CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "If you see an ice-cream truck in your neighborhood, go inside and lock your doors" Creepypasta

Episode Date: September 11, 2021

AUTHOR'S SUBREDDIT► https://www.reddit.com/r/ManiacSociety/CREEPYPASTA STORY►by TheCrookedBoy: 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►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-

I don't know how many of them are infected, so you need to listen closely. This is life or death. Mid-afternoon is when they come. They're boxy-white trucks trowing the neighbourhood streets, the familiar ice cream truck jingle piping out from the roof-mounted loudspeakers and beckoning the neighbourhood kids. If you hear the song, the one everyone knows, plug your ears until you get inside.

Once inside, shot of your blinds, press yourself small in the dark, its corner of your house, and wait until the storm passes. And whatever you do, don't let your children near the truck. I don't know how it started, or if it'll end. I don't think it will. But all that matters is that you follow the rules. There's an incomplete list. I don't know everything, and I don't want to, but I know enough to make a survival guide that might spare others the ruin that's torn my family to shreds. So, if you want to stay alive, pay attention. One, plug your ears if you hear the jingle.

Make sure your kids do too. If they can hear it, the truck will draw them like a magnet. If that happens, it's already too late. Two, if your child steps up to the truck, turn and run. They're as good as gone. There's no use trying to save them. It's a cowardly thing, but save yourself. 3.

The previous rule holds more importance if you have other family. If you're gone too, they'll come looking and the truck will be waiting. 4. If by some miracle you see the truck with time enough to escape, don't look at the driver. Don't try to look at the driver. If you see it, hurry inside and ignore the jingle. 5. Finally, if your child is taken but you manage to escape, be prepared.

The thing that comes home later that night is not them. Ignore it, it'll go away. I learned this the hard way. I guess I sound crazy. I wish I was. Wish a rour some messed-up fever dream that I could sweat out in a scalding shower and forget. I get it. My word carries no credence.

Maybe if I tell you what happened, you'll actually listen. It was a Friday, and it was the end of a perfect summer. The whole world seemed captured in Amber. My daughter and wife were off doing a girls' day, and my son and I were doing a boy's one. The kids were both eight, twins, if you're wondering, and still, in that phase where hanging out with mom and dad was fun. We were strolling back from the park, when a familiar jingle, peeled out through the neighbourhood.

The ice cream man had found his way to our little slice of suburbia. My son, Kyle's blue eyes, went wide, a little tug of blonde hair shifting over them as he looked up at me. He didn't even need to ask. Sure, bud, I said with a grin. He bounced with excitement,

pounded off down the sidewalk as the boxy, white Mr. Frosty's ice cream truck turned the corner and trundled up our quiet suburban tract It crunched to a stop beside my son, maybe 25 feet from me. I watched as Kyle took his place beneath a little awning, his wide-ey-scanning the menu. I couldn't see the driver. The window was tinted, but there must have been someone inside because the serving window was scraped open.

I shouldn't have been able to hear it from where I was, but I could. The awful sound of abused metal screeching on rusty rollers. The inside of the truck was drenched in shadow Like the slant of afternoon sunlight Didn't match that deep, inky darkness in battle I should have sensed something was wrong It felt off, about cold all of a sudden Like that truck has sent a chilly wind biting up the street

Up until then I'd been taking my time joining my boy Leasily motoring up the sidewalk without a care in the world Then that chill nibbled through my bones It triggered something visceral. An air raid siren went howling through my head. Every fibre of my being screaming at me that something was off. And for the first time in my life,

I reacted without thought. I don't know why I did it, but I fell into a sprint. A full tilt, blind bottle rushed down the sidewalk. My chest squeezed tight. My swollen, thundering heart fought with space in a rib cage that was too tiny and full of drying cement.

The houses, the upper middle class family homes with white trim and manicured lawns, shifted into a colorful blur as I bombed off the sidewalk. My leg scissorsed beneath me, my arms punt, my cold breath whipped crack through my shrinking lungs. I don't think Kyle heard me. I didn't yell, didn't scream for him to back away.

My throat was full of gloomy breath, nothing more, nothing less. There would be no sound, coming from me, other than the shrill whistle of air soaring through my lungs. Kyle might have heard the slapthood on my sneakers hammering the sidewalk, but I don't think he heard that either. He sensed something was wrong, sensed it with their preternatural ability afforded only the children, the one that tells them when mom and dad are fighting, even when they can't hear

it from across the house. He turned, his plund hair whipping in the wind. He looked at me with those piercing blue eyes. blue, like two little oceans, cooling off a face of sunshine. And then, the ice cream man took him. The mass of spider legs exploded out of the darkness and stuck my son through the window like shrink-wrapped through a vacuum cleaner. He snapped back like a ragdoll in the seething tangle of hairy, jointed feelers.

