Lot 120 : If You See An Ice Cream Truck In Your Neighborhood…Go Inside And Lock Your Doors

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“I will be remiss if I did not equate you with this new consignment that came in today.”

With your name on it, nonetheless. A recovered uniform fragment issued we believe to operate as of what was once a mobile vendor service, a cap, white canvas, structured front, slightly yellowing along the seas. There's a stitched emblem on the front, Mr. Frosty. There are patterns associated with this lot.

Beat it observations, consistent timing, and always, music, you'll recognize, most people do.

That unfortunately, appears to be part of the mechanism. Settle in for a tasty tree cold, if you see an ice cream truck in your neighborhood, go inside and lock your doors. Before we begin, I want to point out some of the customers whose names have been etched in brass on this beautiful plaque I had made above the front desk.

These are some of the members of the inner circle of the Antiquarium. We go by the Obsidian Covenant. These initiates include Megan Lynn, Carl Ram, Hotcakes, Shrub, Dan, Lucas Calian, and definitely not a stick figure and not her daughter Gertrude either. We are ever appreciative of your devotion to the order.

Go to the Obsidian Covenant.com to receive the sacrament. Sound harmless enough, right? Welcome to the Antiquarium of Sinister Happenings and Odd Goings On. As you see an ice cream truck in your neighborhood, go inside and lock your doors.

“I don't know how many of them are infected, so you need to listen closely.”

Then this is life for death, amid afternoon as when they come, their boxy white trucks trawling the neighborhood streets, that familiar ice cream truck jingled peeping out from around at loudspeakers and beckoning the neighborhood kids. If you hear that song, the money everyone knows, plug your ears until you get inside. Once inside, shut your minds, press yourself small in the darkest corner of your house,

then wait until the storm passes, and whatever you do, don't play your children in the year, the truck. I don't know how it started or for the land.

It's in complete list, I don't know everything, and I don't want to.

But I know enough to make a survival guide that might spare others the ruin that's torn my family to shreds.

“So if you want to stay alive, pay attention, one plug your ears if you hear the jingle, make”

sure your kids do too, if they can hear it, the truck will draw them like a magnet, that happens, it's already too late, too. If you child steps up to the truck, turn and run, there's good it's gone, there's no use trying to save it, so cowardly thinking of it, save yourself, three, previous rule holds more important if you have other family, if you're gone too, they'll come looking at

the truck all the way in, four, if by some miracle on you see the truck with time and off

“to escape, don't look at the driver, don't try to look at the driver.”

If you see it, hurry inside heading north at jingle, five, finally if you're childless

taken but you manage to escape, be prepared, the thing that comes only to that night is not them, ignore it, it will go away, I learned the start way, I guess I sound crazy, I wish I was, wish I were all some fucked up fever dream that I could sweat out and scolding shower and forget it, my word carries no credence, maybe if I tell you what I have, you'll actually listen, it was a Friday and it was the end of a perfect summer, the whole world

“seemed captured in amber, my daughter and wife were off doing a girl's day and my son and”

I were doing a boys one, the kids were both eight, twins if you're wondering, and still in that phase where hang out with mom and dad was fun, they were stolen back from the park with a familiar jingle, peeled out through the neighborhood, the ice cream man had found his way to our little slice of suburbia, a son cast full eyes on wide, a little tug of blonde hair shifting over them as he looked at that me, he didn't even need

to ask, sure but I said with the grin, he bounced with excitement, powered off down the sidewalk as the boxy-moyed Mr. Frosty's ice cream truck turned the corner, and front of that park quite superb attract, it crunched to a stop aside my son maybe 25 feet for me, I watched this cow took his place beneath the lawn and as wide eyes scanning the menu, I couldn't see the driver, the window was tinted but there must have

been someone inside because the serving window scraped open, I shouldn't have been able to hear it from where I was but I could, the awful sound of hubby used metal screeching on rusty rollers, the inside of the truck was tranced in shadow, like the slant of afternoon sunlight didn't match that deep, pinky darkness in battle, which I should have sent something worse or not, it felt off, felt cold all the sudden, like the truck had sent a chilly wind

biting up the street, up until then I'd been taking my time, joining my boy, leisurely motoring up the sidewalk without a care in the world, then then chill and nibbled through my bones, it triggered something visceral, an air raid siren went alming through my

head, a refiber of my being screaming at me, that something was boss, and for the first

a spirit, a full tilt blind bottle rushed down the sidewalk, my chest squeezed tight, my

“swollen thundering heart fought my lungs for space in a ribcage that was too tiny and full”

of drying cement, the houses, the upper metal-class family homes with white trim and manicured lawns shifted into a colorful blur as I longed down the sidewalk, my legs scissored beneath me, my arms bombed, my cold breath whipped crack through my shrinking lungs, kind of might have heard the slaps out of my sneakers hammered the sidewalk but I don't think

you're that either, he sensed some most wrong, sensitive with that, preternational ability

he afforded, holy that's children, the one that tells them when a mom and dad are fighting,

