The Ice Cream Man

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The discordant strains of “Turkey in the Straw” blared from the gray bullhorn style speaker affixed to the old ice cream truck. The truck was white and battered, and covered with poor renderings of popsicles and ice cream novelties. The fading blue letters - some of which were now unreadable - announced that the truck belonged to the “ce Cre Man”.

The sun was blazing that day, as it had been for the past week, and a group of kids gathered on the corner of Oak and Forest streets. They had learned that the ce Cre Man would pull over there if there was an audience most afternoons around 1:30.

That day was no different. The truck came to a stop, and the driver made his way from the cab to the rear of the truck with its plain metal coolers and cash register. He was tall and he looked older than most would imagine he was or should be due to the long thinning blonde hair that seemed to be perpetually plastered to his face. He had a three-day shadow of a beard and his dark eyes were missing a level of jovial mirth that one would think a man in his profession should have. He wore a light blue button down shirt and jeans that were probably clean at some point. On his chest was a nametag with an engraved smiling ice cream cone on one side, and the name “Arthur” in etched red lettering beside it.

He slid open the truck’s side window and looked at the kids, eyeing them with interest. He didn’t see one of interest at first, but he felt that he or she - could be either - was nearby.

He sold his treats with as little discussion as possible, not smiling at the kids as they or their parents pushed cards and phones at him to pay. No one used cash anymore. Which was fine with Arthur. It cut down on face time with the kids and their guardians.

A short, brown-haired boy of 8 or 9 made his way to the front of the line and asked for an ice cream sandwich. Arthur stared at him, and barely acknowledged the boy’s mother as she paid him. This would be the one he would visit tonight.

Arthur kept an eye on the boy as the rest of the kids made their purchases. He and his mother were walking east on Forest. Arthur closed the sales window and climbed back into the cab of the truck. He waited a few minutes and started the engine. He turned off the speaker and slowly pulled away.

He followed the boy and his mother at a reasonable distance until he saw which house they entered. He passed by, and saw it was a red brick bungalow with bushes along the west side of the house where the driveway was. He noted there was no fence to the back yard. This meant there was likely no dog. That was one less complication.

Arthur drove away.

Around 10:30 that night he returned, this time in his 1995 Chevy Silverado. Rusted patches blemished the body of the truck like metallic acne. The truck bed was covered by a black topper.

Arthur parked half a block away from the boy’s house and watched through binoculars. Around 10:30 the lights in the front room of the house went out. Ten minutes later, a light near the back went out.

Arther waited a few minutes, then got out of the truck. He approached the house casually while avoiding street lights. He didn’t think anyone would see him, but even if they did, he made it a point to not be memorable. He was tall, but not imposing and his slender frame did not put in anyone’s mind images of a threat, though that is exactly what he was.

When he reached the boy’s house, Arthur ducked into the back yard. He hunched low so a glance from a window would not spot him. Once he got to the back yard, he made his way to a bedroom window that he knew from instinct and vast experience would be the boy’s.

Arthur hid himself behind a tree near the window. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folding knife. The silver handle gleamed in the moonlight. Arthur ran his thumb along the top of the knife, readying himself to flick it open and go to work. He knew it would not be long.

A chill filled the night air. Arthur tensed as a a shadow crept into the yard and approached the boy’s window. As it got close, all the night sounds disappeared. The chips of the crickets, the ambient noise of cars, all gone, leaving only the crisp sounds of nearby rustling. The shadow raised a wispy hand towards the sill. It stopped and turned towards where Arthur was hiding. Two red eyes glared out from the murky face.

“I smell you,” the shadow said in a voice that seemed like three as it launched towards Arthur.

The knife flew open in an instant. A dazzling white light danced along the blade and enveloped Arthur. His eyes blazed with the same light as the blade.

Arthur dodged as the shadow glided past him. He swung the blade, catching only the night.

The shadow turned. Arthur could now see its open red maw with sharp yellow teeth, though he was not surprised. He had seen these things countless times before.

“We hunger,” the voices said.

Arthur rushed the shadow, slashing at it with his blade. He made a superficial cut in the shadow’s arm which seemed to be made of currents of black smoke. It was not a serious injury, but it caused the shadow to scream in anger.

The shadow raked at Arthur with dark claws. They dug into his shoulder, and Arthur staggered backwards. Before he could ready himself, the shadow was on him, its teeth snapping at Arthur’s throat. Arthur spun and jabbed the knife into the shadow’s side. The creature’s voices howled in pain. Putrid black globules dripped from the shadow and landed on the ground with a burning hiss.

The shadow forcefully shoved Arthur away. He tumbled backwards onto the ground, dropping the knife.

The shadow leered at Arthur, and shot towards him, claws outstretched, gales of multi-pitched laughter pouring from its mouth. Arthur waited until the last possible moment and rolled to the side. The shadow raked its claws across his back, ripping open Arthur’s shirt and flesh, leaving three deep lines of blood on Arthur’s skin.

Arthur cried out in pain as he continued to roll. The shadow grabbed his legs as Arthur’s hand scrabbled for the knife. The creature laughed again.

Arthur’s fingers were barely able to grab the knife before the shadow picked him up by his legs and flung him through the air. Arthur hit the house, smacking hard into the brick. He collapsed onto the ground, the wind knocked out of him. Arthur was fairly certain his left arm was broken.

The shadow laughed and slowly floated towards him. It lowered its head to Arthur’s level. “We kill you…and then we feed,” the creature said, its maw opening wide. The yellow teeth preparing end Arthur’s existence.

“Not tonight,” Arthur shouted as he jammed the knife into the creature’s mouth. Bright white light flooded the shadow, which screeched in pain and surprise. Beams of light shot through and out the creature’s head. as blazing runnels of light crisscrossed the shadow’s form. The shadow screamed and gyrated until the light consumed it and it vanished.

The sound of the crickets and the neighborhood returned. A dog barked nearby. A light came on near the back of the house and Arthur scrambled behind the tree. A man stepped out and looked around. Seeing nothing in his cursory inspection, the man went back inside. Arthur could hear the lock snap shut.

Arthur stood and peeked into the boy’s bedroom. The boy was tucked under covers, but even so, Arthur could tell he was no longer marked.

Without a word or further hesitation, Arthur made his way back to the front of the house and down the block to his truck. His left arm was badly hurt, but it would heal.

The ice cream truck did not appear at Forest and Oak again that summer. The neighborhood kids were naturally disappointed by this rude development, and the boy was no different. He told his mom that he hoped the ice cream man would come back because he felt like he should thank him. His mother, who had always found Arthur to be a bit creepy, just smiled. She didn’t ask why her son wanted to thank the ice cream man, and, truth be told, her boy wasn’t sure either. It just seemed like it would have been the right thing to do.

Two weeks later, Arthur pulled his truck up to a different block in a different town. “Turkey in the Straw” blared as Arthur eyed the children. He spotted a young girl, probably eight years old. She would need his help. But, first, he had some ice cream to sell.

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