The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings - Lot 120 : If You See An Ice Cream Truck In Your Neighborhood…Go Inside And Lock Your Doors

Episode Date: April 12, 2026

Lot 120 : If You See An Ice Cream Truck In Your Neighborhood…Go Inside And Lock Your Doors Consigned by The Crooked Boy Starring Conan Freeman Everett Shand Jade Shand And Romy Evans   Unsought Goods **Much obliged for using the Rocket Money and Mint Mobile link below. It lends a helping hand to our little shop, and we’re truly grateful for the support. Rocket Money: http://rocketmoney.com/SINISTER Mint Mobile: https://mintmobile.com/SINISTER Shopify: https://www.shopify.com/tash   https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/p9icif/if_you_see_an_ice_cream_truck_in_your/   Theme music by The Newton Brothers   Additional music by CO.AG ([e-mail])   Clement Panchout   Vivek Abhishek   SUBSCRIBE to them on YOUTUBE: / vivekhsihba   LIKE them on FACEBOOK:  https://rb.gy/nhgn0i Follow them on Spotify/ iTunes/ Amazon: https://tinyurl.com/rxdcjqt Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

For an ad-free experience, visit the obsidiancovenant.com. Hello, yes. Go ahead and close the door behind you. All the way if you don't mind. I would be remiss if I did not equate you with this new consignment that came in today. With your name on it, nonetheless. A recovered uniform fragment issued, we believe, to operators of what was once a mobile vendor service. A cap.

White canvas. Structured front. Slightly yellowing along the seams. There's a stitched emblem on the front. Mr. Frosty. There are patterns associated with this lot. Repeated observations, consistent timing, and always. Music.

You'll recognize. Most people do. That, unfortunately, appears to be part of the mechanism. Settle in for a tasty treat called, If you see an ice cream truck in your neighborhood, go inside and lock your doors. Before we begin, I want to point out some of the customers whose names have been etched in brass

on this beautiful plaque I had made above the front desk. These are some of the members of the inner circle of the table, Antiquarium. We go by the Obsidian Covenant. Recent initiates include Megan Lynn, Carl Ram, Hotcakes, Shrub, Dan, Lucas Callion, definitely not a stick figure and not her daughter Gertrude either. We are ever appreciative of your devotion to The order. Go to the obsidian covenant.com to receive the sacrament. Sounds harmless enough, right?

Welcome to the antiquarium of sinister happenings and odd goings on. An ice cream truck in your neighborhood. Go inside and lock your doors. 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 trawling the neighborhood streets.

Familiar ice cream truck jingle pepping out from roof-mounted loudspeakers and beckoning the neighborhood kids. If you hear that song, the one everyone knows, rears. Until you get inside. Once inside, shudder your mind. lines, press yourself small in the darkest 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.

All that matters is that you follow the rules. It'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 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. Three. 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. 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. Five. Finally, if your child is taken,

but you manage to escape, be prepared. The thing that comes home later that night is not them. It will go away. I learned this the hard way. I guess I sound cool. crazy. I wish I was. I wish it were all some fucked up fever dream that I could sweat out in a scalding shower and forget. I get it. It carries no credence. Maybe. 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 girl's 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 neighborhood. 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, but, I said with a grin. He bounced with excitement, pounded off down the sidewalk as the boxing white Mr. Frosty's ice cream truck turned the corner, and it trundled up our quiet suburban tract, crunched to a stop beside my son maybe 25 feet from me. I watched as Kyle took his place. beneath the little awning, as wide eyes scanning the menu. I couldn't see the driver. The window was tinted, but there must have been someone inside

because the serving window 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, felt cold all of a sudden.

Like that truck had sent a chilly wind biting up the street. Up until then, I'd been taking my time joining my boy, leisurely motoring up the sidewalk without a care in the world. Chill nibbled through my bones. It triggered something visceral. An air raid siren went howling through my head. Every fiber of my being screaming at me that something was off. For the first time in my life, I reacted without thought.

I don't know why I did it, but I fell into a spirit. Full tilt, blind bottle rush down the sidewalk. My chest squeezed tight. My swollen thundering heart fought my lungs for space in a ribcage 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 down the sidewalk.

