Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S1 Ep8: Episode 8: The One with the Creepy Ice Cream Trucks

Episode Date: December 17, 2020

This episode may scare you into never visiting the ice cream truck ever again! Tonight’s opening tale of terror is ‘Mr. Ice Cream’, an original story by Morrbanesh, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. Visit him here: https://www.reddit.com/user/morrbanesh/ This is followed by ‘‘Did you hear the Ice Cream Man Last Night?’’, also an original story, this time by Michael Paige, again kindly shared directly with me and narrated with the author’s permission.  Find more of his work here: https://michaelpaigeblog.wordpress.com/  

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We believe OCT scans are so important they're included with every standard eye exam. Book an eye exam at Spexsavers.cavers.ca.ca. Eye exams are provided by independent optometrists. Visit Spexsavers.com to learn more. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Ah, the ice cream truck. Wasn't it just the most beautiful and innocent part of childhood? What a treat it was to go up to the ice cream van

and get a delicious, tasty treat. Well, tonight's two stories will give you a different perspective on the ice cream truck. First, we have Mr. Ice Cream by Morabanesh, That's followed up by Did You Hear the Ice Cream Man last night? By Michael Page. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's two stories may contain strong language,

as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. When I was eight, me and my family lived in the small town of Ogdenville. It was a normal town. with around 3,000 people living there, and all the neighbours knew each other very well, and there were a lot of neighbourhood barbecues happening in the summers. My family lived in a cul-de-sac close to the centre of town,

and at the end of the cul-de-sac there was a park. In the park, we had a playground with swing sets, a round-about, a seesaw, chin-up bars, a sandbox, and a couple of spring riders. And I remember how often me and my friends would go to the roundabout. Yeah, it was our favourite. After the playground, there was an open field of grass. It was in this field that the majority of our neighbourhood barbecues would happen.

One neighbour stands out, Aaron Barnes, or as we called him, Mr. Ice Cream. He had that nickname because he worked as an ice cream cellar. He also had a truck, a big red ice cream truck. And on the size of that truck was written in big, letters on a black background, Mr. Ice Cream. It was also the picture of a clown with a big smile on his face and a couple of popsicles in each hand. The clown did scare me, with his big smile, blue face and white lips. The clown was called Mr. Bingles.

Aside from that creepy clown, I can distinctly remember the feeling I got whenever I heard the song coming from Mr. Ice Cream's truck. It was as if every cell in my body had to get to that ice cream truck as fast as possible. It was like that for every kid in town. When the tune of the ice cream truck called, We ran outside and to Mr. Ice Cream. And there he was, outside his car, smiling his wide smile And chatting in his cheery voice. He was always happy to see us.

I even remember one time, a girl I knew, Jodie was riding a bike and fell. She started crying. But he was in the vicinity. He came up to her, smiled, offering her a hand. As she got up, he offered her an ice cream, and she smiled. Mr. Ice Cream made it all good again. I think he was generally happy for the company.

You see, he didn't have a wife. The word around town was that she'd left him. It had crushed his spirit, apparently. They'd only been together for two or three years, I think, so they hadn't gone to having children. But everyone knew how fond he was of kids. I think he saw us as his family of sorts. Everyone knew how glad he made us kids, and everyone knew how glad us kids made him. And so did each summer go by, and everything was good in our little town of Oldhamville.

Then the fateful summer of my ever. the eighth year came. No one was prepared for what was about to happen. It started innocently enough. We had a big neighbourhood, barbecue, and everyone was there. There were lots of smiles, lots of laughs, lots of play from us kids. We ran around, playing all sorts of games that you play as a kid, and at one point we could hear the song of Mr. Ice Cream's truck, and all of us ran towards his car. we saw him stand there smiling as always i got my favorite strawberry delight my friends got their favorites too everyone was happy and mr ice cream drove away some time later one of the mums called out frankie where are you there was no reply from us and we hadn't seen frankie in a while

we hadn't really thought anything of it we were busy playing our games Frankie sweetie come on now we're heading home still no answer maybe he was hiding and didn't want to go home I thought I could understand that in my eight year old mind there was nothing as fun as our barbecues Frankie come on now son more parents chimed in this time

my eight year old mind didn't quite understand it, but people were getting worried. The game had stopped. Every one of us kids was looking at each other, not really grasping the gravity of the situation. A kid was missing. Surely he was either here or at home, safe and sound. These are the only two options when you're eight years old. My mum took me home, while my dad was with Frankie's mum. Every one of us kids went home at that point, but there were still people with Frankie's mom. The search was started. I only heard about it the next day.

People came in and questioned me about when I'd last seen Frankie. And after a while, I realized it was when we were getting ice cream. So I told them, I saw him when Mr. Ice Cream came by. They thanked me and left. Two days later, a gruesome discovery was made. Frankie was found, in the woods, dead. Later I would find out that he was naked, and there were signs of abuse. When news of his death came out, everyone was shocked.

