The NoSleep Podcast - NoSleep Podcast S8E17

Episode Date: February 19, 2017

It's episode 17 of Season 8. On this week's show we have six tales about death in all the most bizarre ways they can be inflicted. "Spencer’s Last Prank"‡ written by Rona Vaselaar and performed by Matt Bradford & Addison Peacock. (Story starts around 00:04:00) "A Quick Confession Before I Flee the Country"† written by E.M. Becker and performed by Alexis Bristowe & Eden & Atticus Jackson & Corinne Sanders. (Story starts around 00:19:40) "Mrs. Willison's Homemade Jam"† written by Claire Henderson and performed by Mike DelGaudio & Nikolle Doolin & Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:34:20) "The Shredder’s Song"† written by V.R. Gregg and performed by Erika Sanderson. (Story starts around 00:58:50) "The Heart of This Building"† written by Alice Lily and performed by Peter Lewis. (Story starts around 01:15:00) "The Handler"‡ written by T. Weaver and performed by Dan Zappulla & Matthew Bradford. (Story starts around 01:43:30) Click here to learn more about the voice actors on The NoSleep Podcast  Click here to learn more about the Sleepless Live 2017 Tour  Click here to learn more about Rona Vaselaar  Click here to learn more about V.R. Gregg  Executive Producer & Host: David Cummings Musical score composed by: Brandon Boone Audio adaptations produced by: Phil Michalski† & Jeff Clement‡ "Mrs. Willison's Homemade Jam" illustration courtesy of Jörn Heidrath Audio program ©2017 - 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

This is a horror fiction podcast. We're here to frighten you and mess with your head because that's what you want. So give into your fear because tonight there will be no sleep podcast. It's the no sleep podcast. I'm David Cummings. Thanks for joining us. On this week's show, we have six tales about death in all the most bizarre ways it can be inflicted. Well, we send our greetings from Houston, Texas.

I say we, because, well... We have with us the whole gang, of course. We have the one and the only, Mr. Peter. We have the one and only, Jessica McAvoy. There's only one? There is just one, Jessica. We have a certain gentleman from across the pond. We like to call him David Alt.

Yes, good evening, you all. We also have the one and the only Nicole Goodnight. Hi. And bringing up the rear, so to speak, is the one and the only, the musical maestro, the Cincinnati swoosh. Mr. Brandon Boone. Howdy, partners? All righty. Well, yes, the sleepless live tour has kicked off.

And by the time you hear this episode, we will have likely performed one or two of our shows already. It's been a whirlwind week of flights and rehearsing and getting. used to each other's odd idiosyncrasies. Surprisingly, we're all very friendly and compatible people. I guess it helps that we're all a bunch of filthy, degenerate reprobates. I mean, voice actors. Practically synonymous, actually. We can't wait to see what the tour holds in store for us.

If it's anything like the first few days, it'll mean a lot of laughs, bad puns, and creepy stories. So, gang, what do you say? We get back to work and start this week's show. Aww. In our first tale, we meet a real joker. You probably know the type. Author Rona Vassilar sure does.

The kind of guy who's always playing practical jokes and punking people. But if one prank goes wrong, it's remarkable how much it can affect all involved. Performing this tale are Matthew Bradford and Addison Peacock. So let's meet Spencer and learn about Spencer's. Last prank. My co-workers like stupid pranks. I worked in a shitty clothing store in the local mall. It's the kind of place that hires high schoolers and over the summer, college kids.

It's minimum wage, so our employers didn't expect much. Honestly, they'd just hope we didn't come and drunk. Hell, if our eyes were a little red, they'd look the other way. If you know what I mean. Which is why the pranks continued for so long. It started out small, jumping out from you. behind doors, hiding in clothing racks, prank calling the store on Taze Off. It was funny and petty and stupid.

