👍

It’s not that cheerful childhood jingle anymore. Now, the ice cream truck plays something strange - somewhere between a melancholy synthesizer and a music box played in reverse. It’s like the future is trying to remember the past… and getting it eerily wrong.

It only shows up at midnight. Never earlier. Never later. It glides through the mist with flickering lights, like Christmas collided with an '80s rave. The music grows slowly, hypnotic, impossible to ignore. Those who hear it stop. Those who resist, dream of it later.

They say each flavor can only be chosen by someone who truly understands the melody. Phantom Raspberry, for instance, is only given to those who hum the chorus - even if they don’t know they’re doing it. A local journalist tried to record the sound. The camera short-circuited. The audio came back sounding like whale songs in Viking dialect.

The driver never speaks. He just turns up the volume.

And if you ever hear that tune drifting down your street in the dead of night...
Will you open the window?
Or cover your ears?

Either choice tastes like mystery.

I always thought that the ice cream truck that passed in front of my house had some kind of bad vibe. The one time I saw the ice cream man in front of me I was so impressed that I never had any intention of buying ice cream again. Maybe he doesn't like adults and just caters better to infants. I don't know.
Worst case scenario now I think I hear his awful tune at night too. His music instead of having a happy tune seems more like a funeral tune.
What's going on?
I don't think I have much desire to go out and find out why the ice cream cart is now passing in front of my house at midnight.
Curiosity overcomes the fear of going out at midnight. But today I will find out this mystery.
It's midnight, I leave my house, and I leave the door ajar, in case I have to run back. I go with great stealth following the funereal tune of the ice cream truck. The hairs on my arms stand on end as I approach the truck. It's strange the gloomy atmosphere that envelops this whole space.
There he is, the ice cream man. He's scooping some of the cream from the ice cream to serve it into a tub, but there's no one buying ice cream. Suddenly he turns around and can see me. His face is horrible.He comes to me...
His eyes shine as if throwing darts at me, and his teeth are peeking out from his lips and becoming sharp. They are fangs. I'm paralyzed, I can't run.
And he immediately digs his sharp fangs into my neck, while I am frozen with fear. I feel the warm fluid of my body running down my neck, draining, and then I can only hear the funereal tune of the ice cream truck.

Here is my entry

It is really interesting to spend the beautiful moments of life. Some nature comes in front of us. Just then, humming songs come to my heart with the south wind. After the humming songs ended, I started thinking of myself as a Facebook blogger. But when I see children eating ice cream, my tongue starts watering, it is really difficult to stop it. It is very difficult to bring myself in front of the camera through others as a Facebook blogger. At that time, singing a song like Madhur in a crazy tune without connecting the C-type connection of my purchased (boya) microphone was like not recording. Right then, after going to the gallery and watching the video, seeing the movements of my face, I felt like singing again in tune. And (boya) or microphone was not connected. But the melody of the song was extraordinary. Well, I still want to say. It was a mistake of the mind not to record. Thank you all for your valuable time and cooperation with me.

Best regards @mdakash62

At first, I thought I was dreaming.
A soft bassline thumping “Back That Ice Up” floated through my window at 12:03 a.m.

I peeped outside, expecting Mr. Jerry in his neon vest and melted cones.
But no driver. Just the truck, glowing purple, blasting what sounded like a remix of Afrobeats and Gregorian chanting.
I went closer.
“Midnight snack?” the truck asked.
I blinked. The door opened.

Next thing I knew, I was breakdancing in my pajamas to an otherworldly beat, holding a cone of Spicy Regret Swirl.
Now I wait for it every night. I haven’t had normal dreams since.

No one remembers exactly when the music changed.

It used to be the cheerful jingle you’d expect—those familiar, clinking chimes that sent kids scrambling for spare change and sweaty dollar bills. But one summer night, it changed. The melody became slower, almost mournful, like a music box forgotten in the attic. And then, the truck stopped coming during the day.

Now it only comes at midnight.

It started in our neighborhood first. That same warped tune would slither through the streets like a whisper in the fog. You didn’t hear it as much as feel it—like something brushing past the edge of your dream. People said it was a prank, some bored teen with a speaker. But we knew better. Kids who stayed up to see it told stories the next day: of a truck that looked old and rusted, headlights dim like tired eyes, wheels that didn’t quite touch the ground.

And of the man behind the window.

They say he wears a paper hat and a stained apron, always smiling, though no one can ever describe his face. It's not that they forget—it’s that their memory skips, like a scratched record. You remember the ice cream. You remember the truck. But not him.

And the flavors?

They were never the same twice.

One night, Timmy Stevens got a scoop that shimmered like starlight. Said it tasted like his mom’s singing, before she passed. Another kid bit into something cold and purple and started crying, even though he didn't know why. My sister swears her cone tasted like the last day of summer—warm, soft, and a little sad.

We didn’t talk about the price.

Not at first.

See, the man never took money. Just asked, in that slow, grinding voice:
“What will you give?”

Some gave buttons. Some gave secrets. One kid—Jason Heller—gave the memory of his sixth birthday. Said he couldn't remember the clown, or the cake, or even that it happened at all. But he swears the sundae he got in return was worth it.

Others weren’t so lucky.

Mia Calderon gave her reflection. We still see her around, but mirrors don’t. Not anymore.

And then there was Derrick Marsh. He offered his shadow. For a while, he was fine. But after a few weeks, he started to fade. First it was just in photos. Then he stopped casting footprints. One morning, his bed was empty. His parents say he ran away. But we know better.

Last night, I heard the tune again.

Faint and dragging, like a lullaby played backward.

I slipped out the door in my pajamas, heart thudding like a drum. The truck waited at the end of the block, surrounded by mist that hadn’t been there before. I approached, one step at a time, not sure if I was dreaming.

The window slid open.
He was there. Smiling. Waiting.
“What will you give?” he asked.

I looked at the glowing list of flavors, each name flickering like a candle:
"Regret Ripple."
"Lavender Goodbye."
"Midnight Memory Crunch."
"Father’s Laughter (Limited Time)."

I swallowed.

“I’ll give...my fear,” I said.

His smile widened—not kind, not cruel, just endless—as he handed me a cone the color of rain. I took a bite. It tasted like the dark, like falling and flying at the same time. I didn’t feel afraid anymore. Not of the dark. Not of him. Not of what came next.

And as I walked back home, barefoot and shivering, I realized something:

The truck wasn’t just giving ice cream.
It was taking pieces of us.
And leaving something else behind.

Tonight, it will come again.

Midnight always finds someone.

And the music plays on.

The world has changed, strange things happen, the unimaginable has become real, people no longer trust the police and fear is their best security. Everything starts to change with the sunset, the world becomes more sinister and strange things start to happen. Last month, a car selling ice cream appeared in the city, a closed van, you don't see anyone, there is only one opening to place an order, you only see the hands of the person in charge. I have bought several ice creams from this place, they are delicious, but there is a mystery that intrigues the city. When the bell of the city church starts to chime midnight, the children's music that comes out of the vehicle's becomes terrifying, a sound that makes your spine shiver. The car travels through the city streets causing devastating mental terror, if you don't sleep before midnight, you will not sleep again until dawn. And worst of all, if the lights in your house are on, it stops in front of your home. There are strange reports about a demonic clown that comes out of the ice cream truck, people say that he appears if you open your doors and/or windows to see what is happening. It is something so macabre that no one knows what is happening, the only information we have is that people are disappearing and the mystery remains in the air.