Frankie's mum was devastated, of course. She cried. She screamed, and then cried some more. everyone tried to help her in any way possible from comforting her to assisting her with the day-to-day life after the massive loss of her only child however when aaron or mr ice-cream as the children called him came to her to offer his condolences and any assistance she shouted at him telling him in no uncertain terms that he wasn't welcome on her property my father later told me he could see how it had a affected him, like someone had told him he'd lost a loved one. He bowed his head, sighed and apologized. He left, walking slowly and with his head down. My dad could see he was very much affected by all of the events

and Frankie's mum's accusations. In a month's time, she would take her own life. Although it's sad, it isn't important to this story. And so two weeks pass. A new neighbourhood barbecue is held, albeit in a more somber tone. The parents talked to each other, trying to come to terms with the horrible fate of young Frankie. The kids, meanwhile, ran around, playing and having fun. Although we miss poor Frankie, barbecues were the epitome of fun and happiness.

It was our time of childish innocence. Nothing we felt could take that away from us. Oh, how wrong we were. As the evening went on, everyone's spirits were improving, and the grown-ups were talking about all sorts of things, although avoiding the subject of Frankie. A short while after we'd eaten, we heard the song of Mr. Ice Cream's truck.

As us kids went running towards the sound of his truck, some parents look wary, and some were shouting at the kids to be careful and to look after each other. To me, most of the kids ignored the warnings, just running towards the promise of delicious ice cream. As we came to the parking lot, we saw Mr. Ice Cream standing, smiling. He said, Hey, kids, what do you want tonight?

We are full of surprises me and Mr. Bingles. Everyone shouted their preferred ice cream, and everybody got what they wanted. We strolled lazily back to the playground, devouring our ice creams. After enjoying the refreshments in the warm summer evening, we started playing our games, running even more,

with our energy levels raised to a high due to the sugar we'd just absorbed. As it got dark, the parents started calling for the children, and everyone returned. Except for Josh. His mum and dad started calling out for him, but as us kids returned, there was no sign of him. Again, the mothers took the children home, while the father started looking for him.

There was no sign of him. Josh's parents were obviously shaken by the disappearance, his mom inconsolable for the next couple of days and his father a shadow of his former self. Then the grown-ups came to my room and asked when I'd last seen Josh. I thought about it And I told them When Mr Ice Cream had come by Us kids were all in a frenzy Trying to get his attention

And getting our favourites But after that When we were on our way back I couldn't recall if he'd followed us And apparently No one else could verify him returning from that point on either People started talking after that Two times a kid had gone missing

after Mr. Ice Cream had shown up. He, of course, maintained his innocence, saying how much he loved us, kids, and that we were his missing family. But that simply exacerbated things. And when, two days later,

they found Josh's body. In the same settings and circumstances as poor Frankie was found, the atmosphere became unglued. I remember, my parents were told, talking to each other in rather loud voices, not arguing but angry about the situation. And then one day, my dad told me things would be taken care of.

At first, I didn't know what he was talking about. And then the realization slowly crept up on me. I ran over to Aaron's house. But one of the grown-ups and Taylor stopped me. He said, Don't go there. That man is sick. Just stay away.

everything will be okay. I looked at him, stunned. How could they possibly think that sweet old Mr. Ice Cream would have had anything to do with these horrible events? I started crying, the whole situation overwhelming me. However, in my young mind, little did I realize how far this would go. If I'd had the faintest idea of what was about to transpire, I would have run right up to Aaron's house and warned him. However, I just went home. home and my mom consult me that night I couldn't sleep I tried and tried but my mind was racing why were my parents angry at Aaron why didn't Taylor want me to go to Aaron's house what happened to those poor kids as my mind pondered all of these questions sleep did

eventually find me time went on and our lives turned back to normal however people started avoiding Aaron and telling their kids to stay away from him. This made him sad, and also a bit angry, I think. I, however, never turned my back on him. I talked to him whenever I could. Then, one day, my dad saw me talking to him. He stormed up to us and grabbed me by the shoulder. He asked him sternly.

And just what do you think you're doing talking to my boy here? Aaron looked at him puzzled. We were just talking, talking about how the neighbourhood spirits have plummeted. We were thinking of having a new barbecue to lift our collective spirits up. My dad snorted. Yeah, right. You need new victims. That's what you were thinking.

Now, I will say this only once. Stay away from my... son. With each of the last sentences, my dad moved closer to Aaron, and at the end they were almost touching. Aaron turned pale and said, Wait, you think I had anything to do with those terrible deeds? My dad glared at him for a second, and then said, No, I know you did. As he said the words, he poked him in the chest each time, and then he turned and we left. I looked back at Aaron,

mouthing, I'm sorry. He half-heartedly waved back and then turned back and headed home. When we got back, my dad started berating me for even talking to Aaron. I tried reasoning with him,

but he was furious. He told me in no uncertain terms that I was forbidden to contact Aaron ever again. It made me feel bad because not only did I lose a friend, but Aaron now had no one. Everybody seemed to be against him. I felt so bad for him. I went to my room.