That's the key word again. Stupid. It was my co-worker, Spencer. He's the reason the pranking eventually came to an end about six months ago. And the reason that I eventually quit my job. See, none of us were exactly rocket scientists. Most of us were a little dumb for the sole fact that we were team. teenagers. But Spencer was dumber than the rest of us. I mean, that kid was a few eggs short of a

dozen. Not college material and probably would never move away from our hometown. But we liked them just the same. He was good for a laugh. But, God, he took it too far. It happened on a Tuesday. I was working from three to nine, which meant I was on closing duty. I'm off the storefront, clean the windows, took out the trash, and threw the cardboard boxes from inventory into the cardboard compactor. I locked up and did a quick inventory check. Most importantly, I did it all by myself. See, Spencer was supposed to be working with me. He was supposed to come in at noon and leave at eight. That's not uncommon for someone to close alone, but usually there's another person there for part of the evening. It makes finishing closing duties easier. I mean, I can't take out the trash while I'm helping

customers, you know. He'd been there when I came in at two, but at some point he'd left without letting me know, and without clocking out. I was pretty irritated. I wondered if maybe he was playing some kind of joke on me. Spencer wasn't the type to think things through. He might very well have thought that abandoning me on the night shift would be hilarious. I called Spencer, but didn't get an answer. I called my manager and let her know that Spencer had ducked out on me. I expected Spencer to return my call or at least text, but he didn't. The next time I worked, two days later, I asked my manager. She hadn't heard from Spencer either.

Now, Spencer might not be the brightest bulb in the box, and yeah, sometimes he forgets his schedule or messes up and doesn't come in for a shift, but he isn't the kind to just shirk his responsibilities. If he misses work, he accepts the blame for it and makes it up to his coworkers. He doesn't make excuses and it doesn't happen often. That's why none of us employees really had a problem with him. So the fact that he was completely MIA left me a bit confused. If he'd left me there as a joke, he would have confessed to it by now.

He wouldn't have stopped coming into work entirely. I didn't get worried until the next week, when Spencer's mom officially filed a missing person's report. She came into the store to talk to the manager. I saw them disappear into the office, which is really just a cramped closet in the back room with a dusty old desktop computer, and could barely make myself focus until they came back out. Mrs. Damson, that is to say, Spencer's mom, had tears in her eyes. I heard my manager, Kelly, assure her that they'd check the security footage.

Then, Kelly asked me to come to the back office. She'd never done that before. It turns out that I was the last person. to see Spencer before he went missing. At least the last known person. His mother had seen him at the house before he went to work that Tuesday. He'd never come home.

Spencer had been working with me and only me. Tuesdays are slow and Kelly had been busy along with the rest of the managers, so there'd been no manager present. The last time I remembered seeing Spencer was around 4.30 when he'd gone to use the employee restroom in the back. That's the last anyone had heard.

of him. I told Kelly what I remembered, and she told me she was going to try to get her hands on the security footage. Most likely, Spencer had just hightailed it with some of his buddies. Impromptu road trip or something. Hell if I know. Kelly assured me over and over that the most likely scenario was that Spencer was completely fine, and had just done something unexpected, unexpected and stupid. But then again, this was Spencer we were talking about. Stupid was implied. I let that placate me for the most part, although I was still nervous the rest of the night. I managed to distract myself for most of the next day, playing video games with a few buddies. It wasn't until mid-evening when I got a call from Kelly.

You come to my apartment? I tried to ignore the churning in my gut as I climbed in the car and headed for Kelly's apartment. Kelly and I had sort of a fling going. Nothing serious, just hooking up on occasion. That's supposedly against store policy, but like I said, nobody gave a shit about much that went on at the store. Most people knew, or at least suspected, what we were up to, but nobody commented. Nobody cared. Sorry, that doesn't matter.

The point is, I knew the way to Kelly's place, and it was there in ten minutes. When I opened the door, she was shaking like a leaf and pale. She was as white as those little tombstones they make for children. She'd also been drinking, but she wasn't drunk. Not yet. She looked ready to fall to pieces. Is everything okay? She was supposed to say yes.

