 All the kids in my neighborhood know the story about the ice cream truck. It's not a nice one. We do try to tell our parents about what the ice cream truck does to kids, but it's like talking to a brick wall. If you breathe a word of the story to them, they'll simply freeze in place. Their eyes glazing over and unblinking, smiles stretching their faces. It isn't until you give up, feeling completely disheartened and alone, that your parents emerge from their trance, looking puzzled. They'll pat you on the head or shoulder and ask, What were you saying, kiddo? So you see, we can't tell our parents or any other adults about the ice cream truck. It won't let us. I hope the same thing won't happen to you, if you're an adult and hearing this. I'm sorry if it does, truly sorry, but I need to warn other kids. Let's move here to Adaport. The story goes like this. There's a kid named Roger, 10 years old, or maybe eight, or maybe as old as 16. Roger strolls along the street on his way to school or on his way back from it. He walks without a care in the world, swinging his backpack. He's whistling because it's a fine, beautiful, sunlight-strewn day. And then, right as he's nearly reached his destination, he hears it. A strange but cheerful jingle. He starts to smile because he can't help it. That ice cream truck jingle is the kind of sound that makes kids laugh, puts a pep in their step, makes them think about the people or things they love. Roger thinks about his parents and the stack of superhero comics on his desk. And while he's thinking of all these delightful things, he slows down. You don't want to do that when the ice cream truck is around. The source of that jingle rounds the corner and barrels straight at him. Roger sees that it's an ice cream truck. It looks like something you'd see in hell, he thinks, and then scolds himself. Where did that stupid thought come from? No, that ice cream truck doesn't look scary at all. It looks fun, bright shapes decorate every inch of it. And as it approaches Roger, he looks at it more closely and realizes that there are superheroes all over the truck. Superman, Batman, Captain Marvel, the Flash. He is amazed. He's never seen an ice cream truck decorated like that before. Strike that. He's never seen any vehicle decorated like that. The ice cream truck has no name, but he's sure the owner's a great guy, someone who loves comics too. Roger walks over to the truck as it slows down next to him. He can't help it. Someone else has control of his legs now, and they mean for him to come to them. He walks over to the small shuttered window where they normally serve ice cream. And then the door to the truck opens. There are multiple endings to the story, because no one agrees on what exactly happens when the door opens, except for one thing, Roger disappears, and he's never seen again. Back then, I thought that story was a huge load of crap. An ice cream truck, really? That was one of the least frightening things I'd ever heard of. Anyways, I was dealing with enough problems at school. I didn't need to expend energy worrying about some dumb ice cream truck. Richard Goulden led the pack of my bullies, as to don't know why he hated me so much. Maybe it was because of my height or my annoying high-pitched voice back then. Either way, he set out to destroy my life, which wasn't a surprise because I'd been bullied before at other schools. The new kid was always an easy target, and bullies gravitated towards me like bees to honey. Richard wasn't dumb enough to do anything life-threatening, but in some ways, the petty shit was worse. It meant that none of the teachers took me seriously when I complained about what was going on. Boys will be boys, my world literature teacher said indulgently. I had to constantly watch my back and my front, actually, all directions. I never knew when he and his sycophants would strike. They tried to trip me whenever they saw me walking down the hallways, or in the cafeteria. If I brought lunch from home, they either stole it or ruined it. They shoved me into lockers, knocked me upside my head, and muttered insults at me. If I didn't keep a death grip on my backpack, they stole that too. They'd pass it around to each other, laughing hysterically as I tried to save my homework, my textbooks, and my pencil pouch. If you've ever been bullied, then you understand school was hell, and just like my teachers, my parents didn't take it seriously. I knew that my dad was disappointed in me. He wanted me to be tougher, stronger, to be a real man. I'd heard him talking to mom late at night when they both thought I was asleep. Why isn't William like other boys his age? All he does is read. All this to say, when I went to school on Friday morning, I braced myself for the usual bullshit. But I entered my first period math class to find everyone looking somber and subdued. It was eerie to be surrounded by so many pale, silent faces. They looked up at me when I entered the room, then looked back down to their desks. Many of them were sitting very still, not doing homework or chatting with their friends, just staring off into space. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I leaned over to my deskmate, Sarah, and whispered, Sarah only sometimes spoke to me. It wasn't out of arrogance, but fear. Nobody wanted to be my friend because nobody wanted to become the new target of Richard's sadism. Now, she turned to me with wide eyes and said, He's been missing for nearly 15 hours. His parents called the police station and said he never showed up. Couldn't have happened to a nicer person, I thought. But I still wondered why everyone looks so stricken. Richard had never been that popular. I was pretty sure most of us hated and feared him in equal measures. And then I heard it. Someone behind us said, It's the ice cream truck again. Sarah whipped her head around to glare at the offender, Emily. She was a quiet kid who didn't usually speak. But now she fidgeted in her seat, drumming her fingers on the desk, and periodically looking at the doorway as if she longed to escape. Don't be an idiot, said Sarah sharply. There's no such thing. It's not real. Personally, I agreed. The ice cream truck story was just that. A story. It was far more likely that Richard had simply run away. Though he wasn't really the type to do that. Maybe somebody kidnapped him, or a serial killer got him. I didn't wish that fate on anyone, but I'd be lying if I said there wasn't some part of me that thought Richard would deserve it. We all stopped talking when Miss Audrey entered the classroom. She glanced around at us, her eyebrows raised, as if she was puzzled by such an extraordinary feat. But she didn't ask us what was going on. Richard's parents had probably already contacted the school. The math lesson simply continued on as usual. That entire school day was a blur for me. I'd be alert on the lookout for shoves and teasing, and then I'd remember that Richard was missing, and I didn't have to constantly scan my surroundings anymore. Without Richard around, the usual pack of bullies had dissipated, some of them glumly eating by themselves in the cafeteria. That day was probably the best day I'd ever had at school. Everyone left me alone. I started to think that maybe it wasn't such a bad thing if Richard was, you know, incapacitated for a while longer. I didn't exactly want him dead, but I was enjoying the peace and silence of his absence. When the school bell rang, for once I didn't have to speed out of there like a bad out of hell. Instead, I walked slowly and calmly, enjoying the sunshine that had made a sudden reappearance. Winter in NorCal only lasts for all of two weeks, but I'd gotten spoiled by the good weather. The temperature was in the high fifties, and a brisk wind swept over me. It was perfect weather for my walk back home, a trek that usually took around 30 minutes. As I walked home, I shuffled through the playlist on my iPod, into the void played through my earbuds, and I relaxed. I loved rock and heavy metal. Unsurprisingly, my dad disapproved. Right as into the void switched over to a different song, I heard a strange noise. I still had my earbuds on, but I could almost hear it. Maybe it was someone blasting music from their car, or someone practicing drums in their parents' garage or basement. I hesitated, one hand over my left earbud. Curiosity got the better of me. I lowered my earbud, and a blast of sound hit me. I don't know how to describe what I heard. It was one of those melodies that gets trapped in your head, but no matter how hard you try, you can't recreate it. You'll try to hum it, or play it, and whatever comes out of your lips and fingers just doesn't match up to what's in your head. It was even more than that, though. The melody I heard somehow had multiple dimensions to it, sight, smell, and taste. As I listened, I could see that the melody was a carnival, not like or reminded me of a carnival. It was a carnival. I stood there, unmoving, my head tilted to one side, like a bird mesmerized by a snake. I could see the performers in colorful costumes, running around on their stilts. I could even smell the popcorn. Taste, the cotton candy. It was so real that I began to chew on it. The taste of blood in my mouth brought me back to myself. I'd bitten the inside of my bottom lip, not as badly as I could have. But bad enough that when I ran my tongue over it, I could feel blood pooling in the indentations of my teeth. I looked around myself wildly, like a dreamer who'd just woken from a nightmare, and I saw where the melody came from. An ice cream truck. It had no name on its side. It rolled towards me slowly, and I couldn't tear my eyes away. It was beautiful, breathtaking. I thought of my mom then, because she painted in her spare time. It was one of those hobbies we bonded over together that disgusted my dad so much. Real men didn't paint, he said. The way the colors swirled over the truck reminded me of our favorite painting, somewhere new by Linda Woods. It also made me think, irresistibly, of ice cream, the colorful yellow and pink and orange swirls of Sherbert Rainbow ice cream. I walked towards the ice cream truck. It waited for me, the engine rumbling strangely loudly, and the door opened. And I saw who owned the ice cream truck. For an instant, long black gray arms reached for me. And then I blinked, and