My legs scissured beneath me, my arms pumped. My cold breath whipped cracked through my shrinking lungs. Kyle might have heard the slap thought of my sneakers hammered the sidewalk, but I don't think he heard that either. He sensed some was wrong. Sensed it with that preternatural ability afforded only to 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 blonde 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. Ice cream man took a massive spider legs exploded out of the darkness and sucked my son through the window like shrink-wrapped through a vacuum cleaner. He snapped back like a rag doll in the seething tangle of hairy jointed feelers. Now I did scream. Whaled my son's name. He didn't have time to scream. I heard the whoosh of air from his

mouth as the spider legs torn back by the stomach. He blipped through the window. His head smacked the top of the frame and cracked forward. And lulled like a dead thing on his neck as he disappeared into the truck. 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.

froze. Once snapped like rubber bands and a thin whistle of air escaped my nostrils. Body crawled. My heart was galloping through my ribcage like a mile wide herd of bisoned. 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...

waterhouse. The rotten husks of cattle shoots and bloodstained linole textured a sprawling plant like the fossils of a forgotten industry. But it wasn't forgotten. It was dark, soaked in shadow. But I could see 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 the weak shot. The wet hair of curved knives opening throats, the syrupy slap of blood hitting the floor. The dead were hoisted ankle up on a conveyor system, like it at dry cleaners, which zip them off through a darkened portal into the unknown. Trail of blood still sprang from their severed necks.

Breathe, I couldn't blink, I felt my stomach churning with nausea. hot rush of vomit threatening its way up. Then something grabbed at me. I jumped back and screamed as the pale little hand reached for his daddy. His head pitched at a wrong angle on 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 in a voice, here again.

Run. Then he slammed close the serving window. As it cracked shut, I saw the mass of spider legs and circle him for behind like interlacing fingers. The hairy legs covered his mouth, his eyes. Tore him backwards and sent him into the slaughter line. The truck was driving off. The ice cream jingle crackling cheerfully from its roof-mounted speaker. Hulled up the street, turned, and disappeared from view.

Only sun. No need to panic. You may feel that. The nation to follow. Stay right here. Let me close the window. For patience protects more than you think. Now then, let's return to him.

He's just about to understand. Shall we? Every 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, crackling cheerfully from its roof-mounted speaker, held up the street, turned, and disappeared from view. Only son. For good, a wife screamed when she came home.

For what happened among the mess of hellish police lights and detectives and cheap suits, her face crumpled. She dropped to her knees and howled for her son, hugged my daughter, and cried into her 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 turns 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 had seen. How could I? It would have thought I was spinning tall tales to disabuse my guilty conscience of the fact that I had heard my only boy, and they would have slammed me into an interrogation cell as a lead suspect. So, I lied. I told them a Mr. Frosty's ice cream truck had taken him,

put out a statewide ABB. They found nothing. Me and 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 herself 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, pits of my stomach that our son was all of those children were dead. Blindly shuffled up the murder shoot to those massive things in bloody aprons with their gore-drenched knives and their horrific USGI cold weather masks.

The wife had said something. I looked up at her. She blew snod into a tissue, crumpled it up. Kyle's out there. We should be looking for him. Trying to find that truck. She cut me an accusing glare. She blamed me. I knew she did, which wasn't her fault.

The police said we... I stopped my sentence. My daughter's pale shape, gown in her PJ-1-Z, clutching her pink blanket, had appeared in the doorway. Honey, I rose and swept my up. She looked at me, her eyes wide, wide with fear. That instant, what she was afraid of wasn't. our son. It looked like Kyle. It walked like him. It wasn't him. It was pale, trenched in mud, its eyes cold and dead. More emotion puddles they had been before, but two icy marbles that could freeze with a look. My wife sobbed, wrapped Kyle in an embrace.

He didn't hug back. Eyes were pinned on me. A knowing smile breaking his face. Why did you do it, Dad? He said as we led him into the living room. I could feel Maya's body tense up against mine, knew something bad was about to happen. What? My wife asked her son.