That's the answer you hope to get when you ask that question. But she didn't. Instead, she led me to the living room where her laptop was sitting open. It showed a fuzzy, indistinct picture on the screen. I stared at it as I listened to her explanation. Connor, I... Shit, this is a... I don't know how to tell you this.

Every second that passed made me feel more and more like I was sinking into something awful. Something I couldn't escape. She was silent for a moment before she managed to continue. I was able to review the security tapes. I didn't find anything for the ones inside the store, so mall security let me look at the ones in the back. I was thinking, I mean, you'd say,

said that Spencer had gone to the back of the store to use the bathroom. I thought maybe, you know, he slipped out the back door. The back door led to a small lot that housed the dumpsters, recycling containers, and a loading dock. I couldn't fathom what Spencer might have been doing out there. Police are going to talk to you tomorrow. They didn't want me to say anything, but I couldn't bear to let you go in there not knowing anything. Please understand, Connor. Nobody thinks this was your fault.

Nobody. What isn't my fault? The whole situation felt surreal, like a goddamn nightmare. It was about to get a lot worse. She took a deep breath. I made a copy of what we saw before I called the police. The security guards looked the other way while I did it. I don't know why she told me that.

Stalling for time, I guess. She must have decided she couldn't stall any longer, because at that moment, she pressed play. The first few minutes just showed the lot, empty and deserted. Then Spencer appeared on screen. Even on the grainy screen, I could see he had this big smile on his face. It was the look he got when he had a joke so good he just had to tell someone. I watched in confusion at first as he strolled past the dumpsters.

He stopped at the cardboard compactor. My brain seized on a sudden thought, a thought too terrible to contemplate. So terrible that it couldn't be true. It just couldn't be. I watched as Spencer climbed into the machine. He pulled the door mostly closed, but left it just barely open. He probably intended to jump out and scare me. Pretty good prank.

I probably would have shit myself had it worked. But he had it worked. counted on one thing. I knew what was going to happen, even as I watched my past self appear on the screen. I could feel everything inside me shattering as I watched myself push the door shut. See, I have this habit of running the compactor before I put anything in it. It started because when I began working at the store, I noticed the compactor was usually full by the time I had to use it. So I'd turn it on and smoke a cigarette while it crushed whatever was inside. Eventually it became automatic.

I watched as I turned the machine on. I watched as I smoked my cigarette, unable to hear Spencer screams over the sound of the machinery. And I kept watching it over and over in my head, even as Kelly turned off the recording. It was an accident. It wasn't your first. fault. The police are going to want to talk to you as a formality. They'll probably be pissed that I

told you before they did, but I just thought you should know. I didn't hear the rest of what she had to say. I stumbled out of the apartment, stagering for my car. That scene stuck on repeat in my head. I don't remember much about the drive home or about the events of that night. Not really. All I can recall is my own personal hell. as I relived that moment again and again. It didn't matter what Kelly said, or the cops, for that matter, because in my heart I knew. I was the one who killed Spencer. I was the one who pressed the button.

Kelly was right about the place. They called me in to tell me what had happened. The video, of course, they couldn't show me, they said. It would be too traumatizing. I'm sure that about halfway through our little inn. interview, they'd figured out that I'd already seen it. I wondered if Kelly would catch hell for that. Not that I really cared. I was a murderer. Bits and pieces of the story came out over time. The police speculated that Spencer thought it might not be possible to be crushed in the machine.

Some people apparently believe that the machine has an automatic stop if it senses movement. Spencer turned out to be wrong on that count. They did an autopsy. I still don't know how how they managed that, but with the condition of his corpse. I don't know the exact results, but the cops told me he was probably high when he did it. He made a stupid decision under the influence of drugs. There's no way I could be blamed for that. Spencer's mom blames me. She screamed as much at me when she saw me a few weeks later in the supermarket. I don't hold it against her. She and I both know a truth that other people are trying to deny. I pressed the button that killed her son.

