Introduction
This creepypasta scary story is from the nosleep subreddit, written by TheCrookedBoy, make sure to check out the original story and support the author!
"If you see an ice cream truck in your neighborhood, go inside and lock your doors." www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/p9icif/if_you_see_an_ice_cream_truck_in_your/
Special thanks to @Romnex for joining me in this video!
Thumbnail artwork by whitneyw check out their art here: www.deviantart.com/whitneyw/art/My-Greatest-Fear-346697867
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Content
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, their boxy, white trucks trawling the neighborhood streets, that familiar Ice, Cream, Truck, Jingle, piping out from roof-mounted loudspeakers and beckoning.
The neighborhood kids.
If.
You hear the song --.
The one everyone knows --.
Plug your ears until you get inside.
Once, inside, shutter 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.
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., 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.
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.
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.
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., Wish.
It were all some f*cked 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 Man had found his way to our little slice of suburbia.
My, son, Kyle's blue eyes, went wide, a little tug of blond 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 Mister.
Frosty's Ice Cream truck turned the corner and trundled up our quiet suburban tract.
It crunched to a stop beside my son, maybe twenty-five feet from me.
I watched 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've 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've sensed.
Something was wrong.
It felt off.
Felt cold, all of the sudden.
Like that 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.
Every 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 it, 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, scissored beneath me., My arms pumped., My, cold breath, whip-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've heard the slap-thud of my sneakers hammering, the sidewalk, 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 blond 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 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, jointed, feelers., Now I did scream.
Wailed.
My son's name --.
--.
He didn't have time to scream.
I heard a woosh 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 lolled 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..
It was a dystopian nightmare.
Like.
The truck was a portal to the killing floor of a massive slaughterhouse.
The rotten husks of cattle, chutes 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, glazed., Like, broken.
Violated dolls.
The livestock was children.
Hundreds of them.
Caked in their own filth, shuffling along chutes 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 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 a conveyer system --.
Like at a dry-cleaners --.
Which zipped them off through a darkened portal, into the unknown, a hot trail of blood still spraying 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 it's 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 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 hear again.
"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., 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.
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 in cheap suits.
Her face, crumpled.
She dropped to her knees and howled for her son.
I hugged, my daughter and cried into her blond.
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 had seen.
How could I? They would have thought I was spinning tall-tales 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 Mister Frosty's, Ice, Cream Truck had taken him.
They, put out a state-wide.
Apb.
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 dead.
All.
Those children were dead.
Blindly shuffled up the murder-chute to those massive things in bloody-aprons, with their gore-drenched knives.
And their 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, an 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 onesie, 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.", She, said., "Kyle's, home.", The thing at the back door, wasn't.
Our son.
It looked like Kyle.
It, walked like him., It, wasn't, him.
It was pale.
Drenched in mud., It's 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.
A, 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.
"What?".
My wife asked our son.
"Why'd.
You try to kill me? Try 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 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 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, ya f*cking do it? You like killing little kids, dad?, Wanna, kill Maya?.
Wanna, see her pigtails wrapped in brain?".
"Stop..." My voice was weak, thin.
The thing.
Chuckled as Kyle'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 legs hit the couch, and gravity planted her ass on the cushion.
She made a surprised oh!.
Sound.
It was lost in the hoarse voice that had hijacked my son's mouth.
"Wanna, bash her little head, in?, Hammer it until crumples and all those little girl thoughts and feelings come spilling out?" The corners of my son's mouth, tore.
Rivulets of blood sledded 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, wider, bone and tendon snapping and crackling.
His lower face soaked in blood.
"Wanna be a butcher, dad?", The voice within my son, chuckled.
"Hack through gristle and vein.
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 drain?" I saw his throat, distend and undulate, like there was a knot of fingers trying to claw their way out.
"Wanna.
Watch the light bleed from their eyes, as their 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.
Her head, snapped around, 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 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 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., 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 burrowing into her brain.
I felt bone snap 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 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 tube-men.
"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 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.
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 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, buy them a tub of the store bought stuff.
It's, just as good.