I cried for what felt like hours, but most likely it was no more than 20 or so minutes. The situation was getting to me, and probably Aaron too. I needed to do something to help him. I remembered his words about a new barbecue to help lift a speed. spirits. And so, after waiting a few days, I suggested to my mum that we should have a barbecue. I wanted to play with my friends and wanted to experience the fun again. And so the parents started a new plan for a barbecue. I was hopeful that it would help the neighborhood, as well as Aaron. They would see that he didn't have anything to do with the murders of those kids. Then the day

came. Us kids were so happy to play with each other, while the parents were for obvious. reasons quite somber and alert, watching the kids intently, making sure no one would be caught this day. Eventually, the mood rose to a happier level, and the parents started talking about other stuff. Us kids just played any game we thought of, and after a while we ate. I had some ribs, my favourite. And as we finished our meal, we heard the alluring tune of Mr. Ice Cream's truck. The kids went into almost a trance as they ran towards the truck and Mr. Ice Cream. Some parents shouted, warning the kids not to go to Aaron. Others ran and grabbed their kids, but there were some of us who managed to get to him and shout to our favourite ice cream.

Mr. Ice Cream was ready. He already knew most of our favourites. He smiled as he handed us our rewards. And then some parents came up and shouted at him, telling him. him he wasn't welcome. His eyes teared up and he said, okay, and left. The parents counted the kids. No one was missing this time. Those of us who had got an ice cream enjoyed them and afterwards we all started playing again. This time we played hide and seek. Everyone hid and Liam started looking for us. I'd found a superb hiding place, I thought, behind some thick bushes. Liam quickly found a score of us, and the kids went back to playing some new game while Liam continued his search.

He found me, along with several others. This went on until he'd found all of us, except he hadn't found Nicole. After a while, all of us started searching for her. Even the parents joined the search, being fearful of a new victim of this terrible malefactor. In the end, the mothers went home with the kids, while Nicole's mum screamed for her child. The neighbour of hers took her home, while me and my mum went home. I went straight to bed, feeling guilty for this latest disappearance. I cried myself to sleep, the guilt overwhelming me.

My sleep was disturbed by sirens blaring. I slowly rubbed my eyes and looked out of the window. There was a fire, a large fire. Aaron's house was in flames. I ran out of my room to the stairs where I saw my mom with tears in her eyes. She looked up at me and then put her hands to her eyes. As she sobbed, I asked her. What's wrong, Mommy?

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Who'd done what? Later, my father would tell me of the events that happened that night. After a futile search for a Nicole, a few of the men snapped. They started talking pretty aggressively about Aaron, and soon they had everyone on their side, and a mob of angry men strode towards Aaron's house. They knocked on his door, while shouting obscenities towards him. As he opened the door, the men grabbed him, pulling him outside, throwing him down onto the pavement.

They then kicked him repeatedly, and he had begged them to stop, told them he'd had nothing to do with the disappearances. He begged for mercy, telling him how much he cared for the kids, that they were like family to him. And that just made the mob angrier. They continued kicking him until he passed out. then one of the men Taylor dragged him inside and he went to his car and took a can of gasoline no one stopped him or even questioned him and everyone just stood there in silence

when Taylor returned he doused a part of the house in gasoline and then he set fire to it some of the men cheered the fire quickly spread and as the flames lick the frame of the house the men heard screams from inside. Aaron had regained consciousness, but couldn't move. They looked at the flames and listened to his screams of agony. A few even laughed.

And then my father told me, Aaron had said something. You bastards, you've known me for 15 years. I've served your kid's ice cream for all those years, and cared for them. They've been like a family to me. now you want me dead for crimes I didn't commit? Oh, mark my words, as the flames devour me, I shall return and take everything from you, as you have from me.

A few of the guys laughed, some nervously, and after his words, a terrifying scream of pain and agony echoed throughout the neighbourhood. A few of those who'd stayed inside came outside to look at what was going on. Someone called for the cops and told what was going on. Soon, the neighbourhood was full of cops and firemen, the firemen fighting a losing battle to save what was left of Aaron's house. The cops rounding up the members of the mob and questioning them. My father was among those who'd suspend a night in jail

until the cops could find out what had happened. My mum was inconsolable. I'm pretty sure she'd like to Aaron as much as I did. and was devastated at what had transpired that night. I was a mess too, and hug my mum as we both cried over those events. The next days were kind of a blur. I walked around in a state of shock, doing my regular things, but not really registering what was going on.

A few days later, the police came over to our house to investigate to see if my father had been the leader of the mop. My mum shouted at them and cried, but they were soon out of our house. My father had only been a pawn in a messy game. Two days later, the cops raided the house of Taylor. In there they found some very disturbing things, like pictures of us kids playing.

The schedule for when Mr. Ice Cream visited during barbecues. Plans to kidnap children when we were heading for ice cream. Ideas as to how to pin it on poor old air and hand. most disturbingly they found the remains of Nicole in his cellar. Everyone in the neighbourhood was shocked at this finding. It was, without a shadow of a doubt,

the darkest moment in the neighbourhood's history. A couple of months went by with me and my mum trying to come to terms with these events and with my dad's jail time. Since the event of that night, all of the members of the mob had been given sentences of two years. apart from Taylor, who got lifetime without parole.

Because Grandad was a judge in a nearby town and had made sure he would never see the outside of a prison for the rest of his life. At this point, you probably think this is where the story ends. Tragic events ending in a punishment for the perpetrator. But no, these events were only the catalyst for what. was to come. The events that instigated what my mother and I called, the reckoning.

So, a few months after the trials and the sentencing of those responsible for the fate of poor Aaron, the neighbourhood began to become unglued. It started with Taylor's apparent suicide. The guards had found him in his cell where he'd made a makeshift rope out of a sheet and proceeded to hang himself. The official story was suicide. Nothing unusual. Prisoners were known to commit suicides.