It's my fault. I think the thing that disturbs me most, though, is Spencer's body. Now I'm not supposed to know about it, but rumors get around, especially in a town like this. And anyway, if you know a little about the machine and how it works, it isn't surprising in the least. Spencer's body was compressed down, nearly flat. His bones were crushed,

squishing his internal organs into pudding. His eyes had bulged out and ran in a soupy mess down the ruins of his face. His skull was flattened. He must have been screaming as it happened, because his jaw was torn apart, the upper half covering most of the top half of his face. Many of his bones tore through his skin, giving the impression that his skeleton was trying to escape from his flesh

as the machine chewed him alive. I don't know how much of that is true, how much of it is rumor. It doesn't much matter to me. What really matters is the question that's on everybody's mind. How long would it take for someone to die being crushed like that? I'd like to say Spencer died instantly. The police assured me that he did, although I wouldn't put it past them to me for the sake of my sanity.

Perhaps they're right. Perhaps it snapped his spine early on. He didn't suffer. But in my worst nightmares, I see a different picture. I stand outside the machine. Only this time, I can hear every twisted scream, every second of the agony that he endured. I can hear it even as the blood fills his throat and chokes him,

flooding his lungs. The machine stops, but a screaming goes on for what feels like ours. And then the door opens, and I see his body, mangled beyond repair. A messy pulp of blood and shattered bones and scattered teeth. I see him dragging his body out of the machine, reaching for me as his raw nerves scream in pain, reaching to tear the life out of me

in return for tearing the life out of him, gurgling in his throat a litany that I can just make out, even though he lacks a mouth capable of speech. Being a child therapist can be challenging for many reasons. But as we learn from author, E. M. Becker. One therapist encounters a young girl who seems to be wise beyond her years and far to attach to her strange doll. Performing this tale are Alexis Bristow, Eden, Atticus Jackson, and Corinne Sanders. So listen quickly because there isn't much time. One therapist tells us she has a quick confession

before I flee the country. I'm a child therapist. I think I killed my last patient. Just my luck I would get fucked doing charity work. My friend Dave is a principal at one of the elementary schools nearby, and he called me up last week to beg me to see this kid. Her name's Margaret. She got here a few weeks ago.

And she's a pain in the ass? No, actually. She's very well behaved. So what's the problem? Donna thinks she's... manipulating the other kids. Like conning them out of their lunch money? Getting them to fight each other?

No, no, nothing like that. Okay, so two weeks ago, Margaret comes into class with a bottle. It's got a little label on it that says invisibility potion. She spends all morning talking about how she turns herself invisible and sneaks around. The other kids are fascinated. After recess, another kid comes into the class from crying. Margaret had given her the invisibility potion, and this kid had poured it all over her head.

It was Elmer's glue and glitter. I covered the receiver and chuckled. I thought she said she was well-behaved. She is, when you're looking at her. She plays these pranks on kids behind the scenes. But when Donna confronts her, she confesses everything. She sounds like a little shit, Dave, but most kids are. Hold on, I'm not done.

It's the way she acts when she's caught. Donna said it freaked her out. It's like she turns into a little adult in a way that's almost insulting. You ever been patronized by an eight-year-old? Anyway, just see her so I can get Donna off my back. Please? I'm busy, Dave. I can't afford to give my time away.

Listen, I know, and I'll owe you. I wouldn't bother you unless I thought something's up. She's in foster care, you know. I groaned. Dave always knew what buttons to push. Thanks, buddy. Margaret sat at the exact center of the plump couch in my home office and asked for a coffee. I raised an eyebrow but filled a cup halfway full from the coffee pot in my kitchen

and filled it to the rest of the way with hot water. I glanced toward my back door and saw my dog Bruno's worried face looking at me. He led out a high-pitched wine and smushed his big wet nose onto the window pane. I pointed down, which meant sit, and Bruno huffed and smeared his nose across the window. in a nice big arc. God damn dog, I grumbled. I walked back into my office and set a mug of coffee down in front of Margaret, a kid whose feet still dangled off the edge of my couch.

