CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "If you see a man selling ice-cream in the middle of the night. Call me" Creepypasta

Episode Date: September 14, 2020

CHECK OUT THE AUTHOR'S YOUTUBE CHANNEL► https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCobM...CREEPYPASTA STORY►by MikeJesus: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►JenZee: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

Two things. Firstly, I apologise in advance for any typos or odd phrasing. It's quite difficult to keep focused on my current state and my keyboard is very sticky. Secondly, as you read this story, you might find yourself thinking, hey, maybe writing about your intrusive thoughts isn't the best way to handle them. Maybe try distracting yourself. Maybe just don't think about it. And I would totally agree with you if these are simply intrusive thoughts. But I don't think these are simply intrusive. of thoughts. I think

I've been cursed. But I don't believe in curses, I hear you say. Well, neither do I. But it's just about the best explanation I have for what happened. It's either a curse, or I have tasted ice cream

that broke me. And I don't know which option scares me more. It was three in the morning, and I was hammered out of my mind, trying to stagger my way back home. All in all, it was a good evening. The drinks were cheap and the conversation was plentiful. The only thing I needed to finish off the night was a nice kebab to line my stomach with to spare myself hangover in

the morning. Yet, as I stumbled through the sleepy streets of Prague, it seemed as if all my usual drunk-line spots were closed. There was no way that I could stay conscious long enough to get food delivered. It started to look like I would have to go to bed on a diet of crackers and water, but as I made my way through the park outside my apartment, I found an answer to my hungry plea. The shrine of the lamppost gave him a sort of aura. It was as if the universe had heard my pleas for a treat and placed an ice cream peddler in my path. He stood in the middle of the empty park with his rickety cart, a grin peeking out from beneath his bushy, meechesque mustache.

Would you like some ice cream, young man? He asked. Hell yeah! I yelled with an energy, only Long Island's can induce. Which flavour would you like? He gestured towards his cart. There seemed to be a good dozen flavours, all neatly marked with the cursive handwriting. I was entirely too drunk to read.

The best flavour, I demanded. The best flavour? Yeah, give me the best flavor you got. My sight was spinning with booze-induced inertia, but even through my stupor, I could see a glint in his eye. The triple vision of the ice cream man united into one, his mustache raised to reveal pearly teeth. There's a special recipe I keep saved for only the most exquisite of customers.

Are you sure you can handle it? Hell yeah, I'm a golden god of a customer. I yelled. because that's the type of drunk I am. He nodded, adjusted his hat, and opened a wooden cabinet on his ice cream cart, from which he took out a strange little machine. My memory is pretty patchy, but I distinctly remember looking at it and thinking, this is some past century stuff.

There's a good chance I might have said it out loud as well. The machine started up with a sputter. It looked like a cross between a steam engine and a sausage maker. The ice cream man reached into his cart and produced ingredients that he started to load into the machine. It's an old family recipe that has been passed down over generations. My great-grandfather. In retrospect, I should have listened to what he had to say. Perhaps if I had heard his story, I could have avoided my present situation altogether.

Maybe his monologue contained clues as to where I could find him, or could shed some light on what the hell was in that ice cream. Or better yet, his monologue. might have contained the actual recipe. I'll never know. I never know, because my drunken ass spent the whole story giggling. As soon as the ice cream man mentioned his family, I couldn't help but imagine a dinner table filled with bushy moustaches.

The ice cream man was set at the head of the table twirling his moustache. Next to him would be his wife, also twirling her, equally bushy mustache, and on the other side of the table would be the kids pinching their fledging facial hair. facial hair. The food would arrive, a mess will be made. Honey, you have some left over stuck in your mustache. Thanks, you too. Classic comedy. Here you go. He brought me out of my booze-induced hallucination of a hairy family with a cone of soft-serve ice cream. Just be sure to appreciate the gentle note to the flavor. You will never taste something like this again. I wanted to but he insisted that he wasn't making ice cream for the money.

