Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25268769-20140809063152

When I was a little kid, like in most suburban neighborhoods, there was always an ice cream truck that drove around on the weekends selling ice cream to children and their parents. The peculiar man that owned and operated the ice cream truck that drove around my neighborhood was named something like Mister Smith, but I can't really remember that well.

Of all the times I went to Mister Smith's truck for ice cream, one time stands out in particular. I had just gotten home from school on Friday, and my father was snoozing in front of the TV while my mother made me lunch in the kitchen when I heard the merry jingle of the ice cream truck.

"Oh, boy! Mom, Mister Smith is out! Can I go run and grab a freezy-pop?"

"Alright, Duncan, but don't be too long!" she yelled back at me as I burst out the door and ran down the curb towards the ice cream truck.

When I got out, I noticed something a bit off, there were no other children around! Usually, Mister Smith's jingle attracted all the children from the block to come and get some ice scream, so I found it a bit strange that they were no-where to be seen. When I stumbled up to the truck, I waved at Mister Smith and he gave me a big smile.

"What would you like today, Duncan?" he said, drumming his fingers across the counter top of his truck.

I quickly pointed at the third option on his menu, my favorite! The Thunderbolt, it was called, and it was one of the largest items on the menu. I tossed the dollar and fifty cents pay for my pop on the counter, but Mister Smith shook his head and told me it was on the house today because I'd been so polite. I was proud of myself, and held up my hand for the ice pop when suddenly Mister Smith said something that startled me.

"Hey, Duncan, do you want to see the inside of my truck?"

It startled me a bit, Mister Smith had always just been the nice man that gave me ice cream, I'd never really been invited to his truck or spoken with him for more than a few minutes at a time. However, I thought that I might be able to get a soda and some free ice cream.

"Alright, Mister Smith, where's the door!"

Suddenly, however, my mother came down the block, upset that I'd taken too long to get my ice cream and hurry home. She came out yelling at me, and her eyes got wider when she saw that Mister Smith was opening the ice cream truck's door and letting me in.

“Duncan, you need to get inside, it's going to rain- Duncan, why are you getting in Mister Smith's ice cream truck!”

She ran up to me and grabbed me by the wrist, shooting a look at Mister Smith and dragging me off without my ice cream. I protested, angrily shouting at her:

“But, mommy! I was about to get a Thunderbolt for free AND see the inside of Mister Smith's truck!”

A week passed after that, and I didn't her the familiar jingle of Mister Smith's ice cream truck. My parents had a worried expression on their faces when I asked them, and dismissed the topic immediately. I was curious, and in a month when nothing happened I asked one of the other kids at school who's father was a police officer if they knew what happened to Mister Smith. They told me a horrifying story, and I don't know if I believe it to this day, but I've a sneaking suspicion it's the truth.

“Well, my dad got home one night from work and he look really upset. He made me go to bed early that night and tried to talk to my mom in private, but I listened in on it. He said that Mister Smith was a predator and had been preying on kids in town for a long, long time. Lots of kids disappeared on Fridays when he came by.”

My friend stops his story for a moment, taking a drink from his juice box before continuing.

“Anyways, apparently he got kids to get into his ice cream truck and took them home, where he'd cut 'em up and put their arms and stuff inside the freezer in his truck and sometimes he even put it inside the ice cream.”

I was disgusted, and told him as much, but he told me that was the truth. I went home, and told my parents the story, who dismissed it as a rumor that held no water. Even still, I shudder to think what might've happened if my mother hadn't come out that afternoon.

  