Milk or sugar? She raised the cup to her face and took a small sip. Then she shook her head. No, thanks. It's watered down enough as it is. I stifled a chuckle. This little hoodlum was on to me. Margaret, I'm Amy.

We can talk about whatever you want today. Margaret took another sip of coffee. She seemed unimpressed. Whoever had dressed her had chosen a weirdly formal sort of old-fashioned looking dress and had tied a light blue ribbon in her brown hair. She was pretty in the way that dolls can be pretty, which is to say she was kind of creepy. I suppose I'm here to talk about the gerbil incident.

Margaret sipped her coffee. Her tone of voice made it seem like she was referring to some. tragic event that happened in the distant past. Instead of the time, she kept a gerbil in her desk for three days and refused to take him home or put him in a cage because Clyde has always owned time with the rent and doesn't trouble nobody. Margaret appeared to think for a moment. Or about, dear poor Paulina. Okay, that one was actually mean.

Margaret convinced a classmate, Paul, that he would turn into a girl if she drew an X on his hand with a pink marker. after she had already drawn the axe. For the rest of the day, and hopefully not for the rest of his minority, fingers crossed, Paul was Polina. If you want to. I assume you've heard all about Paulina already, so why bother? I haven't heard your side. I'm interested in your perspective.

Well, Amy, I'm more interested in yours. Why do you think I did it? This. This is the moment I wish I could take back. I knew she was testing me, and a large part of me wanted to pass. this test. I figured if I gave her the wrong answer, I'd lose her respect and she'd come into her own as a full-fledged classroom menace before sailing on into a career of arson and high-stakes gambling. But I had no fucking idea what would happen if I got the answer. I sat back in my chair and

considered. You're obviously a highly intelligent girl, Margaret. Smarter than your classmates, probably smarter than some of the middle schoolers. Pranking these kids is a way of pointing that out to everyone, even if it means that the people who are most likely to be your friends are scared of you. So you don't play with the other kids at recess. You read instead, and the books you read aren't just your friends. They're your escape, too. They offer a place where a fish out of water, who seems older than her years, can feel at home. This is not to say that you don't want to make friends. You just want friends who are on your level. At the end of the day, I don't think you act out because you're a mean girl, Margaret.

I think you do it because you're bored. As soon as I stopped talking, I regretted what I said. Just because the kids seemed like a little adult didn't mean she was anything other than a third grade girl. And here I am dissecting her like I was the second coming of Sherlock motherfucking homes. Margaret was staring at me, her eyes wide. I groaned and started to apologize, but Margaret held up a small hand. Please, you said I'm sorry.

I'm older than my years. As she talked, tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. I do feel like that, to be sure, in ways you can't imagine. She smiled, then reached into the school bag at her feet to pull out what looked like a clump of dirty tissues. She looked at the bundle lovingly, before reaching out an arm to hand me the ugliest doll I have ever seen. At some point, in the ancient past, this doll must have been. in a treasure. Its head and hands were made of white porcelain, which had been scratched into deep wrinkles that made the doll look like a nightmare combination of crone and baby. Its face and hands

were peppered with dark purple stains that looked almost like liver spots. The doll's white hair had been yanked out of its head in patches, and white coarse hair sprouted from the doll's ears and chin, even though it was unmistakably a girl. What had, at one point, been addressed, was now a stained and tattered mess that looked as though it would come apart if I touched it. But the worst part was the doll's eyes, wide open and almost completely white, with faint blue irises just visible. As I stared at its wasted face, I could have sworn, I saw the doll's irises move lazily beneath the cloudy white surface of the eyes to rest on my face,

like something shadowy moving beneath the thick ice of a lake frozen. solid. I had no idea how Margaret could carry this filthy, evil-looking thing around with her. I had only held it for a moment and I wanted to throw it out the goddamn window. Margaret sensed my discomfort and held up both hands to take the doll back. I put on my best poker face as Margaret held the thing in her lap like a real baby, even brushing the silky white hair off its modelled forehead. I swear to God, it looked like an outtake from Penny Dreadful had landed on my couch. Where did you get that? I paused. Them are covered like a professional. Interesting doll.

