RE: Qurator's Mischievous Mondays | The Ice Cream Truck Plays Different Music Now

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.