However, with Taylor, this seemed to be implausible. Taylor didn't seem to have any remorse for his actions with either the kids nor with Aaron. And a guard we knew, Stephen, had said something about the case. My mum had met him while grocery shopping one day. he was a good friend of the family and they chatted a bit my mum said that

when she asked about the tailor case his face turned pale and he apologised and explained that he couldn't reveal anything about the case both had turned silent and just looked at each other after a few moments though he whispered to her

about what had really happened the part with the sheet was correct however what had been left out was that it was as if it had been not tied to anything. Rather, it just somehow had been tied to a pipe inside the ceiling. That had led many guys to believe it had some supernatural origin. They'd also found something weird on the floor,

a wrapper from an ice cream. He couldn't remember the brand, but he shouldn't have been there. My mum told me this. The cold chill ran down my spine. As I thought of poor Aaron, little did I know about the events that were about to unfold. A few days went by, with the atmosphere being at its lowest point in its history, people were talking about moving. Not many felt like staying after the barbaric crimes of Taylor and the loss of Aaron, along with many of the men and dads being imprisoned for the foreseeable future. people were thinking and seeking pastures new people were slowly getting to terms with what had happened

so we hadn't had a barbecue since the night of errands passing i began asking my mom if we would have one soon since our neighborhood needed to recuperate needed a better mood better spirits better times she looked at me and smiled sure honey that sounds just like what we all need now go up to your room I'm pretty sure it needed some cleaning. I grumbled as I walked up the stairs and into my room. She then proceeded to make a few phone calls, and after a few minutes, she came up to my room, smiling. Great news, honey, she said.

Next Saturday we will be holding a new barbecue. Not everyone will be coming, some are still shaken up by the events, but the ones who will come have assured me that they want to start fresh and get the fun times rolling again. She then gave me a big hug. I remember the hug lasting longer than usual. So I ended up asking,

Mom, is everything okay? She let go, look me in the eyes and said, Yes, honey, everything's okay. After she left, I was in a good mood. I couldn't wait for the barbecue, hopefully the start of a new chapter for all our troubled neighbourhood. The next days, I met with a couple of things. friends and we played as eight-year-olds do people were in a more buoyant mood and everyone was

looking forward to the barbecue then the day arrived the day of the barbecue the long-awaited barbecue as i woke up that day my head felt like it was made of rock i had an intense headache my nose was runny and i had a sore throat i'd been stricken with a cold when my mom came up to my room I almost cried because I thought I would miss the barbecue. Mom, I'm not feeling well, I told her. She came over, felt my forehead and said, Oh, sweetie, you have fever. Just rest for a while.

We'll see how it goes later. I sighed and tried to go to sleep again. I didn't sleep any good at all. Kept on waking up with aches and pains in my joints and my head. Eventually, my mom came up and asked, how are you sweetie not good I replied sadly

she said well honey I know how much you've been waiting for this we'll go but we go home early okay I smiled and said oh yeah that sounds great

we started preparing packing our food and drinks as well as some medication my mum decided to take just in case it still wasn't well but it was a bit better than in the morning As we made our way to the park, we could see some of the regulars had arrived. I quickly found some friends and we started running and playing our favourite games.

We played and had so much fun. At some point I stopped and just surveyed the scene. The kids were playing and running, of course. The parents, mostly mums, were sitting on the benches and chatting. A much more lively chat than it had been for weeks. I even heard laughter. I felt all warm and fuzzy inside and I thought that this was the beginning of a new era for our neighbourhood

I went back to playing with my friends and everything was good as usual we ate around six again I had my favourite ribs when we were finished me and my mum started packing up since we were going home early when we were about halfway done we heard it a song

the song we all recognised Mr Ice Cream song and yet it was not it was somehow twisted the tune was the same but slower and yet it had the same effect on the kids all of them ran towards the sound

as if in a trance I felt a need to go towards the sound but something inside me also warned me I'm not sure But it might have been something to do with my cold that day I slowly crept along with the children And hid behind a tree What I saw

She owed me to the boat The kids were going towards Aaron Or what was left of him I'm not sure why no one screamed But the music might have had them in some sort of a weird trance I saw his truck With the hideous clown, Mr. Bingalls painted on the side of it, smiling as creepily as ever. Aaron, on the other hand, had put on some sort of makeup, to look like Mr. Bingles, I guess.