Margaret hesitated before answering. I was walking home from school one day, and I met a man. He was a neighbor, one of the rich ones. This was back when I lived in the Birchwood area a long time ago. He gave her to me, although he didn't mean to. I frowned. You think she's ugly. I didn't deny it.

Do you think she's ugly? Margaret considered the doll for a moment, before shaking her head. I used to, but I've come to terms with it. At that point, my timer went off. The cess room was over, and Margaret's foster mom was waiting for her in the hallway. I got up to open the door and was relieved again that foster mom seemed so normal. Did everything go okay? She asked it like she was apologizing.

From the back of the house, I could hear Bruno's nails scraping down the length of the back door, the bastard. It did. Margaret is a very bright and sensitive little girl. I lowered my voice and stepped further into the hallway as Margaret got off the couch and got ready to leave. I would like to see her again, if you wouldn't mind. Foster mom nodded as Margaret appeared in the doorway. Ready to head out? I am. Thanks, Amy. For your perspective. Once the front door was closed, I jogged to the back of the house to let Bruno in.

Where are you going, you weirdo? I shouted after him as he pushed. passed me and sprinted toward the front of the house. I was about to pour myself a mug of coffee when I heard screaming from my front yard. I ran through my house to the front door to see foster mom bent over an impossibly old woman in a tattered dirty dress. The woman had apparently fainted on the sidewalk in front of my house. I grabbed my cell phone out of my pocket and told the police dispatcher to send an ambulance right away.

I knelt next to the woman and held the back of my hand in front of her mouth. Her eyes were closed and she was barely breathing. Fuck me. This seemed to snap Foster Mom to her senses, and she began looking around for Margaret. The kid was missing. She was right behind me. Does she have a cell phone? I was still focused on the dying woman in front of me.

Foster Mom shook her head and began shouting for Margaret. The old woman appeared to stir. Her eyelids, thin as tissue paper, opened slowly. She stared at the sky with eyeballs that looked almost completely white. Shit, Jesus. The word burst out of me. Whatever, I never claimed to do well under pressure. The old woman seemed to register the sound of my voice.

Her blue irises, just visible beneath terrible cataracts, moved toward me slowly, seeking my face. An ambulance took the old lady away. The police went door to door looking for Margaret for hours, but no one had seen a dark-haired girl in a pale blue dress. I was part of the search party and only returned home at around midnight. feeling exhausted and guilty as hell. On top of it all, it looked like Bruno had gotten into a pillow or something. Tufts of cotton and bits of fabric were scattered around my hallway and office.

It was only when I locked eyes with my guilty-looking dog, his mouth wrapped around a small porcelain head, that I realized what had happened. That was last night. This morning I called in a favor from a friend who works at the hospital nearby. He told me that the old woman died in her sleep last. night. She had no form of identification, and so far no one has any idea who she was. Except, of course, for me. Before I went to sleep last night, I did some research on the elementary school situation

in Birchwood. It's a small town about 30 miles away and only ever had one elementary school. When the population of Birchwood declined, the school closed and Birchwood started sending its kids to the elementary school here. Margaret Sinclair attended Birchwood Elementary, by the age of of eight years old, she was already in fifth grade. She walked to and from school every day, including on the day she went missing. The Birchwood Herald only devoted about a paragraph to the girl's disappearance on page two. The cover page displayed a fuzzy picture of what looked like a smashed spider in the lured headline, Unknown Man Perishes and Fall from Fire Escape. The most unbelievable part of the story was the date, April 12, 1909. I gathered up the bits and pieces

of Margaret's hideous doll and gave it a little funeral in my backyard. Tomorrow I'll buy a little tree or something to plant over it, which seems nicer than a headstone anyway. If there wasn't a possibility that I would get jailed for some kind of voodoo child murder,

I would even stay in this house and watch that tree grow up, and the next one, and the one after. You see, when I woke up this morning, I found a porcelain doll that looks just like me, dropped against my coffee maker. She's even wearing my favorite sports bra. Of course I checked, because, like me, a girl appreciates comfort.