He was providing the treat purely out to the goodness of his heart and dedication to his craft. I shrugged and stumbled over to my apartment. I swallowed the entire cone in two bites and then passed the hell out. In my teens, I could run a distillery in my mouth, drink enough mixer to give myself type 2 diabetes and smoke a million cigarettes, only to wake up with a mild hangover. That time has passed a decade ago. When I woke up the morning after my encounter of the ice cream man,

I grabbed my water bottle and promptly ran over to the bathroom to empty my stomach. My brain felt bruised. My eyes stung from the smoky conversation to the night prior. The hangover was definitely there. But something was different. Instead of tasting the battery acid of last night's consumption, all I could feel in my tongue was the faint taste. of vanilla.

I shugged it off. I figured that the ice cream I had last night was just really good. I made a mental note to seek out this strange ice cream man in the future and discarded the thought. I spent the night of the morning drinking water and puking. I would kill a dozen small animals to be able to see the person I was in that bathroom, hung over us all hell,

but still capable of thought that doesn't revolve around frozen food. The fact that I was able to let go of the ice cream thoughts still gives me some hope for the future Yet that hope is buried Beneath an impenegable layer of perfectly creamy vanilla Betty came over Just as my body started becoming receptive to water She laughed

Hickled me about being bad at holding my liquor And then we made love Mind you at that point Betty and me had been a thing for a month This was a height of passion bang this was, could I possibly be dating my wife's sex? Yet, as our sweaty bodies writhed with adoration, I found myself drifting.

Past the excited declarations of love and the pleasure of being touched was something else, something frozen and giant, something made of the sweetest milk and the softest of petals. What are you thinking about? She asked as we lay in a cuddle post-coital glow. I scream. I felt a shift under my arm.

She did not like that answer. What are you thinking about? I asked. That this is a nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon, that I'm happy we met each other and... She sighed. I scream now. There was disappointment in her voice.

I searched for something sweet to say, but the only sweetness that I could think of was soft-served and came in a cone. Want to go get some? Some ice cream? Yeah. Uh, sure. We went to three different places.

I kept on hoping that I would come across something, anything that would satiate my craving for vanilla ice cream. But every ice cream parlour we went to was filled with frozen disappointment. Every lick was drenched in preservatives and moulded and defeat. When I tasted the third cone, the one that came from, the best ice cream parlor in central Europe, I gagged.

Well, what's wrong? Betty asked. She wasn't asking about the ice cream. I tried to describe the mustachioed ice cream peddler, how drunk I was, his story, the taste, the craving, but the words came out sluggish and disoriented. I kept on searching for ways to describe what happened to me, the longing that I was feeling deep in my chest, yet all I was met with was a confused gaze.

It was as if my ability to speak was a McDonald's ice cream machine Perpetually defective Look, if something is up Let's talk about it We're not children We can communicate Communication is

I could see her lips move I heard a voice But my mind was utterly consumed With the thought of that gentle nectar She talked about a past relationship Of her parents' relationship Or some pop-psych advice I don't know

I wasn't listening. All that was on my mind was a mental map of every ice cream parlor in Prague. As the mental fog of my hangover dissipated, my craving for the ice cream strengthened into a palpable ache. There was a burning hole in my chest, the type of hole that people filled with love or God or money or ambition, but I knew that there was only one thing that could satiate me. It wasn't Betty.