Only he didn't. Through the makeup, I could see a charred face, an eye screamed. He looked up, slowly, smiling. Oh, don't you worry. He said with a dry, raspy voice, There's plenty of time. Eventually, I will be coming for you. And he laughed, the scariest, creepiest laugh I had ever heard,

or will ever hear. I screamed again and was rooted to the spot due to fear. I saw Mr. Ice Cream, or Aaron, handing out ice creams to the kids. as they took their first bite they fell down on the ground dead mr ice cream then made some gestures with his hands swaying them back and forth

and to the sides in a rhythmic motion then to my horror the kid stood up again eyes glazed and staring at mr ice cream he looked at me and laughed don't worry today is not your day today is the day

of my revenge or the first day of my revenge I'll be back and eventually everyone that had anything to do with my death will have their just deserts

he laughed maniacally at his own pun I however screamed as hard as I could he also felt tears running down my cheek the horror of the situation crashing on me like a tsunami. Mr. Ice Cream opened the back of his truck, and the kids went in. I stood there and watched in horror, as they all went in somehow,

and afterwards Mr. Ice Cream waved at me, still laughing, as he himself went in, and the truck vanished. Eventually my mum and the other parents came over to me, asking what was wrong, and where the others had gone. gone. I couldn't speak for two whole days. The event traumatised me. I still wake up in a sweat as I have nightmares about this horrid event. After that night, everyone just moved. A lot of families split up, including my own, as my mum just wanted a new start. I still had contact with my dad, so it all worked out for us, I guess. But the reason,

The main reason for me to share this with you now is that yesterday, around half-past six, I heard something. Something chilling. I heard the sound of a forgotten ice cream truck. Mr. Ice Cream's truck. Oh, Mr. Ice Cream, not a nice man at all. That's setting the scene perfectly for our next story. Did you hear the Ice Cream man last night?

I used to think of hell as a far away place. For those of you out there who still hold that belief, this piece of my life is for you. Don't ask me why I'm doing this. I'm honestly not sure. My therapist says writing about our traumas can help our brains cope, make things easier to swallow, a system he affectionately refers to as remedy writing.

My reasoning could be something as selfish as that, that. Perhaps I'm also hoping that those of you who read this will heed its warning. Do not make the same mistakes my ten-year-old self did. Or, well, maybe it's merely the adage. Misery loves company. I grew up in a middle-class suburb in Ventura County, not too far from Los Angeles. Our house was one of the many cookie-cutter homes, separated by white pickets or chain-link fences. My mom, a soft-spoken, dream-driven woman, worked from home as an editor for a growing magazine. My dad spent every day in Simai Valley, where he worked as a cargo loader for trucks. After a day of lifting, managing the forklift, emitting every physical demand, he'd come home sore and irritable.

I remember eagerly staring at the clock, watching it tick, revoltingly slothed. lower every time I checked. Then came the magical chime that sounded our freedom. Summer break had started, and school finally released us from our desk shackles. I think I miss that most about childhood, the raw, unfettered excitement I had for things, the sort of overwhelming avidity that kept you awake at night, just waiting to look underneath the Christmas tree, just waiting to see your birthday cake just waiting for a brand new day. We eventually lose it as adults, once the day-to-day exhaustion and cynicism set in. With summer came many things that have permanently crystallized in my memories, the smell of backyard barbecues, the giddy laughter of kids running through sprinklers while

their parents gossip on the porch, the golden bar of sunset slowly sinking down the street, and, of course, how could we forget the ballad of a summer heat wave? The ice cream man's jingle. That was how it all started. It was on a warm Wednesday night. An awful, gnawing hunger pulled me out of sleep. Unable to ignore it, I slipped out of bed and crept past my parents' bedroom. I was craving something sweet from the kitchen.

Settling on the last of our pudding cups, I also poured myself a small glass of milk. That would be enough to shut my stomach up. As I started back to my room, a fate sound caught my ear. A song, like the one you'd hear drifting out of a music box, was coming from outside. I walked to the window and peered through it. The muffled tune, more specifically, Pop Goes the Weasel, was coming from down the street. an ice cream truck

I'd never seen Mr Mason out this late before he was one of the residents of our neighbourhood who decked out his grey van to sell frozen treats but he usually started his route at noon when the sun was at its cruelest maybe it's for the adults my ten-year-old brain thought the truck coasted by my house

moving tantalizingly slow with that happy electronic chime. It wasn't Mr. Mason's van. This truck was a pale green, with blue accents on the lower half. On the side of its metal body was a large circle with a print of a cartoonish boy in the centre.

He had blue skin, big black eyes, and a white, soft serve hairstyle. His pupils were notched to create the illusion of a glare on his smiling, loony-toon face. One of his white-gloved hands held a fudgeicle to his mouth, while the other gave a big thumbs up.

The tip of the swollen thumb, as well as the fingers in the wrist, appeared to be melting, just like ice cream. Written above and below the circle, incisable, whimsical lettering, Hyper's popsicles, join the fun.

That next, morning is still such a vivid memory to me. I remember waking up to my father's fist pounding against my door. He was yelling, ordering me to unlock it. I pulled the bed sheets over my head and curled into a ball. Even now, I can still feel that sharp tinge of anxiety, just thinking about it. Then, from behind the doorframe, a countdown started from three. You never won't. You never wanted him to reach zero. God help you if that man ever reached zero. When I opened the door, he snatched my arm and pulled me into the kitchen. My bare feet dragged pitifully across the floor. The white milk jug was sitting on the corner, its cap still missing. Mom was sitting at the

table, her neck deliberately facing the window. Not a good sign. Did you leave this out? He asked with a subtle voice. When I didn't give an immediate answer, he twisted my arm. A hot ring of pain coiled around the area. Yes, I cried out. I'm sorry, I left it out. I'm sorry. Great. His voice rose and cracked.