Now I did scream, wailed my son's name. He didn't have time to scream. I heard a whoosh of air from his lungs. as the spider legs tore him back by the stomach. He blipped through the window. His head smacked the top of the frame and cracked forward. It lured like a dead thing on his neck as he disappeared into the truck. I ran harder.

The world tilted and swayed underfoot, like I was barreling up the deck of a ship in stormy waters. My vision blurred, doubled, snapped together, and shot into focus as I lurched up to the ice cream truck. Then I froze. My lungs snapped like rubber bands and a thin whistle of air escaped my nostrils. My whole body crawled. My heart was galloping through my ribcage like a mile wide herd of bison.

The inside of the truck was impossible. It was too big. It was a dystopian nightmare. Like the truck was a portal to the killing floor of a massive slaughter. house, the rotting husks of cattle shoots and blood-stained linoonium textured a sprawling plant like the fossils of a forgotten industry. But it wasn't forgotten. It was dark, soaked in shadow, but I get to their pale, fragile shapes limping along for slaughter. Faces slack, eyes glazed, like broken, violated dolls. The livestock was children.

Hundreds of them, caked in their own filth, shuffling along shoots, while hulking figures in blood-stained aprons, and USGI cold-weather masks butchered them alive. There were no screams. That was the worst part. It was deadly silent. Just a weak shuffle of feet, the wet tear of curved knives opening throat,

the syrupy slap of blood hitting the floor. The dead were hoisted ankle up on the conveyor system, like I had a dry cleaners. which sipped them off to the darkened portal into the unknown, a hot trail of blood still spraying from their seven necks. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't blink, I found my stomach churning with nausea, a heart rush of vomit threatening his way up.

Then something grabbed out at me. I jumped back and screamed as the pale little hand reached for his daddy. It was Kyle, his head pitched at the wrong angle of his broken neck, his eyes were dead, but there was still a little piece of him buried somewhere in there because he said a single word and a voice I would never hear again.

Run. Then he slammed closed the serving window. As it cracked shut, I saw the mass of spider legs encircling him from behind like interlacing fingers. The hairy legs covered his mouth, his eyes, tore him backwards

and sent him into the slaughter line. Then the truck was driving off, the ice cream jingle cackling cheerfully from its roof-mounted speaker. It growled up the street, turned and disappeared from view, carrying off my only son for good. I'll never forget the way my wife screamed when she came home. When I told her what had happened among the mess of hellish police lights and detectives and cheap suits. Her face crumbled. She dropped to her knees and howled for her son. I hugged my daughter and cried into a blonde curls.

The first 24 hours are the most important in abduction cases, but I knew that didn't matter, knew what I'd seen, knew my boy was gone for good, which, as it turned out, wasn't entirely the case, but I knew it just the same on the afternoon that Kyle stopped for ice cream. I didn't tell the detectives what I'd seen. How could I? They would have thought I was spinning

tall tails to disabuse my guilty conscience of the fact that I had hurt my only boy, and they would have slammed me into an interrogation cell as the lead suspect. So I lied, told them a Mr. Frost's ice cream truck had taken him. They put out a statewide

APB. They found nothing. Me, my wife, Jessica, didn't sleep that night. Her face was puffy, eyes red with tears. Maya understood what was happening Of course she did Despite being eight

She was smart as hell And quick to catch on She also knew that mom and dad needed to be alone So she put us out to bed Without much fuss I was numb My whole body was cold

It was a sick lie Giving my wife any hope I knew deep down Deep in the furthest pit to my stomach But our son was dead. All those children were dead. Blindly shuffled up to the murder shoot

to those massive things in bloody aprons with their gourd-drenched knives and the horrific USGI cold-weather masks. My wife had said something. I looked up at her. What? She blew snot into a tissue, crumpled it up. Kyle's out there.

We should be looking for him, trying to find that truck. She cut me in accusing glare. She blamed me. I knew she did, which wasn't her fault. The police had we... I stopped mid-sentence. My daughter's pale shape, gowned in a pijo onesie,

clutching her pink blanket had appeared in the doorway. Honey? I rose and swept my her up. She looked at me, her eyes wide, wide with fear. Of me? No, no. I knew at that instant what she was afraid of. He's home, Daddy, she said.