We made plans to meet up next weekend. I watched the woman that I cared about so deeply just that morning, get on the bus and ride away. For a second, there was a pang of guilt. I wanted to run after the bus and demand it to stop. I wanted to jump on board and take her in my arms and tell her that she was the most important thing in my life. But a delicious, viscous cream washed away that feeling of guilt. Seven other ice cream parlors I visited seven other ice cream parlors and found out of the same other ice cream parlors

and found nothing but frustration. My teeth hurt, partially from consuming massive amounts of vanilla ice cream, but mainly from the way my jaw would clinch from whenever I was faced with the inevitable disappointment. The streets were dark, all the ice cream parlors were shut,

so I went to the supermarket. As I pushed my cart through the ice cream aisle, grabbing every box that contained an embrosial flavour, I found myself desperately clawing at the roof of my mouth of my tongue. Somewhere in the back of the back, of my one-track mind, I was trying to dig past the remnants of the imposter flavors towards the one, true, holy syrup. A trace of it still had to be there. It was, after all, less than

24 hours since I had tasted the ice cream. I had mouth hangovers that lasted twice that long. Even a singular atom of it on my tongue would make me feel whole. It's with that thought. I stopped. I stared into the pile of ice cream in my cart and entertained a thought that was only remotely related to the ice cream. This is insane. I had spent an afternoon driving away from someone who made me happy. I had done enough damage to my teeth to make a dentist blush. There was enough ice cream in my cart to pay for a dinner at a fancy restaurant.

Yet, as I looked into that cart, a chill ran down my spine. Something inside of me grabbed all notion of doubt or guilt or fear tore at those neural connections and pointed them at a single thought I needed to taste that damn ice cream again The taste that's what I needed I needed to replicate that taste It was all insane It was also desperately frightening

But my mind didn't let the emotions get to me My thoughts were loud and clear Milk, milk, eggs, vanilla extract, cream, get whatever you need to replicate this taste. You need this. I piled more and more into the cart.

I followed what my heart demanded, but somewhere in the back of my frozen treat-focused brain was a small fire of hope, a hope that if the taste was replicated, the madness would subside. I can't imagine how she felt. Literally, I can't imagine what she felt of my diminishing mental capacity.

But even in my first, figurative sense, what she saw must have been hard. She rang the buzzer downstairs. It's a miracle I even heard it by then. I was deep into tasting the disgusting store-bought for similes, trying to pinpoint where their taste diverged from the godly original. But the buzzer broke my concentration. I swallowed the warm, milky substance on my tongue and picked up the receiver.

Her voice came through. There was a warmth in a voice, but my brain went numb and I tried to grasp what she was saying Hey Can't come upstairs I just Don't feel good about it

Talk Upstairs An iceberg of deliciousness Towered in the cold seas my soul I didn't want to see her She would just slow me down Yet before I knew it My finger was buzzing her through

I don't remember what she saw If the amount of melted ice cream on my hands right now is an indication, she saw enough to lose any semblance of attraction towards me. She said something, maybe a couple of sentences, but they were hollow. She had lost all hope in me ever being normal. All she did was how me two vanilla ice creams she had grabbed from the corner store downstairs. I don't need to. Take the other one, I heard myself say.

I don't feel like eating ice cream. right now. I can't imagine how she felt. I've spent the whole night without sleep, and I don't think sleep will come anytime soon. My entire home smells strongly of vanilla extract, the kitchen, the bedroom. Everything is covered in traces of my misadventures of trying to capture the taste of that cursed ice cream, because... This has to be a curse, right? I have walked through the park.

I have stared at the window at the exact spot where he stood. as I slaved away at making my home an atrocity. The ice cream man is nowhere to be found. What if the story he told me was filled with hints, or there was some stupid riddle at the end? What if I completely missed my chance to taste the ice cream ever again? I bet you he's some goddamn ghost and I offended his sensibilities. This is definitely a curse.

As soft and sweet as that taste I crave is, I know, somewhere beneath those chants, gentle notes of vanilla, is something evil. I know that I will crave this taste until the end of my days, and I know that any chance at ever locating the moustachioed man or anyone from his moustachioed family is slim. I thought that maybe showing this tale would help me forget, but writing about that heavenly taste has simply made me weep on my keyboard. But if writing my story will not give me solace, then perhaps I can at least deliver a message. If you see a man selling ice cream in the middle of the night, call me.