Now we need more milk. What a fucking waste. With one of his hands still clasped around my arm, he reached for the milk jug. with the other and dumped it over my head. My mum gasped loudly in her seat, the trademark reaction. He left for work after that. Evidently I had made him late. It wasn't the first of my father's outbursts, and it was far from the last. The bastard was always looking for a punching bag, and whenever my mother didn't fit the role, well, I was runner-up. Every day in that house was like

maneuvering around tripwires. Eventually, you'd trigger him. My mom scooped me up off the floor and took me to the bathroom so I could wash the milk out of my hair. She left a bundle of clean clothes on the bed. That was her time to react, the moment our front door slammed shut and his car left the driveway. Until then, her neck was twisted anywhere else with that same disconnected far-away look. When I came back into the kitchen, she was making eggs for breakfast. What kept you up last night? She quietly asked me. I was hungry. I was going to put everything back, but the ice cream truck distracted me. She looked at me quizzically, the blistering hot oil popping in the pan. What do you mean? He was driving around the neighbourhood last night. Didn't

you hear his music? She scrunched her forehead and shook her head. Mr. Mason wouldn't be driving around that late. There wouldn't be any point to it. All he would get is no customers and noise complaints. The sweets you ate before bed probably made you dream about it. Oh, if only that were the case. That night, my stomach once again woke me. The hunger pangs had come back much worse this time. As much as I tossed and turned, trying my best to ignore it, it was impossible. I sighed and pulled myself out of bed, once again tiptoeing past my parents' bedroom. The kitchen had nothing for me.

Not even milk now. My mom still hadn't been to the store that week, leaving our pantry mostly vacant, save for larger meals. I wanted something sweet. Then it came again. the melodious music from outside. The ice cream truck was driving its late-night road again. Another sharp twinge stabbed at my stomach. The thought of ice cream at that moment was captivating.

If the driver were following the same pattern as last night, he'd pass right by here, right? The idea teased me. I weighed my options. The piggy bank in my room had at least two or three dollars of change in its guise. I could run out, pay him, grab the ice cream, and run back with my folks none the wiser. But if my father noticed, dear God, if he saw, I'd have a lot more than hunger pains to fall asleep to. I stood there and pondered.

Eventually, hunger won the debate. I went into my room and opened up my piggy bank. The mechanical jingle was getting closer. It was nearly passing the yard. I put on my shoes and wrapped a jacket over my pajamas. Carefully, I unlocked the front door, praying that the click wouldn't be too loud. I discreetly pulled it open,

just enough for my small self to slip through. Luckily, not enough for the hinges to creak. I ran across the grass and down the driveway in my sneakers. There it was, steering. slowly toward me. The song, churning out of the speakers, situated at the top of it, sounded similar to It's a Small World. It pulled up and stopped near me. The cartoon caricature with bright blue skin, presumably named Piper, smiled down at me. Behind the hum of its engine, I heard something suddenly clink inside of the truck. The music stopped, and someone hoisted open

the vendor window. I tried to look inside, but there wasn't a single light or bulb to light up the interior. It was just a metal box of darkness. Hello? I called out. Hello, little guy. The cheery voice that answered was soft and mellow, definitely not Mr. Mason's smoker's rasp. What can I get for you? I shuffled the quarters in my palm. Can I have a bomb pop? You sure can, the chipper voice answered. Inside the shadows there were vague signs of movement and quiet humming. The sweet-smelling aromas of hot fudge mixed with other milky flavors,

creating an amalgam of smells that made my stomach growl. A white-gloved hand melted out of the blackness. Tweed between its index finger and thumb was my popsicle, still in its front. wrapper. I took it and held my hand full of quarters out to the serving window. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, the man said, not necessary. This one is on me, free of charge. I smiled and pocketed the coins. Thank you, I beamed and caught my head to the side. Can you see anything in there? Oh, I see everything, the voice chortled. Where are your friends?

I scuffed the curb with one of my souls. They're probably all asleep. Everyone is. Why do you drive around so late? Well, I was born sick, you see. The type of sick that makes me sensitive to the sun. If even the slightest bit touches me, I'd whistle, I'd whiz, and then I'd fwoom, like a firework.

We both laughed at that. From within the lightless interior, I could make out a vague face with pert, spieling cheeks. Would you like another popsicle? he asked. I itched the back of my neck. Oh, I should go now. If my dad sees me out here, I'll get in trouble. Oh, he sounded disappointed.

We wouldn't want that. Drop by again, okay? Bring some friends next time. friends next time. I will. I smiled and waved as I carried my free popsicle back to the house. The door quietly closed behind me. My parents didn't hear a thing. On my way back to my room, I peered out the window. The ice cream truck was still out there, sitting motionless in front of my house. Finally, the wheel started turning, and the music began a new chorus of home. on the rage.

I ate the tricoloured popsicle in my room. The flavour that tingled over my tongue was like nothing I'd ever experienced. I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that words will not do it justice, but I'll do my best.

It was a beautiful mixture of cherry, lime, raspberry, and something else, something different. It was like a literal rocket had propelled itself through my system and left sputtering trail of joy. Each bite only brought me to a higher atmosphere. It was fantastic, enjoyable, and worst of all, unnatural. I slept like a baby that night with a more than satisfied stomach.