“even when they can't hear it from across the house, he turned as blonde hair whipping”

in the wind, he looked at me with those piercing blue eyes, blue like two little oceans cooling off a face of sunshine, and then the ice cream man took him, the mass of spider legs floated out of the darkness and sucked my son through the window like shrank wrapped through a vacuum cleaner, snapped back like a ragged hole in the seething tank of hairy jointed fielder, now I did scream, wailed my son's name, he didn't have time to scream,

I heard the wash of air from his mouth has the spider legs torn back by the stag, he blipped

“through the window, his head snapped the top of the frame and cracked forward, and the”

walls like a dead thing on his neck as he disappeared into the truck, I ran harder, the world tilted in swayed underfoot like I was barreling out the deck of the ship and stormy waters, my vision blurred, doubled and snapped together and shot into focus as I lurched up to the ice cream truck, then I froze, my lungs snapped like rubber bands and a thin whistle of air escaped my nostrils, my whole body crawled, my heart was galloping

through my ribcage like a mile wide herd of bison, the inside of the truck was impossible, it was too big, it was, it was the dystopian nightmare, like the truck was a bonfire all to the killing floor of a massive slander, the rotten husks of cattle shoots and bloodstained monolio textured out a sprawling plant like the fossils of a forgotten industry, but it wasn't about it, it was dark soaked in the shadow, but I could see their pale fragile shapes

who went big along for slaughter, faces slack, eyes glazed like broken violated dolls, the livestock was children, hundreds of them, taped in their own filth, shuffling along shoots while hooking figures and bloodstained aprons, and his U.S. GI cold weather masks putured them alive, there were no screams, that was the worst part, it was deadly silent, just the weak shuffling feet, the wet hair of curved eyes opening throats, the syrupy slat of blood

hitting the floor, the dead were hoisted ankle up on a conveyor system, like it had dry cleaners, which zipped them off through a darkened portal into the unknown, a hot trail of blood still spraying from there, 7 necks, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't blink, I felt my stomach churning with nausea, a hot rush of vomit, threatening its way up, then something

grabbed at me, I jumped back and screamed as the pale little hand reached first daddy, it

was kind of, is that bitch at a wrong angle on his broken neck, his eyes were dead, but there

in a voice, I would never hear again, run, then he slammed close the serving window,

“as it cracked shut, I saw the massive spider legs and circling for behind, like interlacing”

fingers, the hairy legs covered his mouth, his eyes, torn backwards and sent a bit of the slaughtered line, then the truck was driving on, the ice-cream jingled crackling cheerfully from its roof-mounted speaker, it growled up the street, turned and disappeared from you, carrying off my only son, for good, okay now, no need to batting, you may feel that, pull the inclination to follow, do not move toward it, stay right here, let me close the window

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“to send in to the unexplained, and unimaginable mom said to them what are you here for, what do you want?”

True accounts of crimes, and anomaly so strange they defy reasoning you as extreme balance. She was forced to eat human flesh and survive the unthinkable. Welcome to the antiquarium of sinister happenings, and documented atrocities. In at that moment, feeling to survive, kicked in almost like an animal instinct.

I told her to run, I knew that minute something terrible had happened. Why would somebody do this to him? Why would they try to hurt my baby? Search the antiquarium of documented atrocities on Apple Spotify and wherever you get your podcasts. Your patience protects more than you think.

Now then, let's return to him. He's just about to understand. Shall we? The hairy legs covered his mouth, his eyes, torn backwards and sent a bit of the slaughter line, then the truck was driving on.

The ice cream jingled crackling cheerfully from its roof-mounted spaker.

For good.

“I'll never forget the way my wife screamed when she came home.”

When I told her what happened among the massive hellish police lights and detectives in cheap suits, her face crumpled. She dropped her knees and howled for her son. I hugged my daughter and cried into her blonde curls.

The first 24 hours are the most important and abduction cases.

But I knew that didn't matter. You what I seen. You knew my boy was gone for good. Which as it turns out wasn't entirely the case, but I knew it just the same on the afternoon that Kyle stopped her ice cream.

I didn't tell the detectives what I had seen. How could I?

“You want to thought I was spending tall tails to disabuse my guilty conscience of the fact that I had heard my”

only boy. And I would have slammed me into a interrogation cell and a lead suspect.

So I lied. I could told them a Mr. Frosty's ice cream truck had taken her.

They put out a statewide ABB. They found nothing. Me and my wife Jessica didn't sleep that night. Her face was puffing. My eyes were red with tears. Maya understood what was happening. Of course she did. Despite being paid, she was smart as hell and quick to catch on.