an old man stood in front of me. His arms held out in welcome. He had strangely bony hands and wrists, but his bright blue eyes twinkled with warmth and welcome. I smiled back at him. He was so hunched over that we were nearly of equal height. Hello, young man. My name is John Goodman. Would you like some ice cream? I nodded and began walking forward. The open door yawned behind him into darkness. There was a moment of unease, and then I told myself not to be silly. I could trust Mr. Goodman. He was my friend. A sharp pain pierced my right ear, the one with the earbuds still in it. The wretched screeched into my ear, and I instinctively tried to lower the volume. The iPod slipped through my fingers and hit the ground. I started to bend down to pick it back up, and then froze. The old man's face flickered. One second, there was a kind, gentle man reaching out to help me. The next something monstrous. It towered over me and had multiple stick-like arms and legs. That was the first thing I noticed. The next, that its enormous body was rotting. It looked and smelled the way spoiled meat does. Every time it moved forward on those thin legs, flakes of skin drifted off from it. Worse though, worse than its insane white eyes and its gaping mouth, were the faces. Faces covered every part of its body and arms and legs, and all of them were screaming. Faces of kids whose eyes rolled madly in their sockets, whose black tongues flapped out, and whose shredded lips formed incoherent shapes. I saw Richard's face on one of its arms, and he saw me. We stared at each other for a full second, and then I scrambled backwards as the things hands reached out for me, its black talons grasping for my face, my clothes, my arms. I screamed in one startled burst, and turned to run. And as I ran, I heard it behind me screaming too. Unlike mine, it was a scream of frustrated rage. I risked a glance backwards, and I saw it slumped down beside the ice cream truck, beating its many arms against the ground in a fit of petulance. The faces of the kids on its arms wailed as their faces smashed apart, bits of bones flying through the air, noses and eyes and lips gouged out to bleed down their cheeks. Once I got home, I went straight into my bedroom and locked the door. I barricaded it with my bookcase on my desk. I even pushed my bed against it. If I'd had anything else to put between myself and the door, I would have used that too. I sat in the middle of my wrecked and messy bedroom, and trembled, and waited for the thing to track me down and kill me. My parents came home, and my dad forced me to undo the barricade. We ate dinner together, and the food was ash in my mouth. As usual, my dad ignored me, except to tell me that it was rude to wear earbuds during dinner. I took them off, but kept them in the pocket of my hoodie. My mom, though, she noticed that I wasn't my usual self. As we watched TV together, the images swirling into a colorful mess before my eyes, she touched my forehead. What's wrong, Will? That was all it took. A dam broke inside my chest, and even though I was worried that she'd cart me off to a mental hospital, I told my mom everything. I finished with, I think it got Richard, the guy who gives me a hard time at school. What should we do? Complete silence. I lowered my hands from my face. My mom had the strangest expression on her face. She was so still that she looked like one of those store mannequins poised behind a storefront window. Finally, she moved. Her eyes began to blink, and her mouth stretched into a yawn. I'm sorry, honey. What were you saying? Nothing. I replied, my chest hollow. I think I'm just coming down with something. I excused myself to bed, and barricaded my bedroom door again. Thankfully, I hadn't lost my iPod. I picked up from where it was charging, and slipped the earbuds from my pocket into my ears. There was no way in hell that I would ever take them off again. It wasn't until I was close to falling asleep that I heard it. A cheerful, lively melody, so loud, I could almost hear it over the music in my earbuds. But I kept turning up the volume on my iPod, even when it hurt so badly I would have given anything to turn it off. I stood up and sprinted over to my bedroom window, looking down. As expected, the ice cream truck was parked outside on the street, waiting for me. Moonlight turned its bright spirals of color into a cruel mocking joke. And the longer I stared at the truck, the easier it became to see that the colors weren't really there. No, the truck was decorated with small bones made from them. Bones glimmered in their spirals under the moonlight and jutted out of the truck. And although I knew it was just my imagination, it seemed to me that I could hear the screams of children again. Someone screamed my name over and over. It sounded like Richard. But he could scream as much as he wanted to, because I wasn't going down there, not if I could help it. I knew that there was something in the ice cream truck looking up at me. Its white eyes gleaming as drool drip down its chin. Something waited for me to take out my earbuds. Waited for me to make a single mistake. Waited for me to come outside. Something hungry.