The next day I biked around our neighbourhood with a few friends. We'd chosen a miserably hot day for it and quickly regretted the decision. Luckily, we found a large, tree and sat with our bikes in its cool shadow. Have you guys heard it too? You know, the ice cream truck at night, I asked everyone. They shook their heads, trading off skeptical looks at me, except for one boy, Matthew. He was pudgy, wore a pair of square-lens glasses that complimented his round face

and had cheeks spattered with freckles. We weren't close friends, but mostly knew each other from school. I've seen it parked right outside my house was his tebid response the guy waved at me from the window I thought it would wake my mom up but she slept like a boulder before I could answer him it was as though the devil himself had heard our chatter and we heard the music

mr mason's ice cream van rounder the corner blasting the first few bars of its tinny melody That was just what we needed right now, the perfect solution for a brutal summer day. Ever since the bomb pop from last night, I'd been craving another. My thoughts kept returning to it, the lingering flavour is still flickering in my mouth. I was almost drooling. I wanted more. Mr Mason quickly spotted us and pulled up with a smile.

He spoke in a grizzled. voice, which I now realised was a thick, Turkish accent. I handed in the change in my pocket and waited for the wondrous rocket-shaped popsicle. The moment I grasped it, I immediately tore the wrapper off and sunk my teeth into it. Then, just as quickly, I stopped and gagged. It was bitter, like I'd just taken a bite out of frozen wax. The taste covered my tongue and closed. the back of my throat. I let each of my friends have a lick, except for Matthew, who immediately

declined. They all said it tasted normal, not sharp or waxy at all. My friend who asked for the same thing even let me try his. It was horrible, absolutely horrible. None of them could taste it, that disgusting flavor. I lay in bed that night. I lay in bed that night. night, staring at the ceiling and shaking. The pulsing red numbers next to my bed read two in the morning. My eyes were red and swollen from hours of crying. Pain lanced the purple, pear-shaped bruise on my leg, a reminder, courtesy of my father, that after a grueling day of work, he did not deserve to come home to a bite left in the driveway. It would, unfortunately, be another nine years of this before the untreated blood clot in his leg would take his life. A few days before the

accident, I'd told him to go fuck himself. But my father wasn't the reason I couldn't stop shaking. No, it was the cravings. The throbbing spasms of hunger had been haunting me for the past few nights. They were back with a twisting vengeance, worse than ever. After Mr. Mason given me the popsicle, I'd spent the rest of the day trying to get rid of that vile taste. Nothing was working. In fact, every sweet thing I tried tasted just as bad. Even my favorite juice was developing a sharp, greasy aftertaste. I bit deeply into my knuckles. A nervous habit I'd acquired over the years, which has now left a row of callous depressions there. I needed something sweet. I'd have killed for something sweet. Then it returned. The music outside my window.

Just down the street, the late-night ice cream truck was making its rounds. That was it, the answer to my prayers. Without thinking, I sprang out of bed and grabbed my jacket and sneakers. Slipping out of the house was just as easy as the first time. Mostly feeling. fueled by hunger, I ran to meet the truck halfway. It rolled to a stop, clearly spotting me. Not that I was hard to miss, of course. I ran next to its minty green body and impatiently waited. But nothing happened. Hey kiddo, the voice said through the open passenger window. Sorry about that. My hatch is stuck and won't open. What can I get for you? "'Another bump-up, please?'

I asked pitifully. "'Hiding the pleading wine in my voice was impossible. "'Not a problem. "'Let's have a look, see.' "'I could hear him rummaging around, "'muttering incoherently to himself. "'He returned, sounding less than cheerful. "'Well, that isn't good.'

"'My heart sank like an anchor. "'What isn't?' "'It looks like a anchor. I came out of those for the night. Damn, what bad love. A painful throb racked my stomach, making me wince. Something else, I begged. Can I have something else?

He rummished around some more and sighed heavily. Oh, I'm very sorry to say, but it looks like I have nothing left. Tears rushed to my eyes. Hopelessness bubbled up inside me. My solution, the one thing I needed to get rid of these cravings was gone. I'd have to wait until tomorrow night. I started the miserable walk home. Back to the bed I knew I wouldn't be able to fall asleep in.

My sneakers dragged along the asphalt. Oh, hang on a tan, the voice said. Looks like I have one more left, just for you. I whipped back around and raced to the passenger window. Really? I said, wiping the trailing tears from my face. Of course. I heard something unlock.

The passenger door. I found it right up here. Come get it. A chorus of alarmed voices called out to my brain. Not safe. This is a stranger. Go home. Not safe.

Of course they were red flags, obvious ones, but I was not thinking clearly. My logic had whittled away. All that mattered was the craving, the unusual desire for that exquisite taste. It possessed me. I knew there were risks, but my fatigued, boyish mind was done compromising. I pulled the green metal door open. The cabin was expectantly as dark as. its backside. An invisible coldness permeated the air, about as cold as you'd presume an ice-cream

truck to be. The tart, dancing smells of chocolate, strawberry, bubblegum and other flavors graced my nose. A single grated step led inside. I spied a vague silhouette sitting in the driver's seat with my bomb pop in hand. Go on. It's all yours. It's all you're. He said, pleasantly. I leaned inside the truck, planting one foot over the metallic step, while the other remained on the pavement. The dim outline of the driver held out the popsicle, just inches from my fingers. Come on, he said again. Don't you want it?

