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Too Cold For Ice Cream

Updated: Sep 1, 2023

Like eyes in the night, two round truck headlights beamed into her window, illuminating the faded white paint coating the old ice cream truck.

Pheobe, cowering under a blanket on her couch, lifted herself and peeked between two long, blue curtains covering her window. Like eyes in the night, two round truck headlights beamed into her window, illuminating the faded white paint coating the old ice cream truck.

“It’s still out there! I can hear it. The music doesn’t stop anymore. It just doesn’t STOP!” Phoebe cried into her phone, sliding back down.

“Why haven’t you called the police?” Her friend Marissa asked.

“I have!” She shouted, slapping a hand on her mouth, checking outside her window. She could see the ice cream truck headlights piercing through the fog. The ice cream truck hadn’t moved. She breathed a sigh of relief, slumping down on her couch.

“Why didn’t they do anything?” Her friend asked.

“No, they did when I called last week. They couldn’t find him. I had pictures, so I think they believed me. That stupid music and these stupid clothes.” Phoebe growled, scratching at her uncomfortable work uniform—the discordant tone of the ice cream truck’s Greensleeves music causing a surge of nausea.

“Are you still watching the truck!”

“Of course I am! What if it does something? It’s been following me all day. All this over stupid ice cream. Who’s going to pay 200$ for ice cream!” Phoebe shook her head, trying to get the song out.

“Ar- --u -l-me?” Her friend asked.

“Marissa? I can’t hear you. You’re breaking up.” Phoebe’s voice shook. A beep signaled the end of her call. Phoebe redialed her friend. Checking outside. The truck’s headlights illuminated the sparkling fog.

“Oh, come on!” She hissed into her phone, trying to call 911. A tone played, then it beeped off. “What is wrong with you?”

Buy or die

An eerie yet familiar voice said in her head. Phoebe glanced around her living room. Her eyes were wide. A chill raced up her arms. She clamped a hand over her ears, trying to deafen the discordant music.

Buy or die

The voice called again. Darker than before. Phoebe recognized it this time. It was the ice cream truck driver’s voice. Phoebe glanced out the window. The headlights were now in the driveway, beaming through the fog and into her living room window. Phoebe tried calling 911 but couldn’t get through.


The voice, louder than before, reverberated through her house. Phoebe heard a sound that sent chills racing down her spine. The truck’s engine revved. She heard it a second time and lost her nerve. Phoebe sprinted to her front door, made sure she locked it, then ran up her stairs. Seconds later, she heard the truck rev a third time, followed by a heart-shatter crash as the truck smashed into her house.

Phoebe paused and looked down her stairs. Thick white, crystalline fog clouds drifted across her floor. She turned around and ran into her bedroom. The discordant Greensleeves grew louder as she ran. The noise of the song made her feel uneasy and nauseous. She heard another sound. A chanting noise came from the floor below.

Buy or die.

Buy or die.

Buy or die.

Multiple little voices chanted. Phoebe squeaked, jumping forward and searching her room for any spare change. She found a few loose bills that totaled 10$. Phoebe sprinted out of her room and searched the bathroom, then the guest room. She now had only 20$

The chanting reached the stairs and began climbing. Phoebe ran back to her room. Certain she had money stashed somewhere. The chanting reached the top of the stairs in less than a minute, but she couldn’t figure out where she kept her stash. Fog covered the floor in an icy white mist. The chanting continued through her halls, stalking her.

Phoebe ran to her closet, trying to remain still and quiet. Her body shook violently from both a sudden cold and her terror. Soft whimpers escaped her lips. She tried her phone again, using her clothes to keep the bright screen from shining out of her closet. No signal. The chanting reached her bedroom door.


Something hit the door once.


Then twice


On the third hit, it cracked. She couldn’t see what was outside the closet. Only listen to the chanting that moved into her room and the sound of something wet and sludgy hitting the floor. The voices moved around in her room. The discordant Greensleeves playing in her head like a screeching violin. She covered her mouth, trying to keep her shaky voice quiet. The cold air turned frigid, and the fog covered her cowering body.


Something hit her closet door. She screamed.


The door cracked. Splinters fractured outward.


The third hit split the door, forming a crack large enough to see the dull light of the moon. Something wet moved into the break.

Marissa arrived at her friend Phoebe’s house. Her hand clutched a cell phone with 911 dialed. She pulled into the driveway. Aghast at the gaping hole in her friend’s living room wall.

She stepped out of the car and walked in against the cautioning of the operator. Frost covered the floor and shattered pieces of her wall. A small print of ice gathered on each step of her stairs and led into Phoebe’s bedroom. She walked through the broken bedroom door.

Her room was cold, with the same frost covering the walls and ceiling. Her breath hung in the air like a small cloud. Marissa walked over to the closet and opened the door. Nothing. She searched the remainder of the house, but the only sign she could find of her friend was blood frozen to the floor of her bedroom closet.

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