Kyle's home. The thing at the back door wasn't her son. It looked like Kyle. It walked like him. It wasn't him. It was pale, drenched in mud, its eyes cold and dead, other warm ocean puddles they had been before,

but two icy marbles that could freeze with a lock. My wife sobbed, wrapped Kyle in an embrace. He didn't hug back. Those two cold eyes were pinned on me, and knowing smile breaking his face. Why'd you do it, Daddy? He said as we led him to the living room. I could feel my body tense up against me, knew something bad was about to happen. What?

My wife asked our son. Why did you try to kill me? tried to kill me, huh, Daddy? Why? I thought you loved me, Dad. I thought you... His head reared back impossibly far on his neck, and his mouth curbed into a dark o. He made a throaty gurgling sound. His eyes rolled back into the sockets, showing only the whites.

Jessica looked at me, eyes wide, then a Kyle. I don't think she realized she had started backing up. I don't think I did either. We were backed into the living room, Kyle bearing down on us, forcing us back. Maya had started to sob into my shirt. Her tears, warm and salty, were warming my chest. The O of Carl's mouth continued to expand, drawing further and further as he spoke again. Only this time, his lips didn't move, and the voice, deeper, warped, like the words of a demon from the mouth of the possessed, came hissing out of his throat.

Why, Dad, why do you do it? You like killing little kids, Dad. Want to kill Maya? Want to see her pig tails wrapped in brain? Stop. My voice was weak, thin. The thing chuckled. Carl's mouth continued pulling back.

His lips were coated in bile. His teeth were brown and jagged. Jessica's head was on a swivel between our son and me. Her leg hit the couch. The gravity planted her ass on the cushion. She made her surprised O sound. It was lost in the hoarse voice that had hijacked my son's mouth. Wanna bash her head in, hammer it until it crumbles,

and all those little girl thoughts and feelings come spilling out. The corners of my son's mouth tore. Riverlet of blood slid it down his throat. His mouth continued to pull back, like his head was splitting up on a hinge. Make him stop, Dad, my moaned. I couldn't speak My voice was lost

I fish for it My Adam's apple bobbing But it wouldn't come Kyle's mouth split wider Wider Bone and tendon snapping in the cracking His lower face sobs in blood Wanna be a butcher dad

The voice within my son chuckled Hacked through gristle And vein and the stretch of pink flesh Connecting tiny heads to tiny bodies Feel the warm rush of flood over your hands, fill your knife's scrape bone as they drain. I saw his throat distend and undulate, like there was a nut of fingers trying to claw their way out. When I watched the light bleed from their eyes, as a life bleed from their throat, one to Dad,

one too. Then, Kyle's head tore back, his cheeks ripping, his mouth forced open in an awful, hellish grin, and the mass of hairy spider legs exploded from his throat. my wife started to scream and one of the spider legs battered across her face her head snapped around cracked and she pitched forward with as much life in her bones as a sack of grain it galvanized me into motion i tossed my daughter under the couch and lurched for the rack of fireplace tools the spider legs cracked and snapped they're going around like a nest of tendrils for my son's broken mouth my air was shrieking her face crumbled in terror the spider the spider's spider legs lunged for her, shot forward for a delicate little form. I tore the poker free from the fire rack and whipped around, using my forward momentum to bring the instrument down with as much force as I could muster. I missed.

Oh God, how I missed. Maya had lunged, had lunged away from the spider thing trying to kill her. She had lunged right into the arc of my swing. The barbed end of the poker hit the center of her skull and went boring into a brain. I felt bones snap like glass I felt the poker ease into spongy folds of her mind She felt like she was a puppet And I'd cut her strings

A little sob who escaped As she planted face down with a sickening thud Her hand made a tiny fist And then She died The Kyle thing began to roar with laughter It turned on me The spider legs flickering and pulsing

Snapping in all directions Like ten of those dealership tubemen You like killing kids, Dad. You like... Kyle, let it a surprise gasp. The spider legs snapped direct, like soldiers at attention, as the animation drained from my son's face. The end of the poker, which I'd wrench free from Meyer's broken mind,

was now jutting from my son's left eye. His ocean blue eyeballs had deflated. A thin run of pus ran down one cheek. When the tendrils sucked back into his mouth with a throaty gurgle, and my son pitched forward as dead as the rest of my family. I stood there, misted in my children's blood. And started to cry.

I can hear the sirens getting closer. I write this as a warning. I pleading cry for others to listen. I'm not looking for absolution. I'm broken. A man ruined by the ice cream truck that rode in on a hot summer day. I'm sure you'll see my name bolded in the paper

conjoined with some variation of the term family annihilator, but it wasn't me. I bear blame. God how I do. But it wasn't all me. Please don't make the same mistakes I did. And if your kids ask for ice cream,

just buy them a tub of the store-bought stuff.