Why'd you try to kill me? Try to kill me? Haunted! Mom! I thought you left me! His head reared back impossibly far on his neck, and his mouth curved into a little. dark O. He made a throaty gurgling sound. His eyes rolled back into their sockets, showing only the

whites. Jessica looked at me, eyes wide, then at Kyle. I don't think she realized that she started backing up. I don't think I did either. We 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 Kyle'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'd you fucking do it? You're like killing little kids, Dad? Want to kill Maya? Want to see her pigtails wrapped in bread? The thing chuckled as Kyle's mouth continued pulling back. His lips were coated in vile. His teeth were brown and jacket. Jessica's head was on a swivel between our son and me.

Her legs hit the couch, and gravity planted her ass on the cushion. What a bash her little head in! Hammer it until it crumbles and all those little girl thoughts and feelings come spilling out. Corners of my son's mouth tore. Reveolates of blood sletted down his throat. His mouth continued to pull back like his head was splitting up on a hinge. Make him stop, Dad! I couldn't speak.

My voice was lost. I fished for it. My Adam's apple bobbing, but Kyle's mouth split wider. Wider, bone and tendons snapping and crackling his lower face soaked in blood. My orphans, feel your knife, scrape. Oh, that. I saw his throat distended and undulated like it was a nod of fingers trying to claw their way out. I want to watch the light eyes as their life bleeds from their throat.

Watch again. Ow, wow! 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. The wife started to scream, and one of the spider legs batted her across the face. Her head snapped around, crackled, and she pitched forward with about as much life in her bones as a sack of grain. That galvanized me into motion. I tossed my daughter under the couch and lurched for the rack of fireplace tools.

The spider legs crackled and snapped, flickering around like a net of tendrils from my son's broken mouth. Maya was shrieking. Her face crumpled in terror. The spider legs lunged for her, shot forward for a delicate little form. I tore the poker free of the fire rack and whipped around, using my forward momentum to bring the instrument down with as much force as I could muster. Only I missed. God, oh, 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 burrowing into her brain. I felt bones snapped like glass. I felt the poker ease into the spongy folds of her mind. She fell like she was a puppet, and I had cut her strings. A little sob escaped as she, glinted face down with a sickening thud.

Her hand made a tiny fist, and then she died. Kyle thing began to roar with laughter. It turned on me. The spider likes flickering and pulsing, snapping in all directions like ten of those dealership tomb in. Kyle let out a surprise gasp. The spider likes snapped erect like soldiers at attention as the animation drained from my son's face.

The end of the poker, which I'd wrenched free from Maya's broken mind, was now jutting from my son's left eye. His ocean blue eyeball had deflated. A thin run of pus ran down one cheek. Then 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. Hear the sirens getting closer. I write this as a warning. I write this as a warning. a pleading cry for others to listen. Not looking for absolution. Man ruined by the ice cream truck that rode in on a hot summer day.

You'll all see my name bolded in the paper conjoined to some variation of the term family annihilator. It wasn't me. I bear blame. Make the same mistake I did. And if your kids ask for ice cream, buy them a tub of the storebought stuff. It's just as good.

Thank you for your patronage. Hope you enjoyed your new relic as much as I've enjoyed passing along its sordid history. It does come with our usual warning, however. Absolutely no refunds, no exchanges, and we won't be held liable for anything that may or may not occur while the object is in your possession. If you've got an artifact with mysterious properties,

perhaps it's accompanied by a history of bizarre and disturbing circumstances. Maybe you'd be interested in dropping it and its story by the shop to share with other customers. Please reach out to Antiquarium Shop at gmail.com. A member of our team will be. be in touch. Till next time, we'll be waiting for you whenever you close your eyes in the space between sleep and dream.

During regular business hours, of course, or by appointment, only for you, our best customer. The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings, Lot 1-20. If you see an ice cream truck in your neighborhood, go inside and lock your doors. Consigned by The Crooked Boy, starring Conan Freeman, Everett Shand, Jade Shand, and Romy Evans, featuring Stephen Knowles as the antique dealer. Engineering Production and Sound Design by Trevor Shand and Lauren Shand. Theme music by the Newton Brothers.

Additional music by Coag, Vivek Abyshech, Clement Panchout, Nicholas Redding, and Conan Freeman. The Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings. is created and curated by Trevor and Lauren Shand. Follow us on Instagram and Twitter at Antiquarium Pod. Call the Antiquarium at 646-4-6-4-8-1-7-197.