🔴 THE ICE CREAM TRUCK MUSIC WAS COMING FROM INSIDE MY HOUSE
I swear I almost choked on my own spit when I saw him standing there.
He was just… humming, stirring something in a saucepan, the window open, letting in the summer air thick with honeysuckle and… was that butterscotch? “Dad? What the *hell* are you doing?” He just smiled, this weird, faraway look in his eyes, like he was seeing something I wasn’t.
The smell was getting stronger, cloying, sickly sweet. He pointed a wooden spoon at me, “Just making a little something special, sweetheart. For your mother.” But Mom’s been gone for five years. He knows that. Right? The spoon clattered on the counter, and the ice cream truck music got LOUDER.
That’s when I noticed the tiny, flickering lights coming from the basement door.
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The music pulsed, a distorted, off-key rendition of “Turkey in the Straw.” My heart hammered against my ribs. “Dad, please,” I whispered, backing away. “What’s in the basement?”
He didn’t answer, just kept stirring, the cloying smell of butterscotch now laced with something metallic, something… wrong. His eyes, normally gentle, were glazed over, reflecting the flickering lights from the basement door. They seemed to grow brighter.
I slowly, cautiously, edged towards the basement door, my hand reaching out to the cold metal handle. The music grew louder, morphing into a frantic, desperate jingle. With a deep breath, I pulled the door open.
The air that rushed out was frigid, a stark contrast to the humid summer heat upstairs. The flickering lights weren’t lights at all; they were dozens, maybe hundreds, of tiny, ice cream truck-shaped lights, all blinking in a chaotic frenzy. In the center of the room, bathed in their eerie glow, was a… thing.
It was a massive, churning machine, made of mismatched metal parts and rickety wood. Tubes snaked across the floor, connecting to strange, glowing vats. And at the heart of it, being slowly, methodically pulled through the machine, was… Mom’s wedding dress.
I screamed, a raw, primal sound that ripped through the air. My father startled, the wooden spoon clattering to the floor. He looked up, and for a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Confusion. Fear. Then, the glazed look returned.
He took a step towards me, his hand outstretched, and the ice cream truck music reached a deafening crescendo. “She’s coming back, sweetheart,” he mumbled, his voice a distorted whisper. “She’ll be here soon. And she’ll love the special flavor.”
I didn’t wait. I turned and ran, out of the house, into the summer air. The scent of honeysuckle couldn’t mask the cloying sweetness anymore. I didn’t stop running until I was miles away, the distorted tune of the ice cream truck music, and the image of the machine, forever etched in my mind. I never looked back. The house, and my father, were lost to a sickening sweet oblivion. And sometimes, late at night, I can still hear the faint, distant jingle. And the smell of butterscotch… haunts my dreams.