On Monday, I'll see a few patients and then cancel the rest of my appointments. I'm planning on seeing a bit of this world before I die. And with my creepy clone at my side, I may get to see all of it. Have you ever had a favorite brand of food, one which sort of spoils any other alternative? Author Claire Henderson knows what I'm talking about. When a local woman sells her special homemade jam in the stores, one young boy can't eat anything but that. And when the jam runs out, he learns what made it so special.

Performing this tale are Mike Delgado, Nicole Doolin, and Erica Sanderson. So grab a slice of bread and spread on some of Mrs. Willisans' home-making. As a child, I was a picky eater, like I assume most children are. As my parents tell it, 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 a hot dog, were shunned by toddler me. It got to the point, they say, where they and my pediatrician became concerned from

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. Braises 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 how 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 would 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 properly grow despite my forced feedings. And as a result, my speech and physical movements were stunted, leaving me a six-year-old that 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's seat of the cart because my frail legs couldn't handle the walking for too long. Mother looked tired and weary, and I can remember staring at the deep lines that seemed etched in her face. As we pushed the cart silently through the small store

in an attempt to find something, anything that could tempt me to eat, And then I saw it. A jar of jam. I 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 extending to the glass jar with the plain white label that just 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 towards me like it was elasticated. The excitement in her voice was barely contained. You want that, Markey? 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. Mother hurried me out to the car, excitedly strapping me into my seat, before placing the jar of jam in the front seat 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 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. dick 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 spoon. which I lapped up eagerly. After my fifth spoonful, my mother was openly sobbing and dashing for the phone to call my father to tell him the wonderful news. Meanwhile, I remained entranced by the jam. As a child, I wouldn't have been able to describe the taste to 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 a good. 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, you know, the combination of sweet and salty. Oh, 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 to me liking other foods, too. Then one day when my mother and I went to the grocery store to buy more of my jam, we found the spot on the shelf where it usually sat empty. Mother, slightly panicked, rushed to the front of the store to ask the clerk if they had any more of Mrs. Willison's homemade jam. Oh, 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.

Well, see, it's actually made by a local lady, Mrs. Willison. She sold it to Hector to resell in the store. She said she only had so many jars available. No one else seemed to like it, but your boy there. I was beginning to grow irritable from being in the car. 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. Willison'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 parent's struggles in getting me to eat. He must have felt sympathetic towards my mother's sudden stress because he searched in the back office for the invoice that held Mrs. We're. 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 idyllic nowadays. When my mother knocked on the door, a young woman answered. She was small, with blonde hair and a tight bond and a sad face. Can I help you? Her voice was soft, and years later, my mother would tell me there was something about Mrs. Willison that was so dejected and forlorn. But desperation is a wonderful motivator, and my mother wanted me to keep 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 well, I thought maybe I'd 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 jars myself, but since it seemed so unpopular,

I didn't think I was going to make another batch. This is amazing. My mother seemed to sag under the way to the box and the relief she felt. I don't know what it is about this jam that he loves so much. Mrs. Willison laughed. I'm just glad I didn't mess it up like I was thinking I had. My mother offered to pay the 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.