Just as my fingertip grazed the foil casing, I heard something. something that without a doubt saved my life that night a strained voice squeaked out of the trucks inside help me the hand holding the popsicle lunged at me seizing my arm as i tried to pull back grabbing a handful of sleeve instead of skin i gasped too shocked to muster a scream and then jerked backward but his grip was relentless The darkness around us dispersed, and in an instant I could see everything, like some veil had lifted. A nauseating texture coated the ceiling. Rust, perhaps, it crawled down the inner walls in a reddish-brown crust. There were scuff marks on the stained floor, a foul, eggy smell thickened the air. Every window was impossible to see through.

smeared with grime and networking cracks. But the worst of all, the crux of my persistent nightmares even now was the thing in the driver's seat. A naked, bluish body mottled with dark rashes and boils. Folds of excess skin sagged off its bloated frame, almost like it was melting. One of its long, double-jointed arms was pulled. pulling at my sleeve. The loose flesh that hung off it wobbled and jiggled like sacks of

trap liquid. And then its face, the horrible, horrible face, was creased with a clownish smile. Its gums were grey and infected, with bent teeth jutting out of them. It looked bald at first glance, but a few straggly white hair sprouted from its swollen blue scalp. One of its eyes, a pitch black sphere, was rooted in its cheek, like it had slid down from the socket. The only thing remotely humoured about the thing was the way it sat in the driver's seat. One ugly hand on the steering wheel, the other still trying to pull me closer. A guttural voice spat out of his mouth at a sickeningly cheery octave. Don't you want it, little guy?

I screamed and didn't stop screaming. The sanity drained out of me in fat-seeping tears. My vision was a wet, blurry haze of horror, and internal voices screamed for me to run. Run, run, run. Suddenly, something was ripping. I flung myself back onto the asphalt. My sleeve was now a bloodless gash of torn fabric.

The nude, humanoid thing was exerting a strange huffing, gurgling sound, maybe laughter. I don't care to know for sure. The outside of the truck was even worse than the inside. Eating away at the pale green paint was a thick film of black matter. It covered the car in a black, muddy ooze, smothering the cartoonish boy and his broad smile. A few letters did show through, though. Join the fun. Parts of the grimy substance were moving, throbbing maybe, as though they had some sort of pulse.

The speakers atop its mucky body, although caked in the stuff, were still spewing out sound. It wasn't music, not in any way that the human mind could understand. A hollow, high-pitched frequency with a gravely white noise hiss. Behind the corrupted pitch was something else, something that almost sounded like it was trying to escape from it. Choppy, inaudible screaming. I was hearing hell. With the last burst of adrenaline my system had to offer.

I twisted around and tore through the yard to reach my house. I flung the door open, slammed it shut and slid down to the floor. I buried my head in the crevice of my knees, drenched in snobes. and tears. I sat there wallowing for some time, waiting for my father's footsteps to come pounding out of his room. But it never happened. Both of my parents were still in bed. I tried to wake my mother up, and out of pure desperation, my father too, but neither so much as stirred. The gritty, white noise was still screaming from the street. I hid beneath my sheets and covered my ears, trying everything I could to expel it from my head.

Help me! The distressed voice had said from the back of the truck. The voice that saved my life. Finally, after minutes of grueling torture, the truck revved its engine and cruised down the street. The house became silent, save for my sleepless cry. A child did go missing that night. Matthew.

the boy with freckled cheeks and square lenses. I will not be giving out his last name for respect of the family. His parents had woken up to his empty room, and their front door left ajar. They called the police and filed a missing person's report, and the community was notified about the disappearance. I remember seeing a few police cruises lined outside of Mr. Mason's house, probably because the boy's mother heard him spout off about an ice cream truck coming in the dead of night.

They found no evidence against Mr. Mason, but the grey ice cream van didn't leave his garage for the rest of the summer, or any summer after that. To this day, I can still feel those bitter flavours in my mouth, sitting on my tongue like a pool of chemicals. At first, it only affected sweet things, then salty things, and slowly worked its way up to everything. No matter what I eat, no matter what I drink. My stomach attempts to force it out of my body due to its acrid waxiness. I take no pleasure in food. I eat only not to die. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed something as simple as taste.

Every night a new wave of impulses come back, prying at the last cardboard walls of my insanity. I cram my knuckles into my teeth to trap the screams inside. I beg the dark nothingness of my room for something sweet. That's how it draws you out. Hunger. When the happy, inviting music gets in your head. It fills you with cravings masquerading as hunger.

Don't bother trying to wake your parents. It won't work. Not while that truck is in your name. neighborhood. Then you take the bait. The incredible flavor from your dreams that taste so perfect you'd kill for a sliver of it again. But when you go back begging for just one more, it takes you. So, I implore you. Whether or not you decide to believe me after reading this, at least give it some thought. If you are ever stirred awake in the dead of night, and an ice cream truck's jingle

drifts in from the window go back to sleep for the love of God go back to sleep particularly deliciously evil stories for you this evening in this issue of the podcast what did you think of those

well my dear friends two stories as I said from Morabanesh and Michael Page and that's it for this evening but I will be back again very, very soon. And I do so hope you'll join me again this time next week. Until then, very, very sweet dreams and bye-bye.