'm afraid this is it, Mark dear. Her voice sounded as frail as her body looked, and, for the first time, the idea that I could lose Mrs. Willison popped into my head. Even though she was only in her 50s, she seemed much older. She'd been part of my life for so long now, I couldn't imagine no longer being able to see her.

I'm too old for making jam now. She said with a sigh. My body, it just won't allow it. These things happen. Best to leave it to the young ones. She smiled weakly, but I could tell she was sad. Tears prickled my eyes as I set the box of jam jars on the ground and wrapped her frail body in a tight hug. Thank you for sharing your jam with me.

for as long as you have." I said, then kissed her forehead gently. Mrs. Willison smiled and waved me and my wife off as we left. That was a few weeks ago. Today I got a call from my mother. She was sobbing uncontrollably. It took me a long time to finally figure out what she was saying, and when I did, Hell, I didn't know what to think.

I sat there at my kitchen table, still in my pajamas, with a plate of jam toast in front of me while my mother told me Mrs. Willis Willisson had passed away. It appeared she had died several days ago, but no one knew until my mother went for her weekly visit and found the other woman slumped over in her chair. There was nothing they could do. I stared at my jammed toast and felt numb. My mother sobbed.

What mom? What they found? I'm so sorry. She broke down into incoherent sobbing. Eventually, my father took the phone from her and explained what the police had found in Mrs. Willison's house when they arrived. I'm still not sure what to think of it. Son, I hope you're sitting down for this.

My father began. No one knew. No one knew what a crazy, sick pitch she was, I swear. He cleared his throat and sounded like he was fighting back his own tears. I'm just sorry we fed you that shit for so long. My eyes immediately went to the jam. My precious jam. The police searched her house.

In the cellar, they found the area where she made her jam. Jesus, son, it was kids. God damn it was kids, her own babies. Turns out, Mrs. Willison's jam was homemade in a very literal sense. She had, a year before I first ever tried her jam, gotten pregnant, and then miscarried at home. Apparently, it created some sort of mental break in her brain, and for God knows what reason, she decided to incorporate the baby fetus, whatever, into the jam. She cooked it with the berries, strained it, and took care not to have any fragments in the final product.

That's why it was always so perfectly clear and free of seeds. It's also why it took so long for her to make her batches. After the first one, she decided to try again with both the pregnancy, and when that ended two, ended in a second trimester miscarriage, the jam. For over twenty years, Mrs. Willisand lived in a cycle of getting herself pregnant, which she apparently achieved by acting as a prostitute in the larger neighboring town, and then abhorting the pregnancies at home, sometime between the 12th and 20th week, when the ingredient was large enough to be made into a batch. That was why she only made one batch of jam a year, and why she

appeared to age so quickly and harshly. In the end, when she said her body could no longer support jam making, she was telling the truth. My parents were horrified. For years they had been feeding me this stuff. For years they had been gleefully shoveling this jam into my system, ignorant of the fact that it was made with human remains. They had been so thrilled when I had started eating normal food, so thrilled when six-year-old me had pointed to that jar of jam and then taken it so eagerly. My mother apologized profusely on the phone through her sobs. When the call ended, I looked down at the plate of jam toast in front of me, studying the deep red spread with its flawlessly smooth consistency and the sweet and savory combination of it that had been the only

food I had ever actually enjoyed in my life. Silently, I rose from my chair and went to the cellar where I stored my box of jams. Mrs. Willison made twelve jars of each batch, and I had learned to stretch that very carefully over the years. I still had eleven remaining. Carefully, I looked through the box, taking out each and every jar and inspecting it, as if trying to see tiny particles of fetuses that had been cooked into each one. At the very bottom of the box, I found an envelope.

I reached for it with a shaking hand and pulled out letters from Mrs. Willison. It was short, not saying much, but I smiled to read it all the same. I've always had issues with food. I don't know why. Most children grow out of their picky eating, and to some extent I did too. I learned over time that I needed food to live, though eating it brings me no joy and makes me sick if I find a texture or a taste I can't stand. Mrs. Willison's jam saved me.

It has been the first and only food I've ever liked, the only one I willingly and gladly ate. And in that envelope that I found at the bottom of my last box of jars, the last batch Mrs. Willison made, I found her legacy to me, something she wanted me to have before she died, because she said I was the bright spot of her life, and she had done this all for me. The sound of my wife moving around upstairs manages to reach me in the basement. She's awake late because she's had a difficult time sleeping lately. Whistling to myself, I put the index card back into the envelope and leave my box of jam in the same places before.

Then I climb the stairs to the kitchen where I find my wife standing at the stove, scrambling eggs. She turns to me and smiles, her hair tussled from sleep and her face serene, not yet twisted up in agony due to her morning sickness. She turns and kisses me, and I feel the soft swell of her pregnant stomach against my body. Our last trip home had been to surprise my parents with the pregnancy. She's 12 weeks now, so she says it's safe to tell people the news. Of course, my parents were thrilled. So was Mrs. Willison, which is why I think she left me the recipe. I think, if I push her hard enough, I might be able to get my wife to make some jam for me.