Mother exclaimed when they drew near her. 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, but maybe soon. I was annoyed but resigned. My mother was just happy I was. 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? Well, a few more weeks passed and we 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 the 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 bread with jam while Mrs. Willis said,

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, my mother hugged Mrs. Willison tightly. She didn't have any jam to give me that day, but promised me some 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 to 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, 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 liberally coating it, then I wouldn't eat. even try it. That jam seemed to mask every other flavor, and I used it like other people used ketchup or gravy. In this time, Mrs. Willison seemed to age quickly, and her production of the jam slowed. 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 she'd make it for as long as I wanted it. smiled. By the time I was 18, I was better with food, but still hated the taste and texture of it.

Mrs. Willison's jam was the only food I ever actually liked or wanted to eat of my own accord, and she still supplied me with it. Her frequency of batch has lessened to only once a year or more, but when I finally got those jars of the rich red goodness, oh, 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. Willison. She seemed to grow lonely as she aged, and I often wondered where her husband was or if she even had one. When I 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 I figured it was something to do with her amazing jam.

During my visits, we'd talk and catch up, and she would always send me home with jars of jam. I rationed those out back at university, where I was old enough now to know that I needed to eat, but stubborn enough to still hate food besides the jam. More years passed. Despite my unusual tendencies as a child, I grew into a rather successful and 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 food habits, but came to accept that I just don't like the stuff. Doesn't matter what it is. I just don't like food. I have never and never, and likely we'll 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's carried a heavy burden for years. She no longer stands up straight. But she still smiled when she saw me and smiled easily. even wider when she met my wife. We had a nice visit, her getting to know my wife and catching up on what had been happening in my life. As 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. My body just won't allow it. These things happen. Best leave it to the young ones.

She smiled weakly, but I could tell she was sad. Tears pricked up in 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 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 for 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, and with a plate of jammed toast in front of me, while my mother told me that Mrs. Willisson, and 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 woman slumped over in her chair. There was nothing they could do. I stared at my jam toast and felt numb. What? What? Mom? She broke down into incoherent sobbing again. Eventually, my father took the phone from her and explained what the police had found in Mrs. Willisand's house when they arrived.

I'm still not sure what to think of it. He cleared his throat and sounded like he was fighting back his own tears. My eyes immediately went to the jam. My precious jam? It turns out Mrs. Willisons' 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 her jam.

She cooked it with the berries, strained it, and took care to make sure not to have any fragments in the final product. That's why it was always so perfectly clear and free of seeds. It was also why it took her so long to make her batches. After that first one, she decided to try again with both the pregnancy, and when that too ended in a sense, second trimester miscarriage, the jam. For over 20 years, Mrs. Willison lived in a cycle of getting herself pregnant, which she apparently achieved by acting as a prostitute in the larger neighboring town, and then aborting 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. Back-to-back pregnancies, we'll do that to a woman. In the end, when she said her body could no longer support jam-making, she was telling the truth. Women in their 50s don't often get pregnant, and Mrs. Willison was no exception to that rule. My parents were horrified. For years, they had been feeding me this stuff.

For years, they had been gleefully shun. 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 12 jars out of each batch, and I had learned to stretch that very carefully over the years. I still had 11 remaining. Carefully, I looked through the box, taking out each and every jar and inspecting it, as if trying to see the tiny particles of unborn children that had been cooked into each one. At the very bottom of the box, I found an envelope. I reached for it, and with a shaking hand, pulled out a letter from Mrs. Willison. It was short. I'm 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 use. did too. I learned over time that I need food to live, though eating it brings me no joy and often makes me sick if I can't find a texture or a taste I can stand. Mrs. Willison's jam saved me. It's been the first and only food I have ever liked, the only one I willingly and gladly eat. 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 place as 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 tousled 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. Your time in our netherworld release you back into your own reality. If you would like to find out how you can hear the full-length versions of our audio program, please visit the no-sleep Podcast.com to learn about our season pass program. 25 episodes, each over two hours long, and three exclusive bonus episodes, all for only 1999. On behalf of everyone at the No Sleep Podcast, we thank you for listening. Join us again next week when our unseen hands will drag you down into our dark storyland.

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