The Dark Somnium - "If you see an ice cream truck in your neighborhood, go inside and lock your doors" Creepypasta

Episode Date: August 26, 2021

This creepypasta scary story is from the nosleep subreddit, written by TheCrookedBoy--- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/darksomnium/message Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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 came, their boxy white trucks trawling the neighborhood streets, that familiar ice cream truck jingle piping out from the roof-mounted loudspeakers and beckoning the neighborhood kids. If you hear the song, the one everyone knows, plug your ears until you get inside. inside, shut your blinds, 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, but 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. 1.

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 important 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 will go away. I learned this the hard way. I guess I sound crazy. I wish I was. I wish it were 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... 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 pealed out through the neighborhood. The ice cream truck 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. I'm 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 to our quiet

suburban tract. They crunched to a stop beside my son, maybe 25 feet from me. I looked as Kyle took his place beneath the little awning, his 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 off. It felt off. It felt cold all of a sudden, like the truck had sent a chilly wind biting up the street. Up until then, I had been taking my time joining my boy, leisurely 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. fiber 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, but I fell into a sprint. A 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 up the sidewalk. My legs scissured beneath me, my arms pumped, my cold breath whipped cracked 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 gluey breath, nothing more, nothing less. There would be no sound coming from me other than the shrill whistle of air sawing through my lungs.

Kyle might have heard the slap thud of my sneakers hammering the sidewall. walk, but I don't think he heard that either. He sensed something 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. And then the ice cream man took him. The mass of spider-lays. A massive spider-lid. Exploded out of the darkness and sucked my son through the window like shrink wrap through a vacuum cleaner.

He snapped back like a rag doll in the seething tangle of hairy, jointing feelers. Now I did scream, wailed my son's name. He didn't have time to scream. I heard a wish of air from his mouth 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 lulled like a dead thing on his neck as he disappeared. I appeared 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 rib cage like a mile wide herd of bison.

The inside of the truck was impossible. It was too big. It was... It was a dystopian nightmare. Like the truck was a portal to the killing floor of a massive slaughterhouse. The rotten husks of cattle shoots and blood-stained linoleum 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 glazen like broken, violated dolls. The livestock was children, hundreds of them caked in their own filth, shuffling along shoots while hooking figures in blood-stained aprons and masks butchered them alive. There were no screams. That was the worst part. It was deadly silent. Just the weak shuffle of feet, the wet tear of curved knives opening throats, The syrupy slap of blood hitting the floor.

The dead were hoisted ankle up on the conveyor system, like at a dry cleaners, which zip them off through a darkened portal into the unknown. A hot trail of blood still sprang from their severed necks. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't blink. I felt my stomach churning with nausea, a hot rush of vomit threatening its way up. Then something grabbed out at me. I jumped back and screamed as the pale little.

hand was reaching for his father. It was Kyle. 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 I would never forget. Run! Then he slammed closed the serving window. As it cracked shut, I saw the mass of spider legs encircle him from behind like interlacing fingers. The hairy legs covered his mouth, his eyes. eyes, tore him backwards and sent him into the slaughter line. Then the truck was driving off, the ice cream truck jingle cracking 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 crumpled, she dropped to her knees and howled for her son. I 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 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 saw. How could I? They would have thought I was spinning tall tails to disabuse my guilty conscience of the fact that I hurt my only boy, and they would have slammed me into an interrogation cell as the lead suspect. So I lied, told them Mr. Frosty's ice cream truck had taken him. They put out a statewide APB.

They found nothing. Me and 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 dead. All of those children were dead. Blindly shuffled up the murder shoot to those massive things and bloody aprons with their gourd-drenched knives and their horrific masks. My wife had said something. I looked up to her. What?

She blew snout 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 said we...

I stopped mid-sentence. My daughter's pale shape, gowned in her PJ-Wenzy, clutching her pink blanket, had appeared in the doorway. Honey! I rose and swept Maya 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. Kyle's home. The thing at the back door wasn't. It wasn't our son. It looked like Kyle. It walked like him. It wasn't him. It was pale, drenched in mud, its eyes cold and dead. Not the warm ocean 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. 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 into the living room, I could feel Maya's body tense up against mine, knew something bad was about to happen.

Why'd you try to kill me? Try to kill me, Daddy. Why? I thought you loved me, Dad. I thought you... His head reared back impossibly far on his neck. His mouth curved into a 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 she had 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 oz of Kyle's mouth continued to expand, drawing further and further as he spoke again.

Only this time his lips didn't move. The voice, deeper, warped like the words of a demon from the mouth of the possessed, came hissing out of his throat. Why, Dad? Stop! My voice was weak. Then the thing chuckled as Kyle's mouth continued peeling 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 legs hit the couch and gravity planted her on the cushion. She made a surprised O sound. It was lost in the hoarse voice that had hijacked my son's mouth. Wanna bash your little head in? Hammer it until it. The corners of my son's mouth tore.

Rivets 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! Maya moaned. I couldn't speak. My voice was lost. I fished for it. My Adam's apple bobbing.

But it wouldn't come. Kyle's mouth split wider. Bone and tendens snapping and cracking, his lower face soaked in blood. Wanna be a butcher, Dad. The voice within my son chuckled. Hack through gristled in vain and the stretch of pink flesh connecting tiny heads to tiny bodies. Feel the warm rush of blood over your hands. Feel your knife scrape bone as they train.

I saw his throat distend and undulate, like there was a nod of fingers trying to claw their way out. Want to watch the light bleed from their eyes as the life bleeds from their throat? Want to, Dad? Want to? 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 batted her across the face, crackled, and she pitched forward with as much life in her bones as a sack of grain.

That galvanized me into motion. I tossed my daughter onto the couch and lurched for the rack of the 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 her delicate form. I tore the poker free of the fire rack and whipped around, and using my forward momentum to bring the instrument down with as much force as I can muster. Only 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 burying into her brain. I felt bones snap like glass. I felt the poker ease into the spongy folds of her mind. He fell like she was a puppet and I had cut her strings. A little sob 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 as spider legs flickering and pulsing, snapping in all directions. You like killing kids, Dad? You like... Kyle let out a surprised gasp. The spider legs 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 of 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 tendril sucked back into his mind with a throffee 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, a 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 to some variation of the term a 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 mistake I did. And if your kid asks for ice cream, buy them a tub of the store-bought stuff. It's just as good.