She also knew the mom and dad needed to be alone. So she put herself to bed without much fuss. I was none. My whole body was cold. It was a sick lie. Giving my wife any hope.

“I knew deep down deep in the furthest pits of my stomach.”

Our son was dead. All of those children were dead.

Blindly shuffled up the murder shoot to those massive things and bloody aprons with their gore-drenched knives and their harm-rific USGI cold weather masks. My wife had said something. I looked up out her. What? She blew snott into a tissue. Crumpled it up.

The car goes out there. What should be looking for in? Try to find that truck. She kept me in accusing glare. She blamed me. I knew she did. Which wasn't her fault. The police said we'd stop my sentence.

My daughter's pale shape, gown and her PJ onesy, clutching her pink blanket, had appeared in the doorway. Honey, I rose and swept my hub. She looked at me. Her eyes wide, wide with fear. Of me? No, no. I knew that had that instant. What she was afraid of. The thing at the back door wasn't our son. It looked like hell. It walked like him. It wasn't him. It was pale.

Trenched in mud. It's eyes cold and dead. Not the warm ocean puddles that had been before, but two icy marbles that could freeze with a look. My wife saw, wrapped Kyle in a brace. He did not back. The two cold eyes were pinned on me.

A knowing smile breaking his face. "Why did you do it dad?" He said as we let him into the living room. I could feel my his body tense up against mine and you something bad was about to happen. My wife asked her son.

His head grew in back and possibly far on his neck and his mouth curved into a dark oval. He made a throaty girl going sound. His eyes rolled back into their sockets, showing only the whites. Just a look at me. Eyes wide, then in Kyle. I don't think she realized that she has started backing up.

I don't think I did either. We backed into the living room. Kyle bearing down on us, forcing us back.

The O of Kyle's mouth continued to expand, drawing further and further as he spoke again.

Only this time, his lips didn't move, and the voice deeper, warped like the words of a demon from the mouth of the possessed came hissing out of his throat. I kill my ass. I want to see her face nails wrapped in brain.

“I think chuckle this Kyle's mouth continued pulling back.”

His lips were her COVID and bile, as teeth were brown and jagged.

Jessica's head was on a swivel between her son and me. Her legs hit the couch,

and gravity clanted her ass on the cushion. The corners of my son's mouth tore, reveal its of blood, sled it down as throat, as mouth continued to pull back, like his head was splitting up on her head. I couldn't speak. My voice was lost. I fished for it. My Adams' apple bombing, but it wouldn't come out.

“Kyle's mouth split wider, wider bone and tendons snapping, crackling his lower face, soaked in blood.”

I never be a butcher, dad.

Feel the one rush of blood over your hands, feel your knife, scrape, fall as they train. I saw a throat and descended and undilated, like it was a not-a-fingers trying to claw their way out. What a watch! The lights bleed from their eyes as their life bleeds from their throat. Watch a chat, water, and water. Then Kyle's head tore back, his cheeks ripping as mouth forced open in an awful, hellish grin and the massive Harry spider-likes exploded through his throat.

“My life started to scream, and one of the spider-likes battered across the face. Her head snapped”

around crackled and she pitched forward with about as much life in her bones as Saka-Grain. That galvanized me into motion. I tossed my daughter under the couch and emerged for the rack of fireplace tools. The spider-likes crackled and snapped, flickering around, like a net of tendrils for my son's broken mouth. My out was tweaking her face crumpled in terror. The spider-likes lunge for her shot forward for a delicate little form. I tore the poker free of the fire-rack and

whipped around using my forward momentum to bring the instrument down with as much force as I could muster. Only I missed him. God, how I missed. My head lunge had lunched away from the spider thing trying to kill her. She had lunched right into the arc of my swing. The barbed end of the poker at the center of her skull and went burrowing into her brain. I felt bone snapped like glass. I felt the poker keys into the spongy folds of her mind. She fell, but she was a puppet and I had

counterstrings. A little saw of escape to she. I was going to face down with a sick and scud. Her head made a tiny fist and then she died. The Kyle thing began to roar with laughter. It turned on me. The spider-likes flickering and pulsing, snapping in the whole directions, like ten of those dealership, two men. Kyle let out a surprised gasp. The spider-likes snout erect like soldiers at attention as the animation drained for my son's face.

At the end of the poker which I'd branched free from my his broken mind was now jutting for my son's left eye. His ocean blue eyeball had deflated. A thin run-up pus ran down one cheek. Then the tendrils suck back into his mouth with a throaty gurgle on my son,

misted in my children's blood, and started to cry. I can hear the sirens getting closer.

“I write this as a warning. I'm pleading cry for others to listen.”

I'm not looking for absolution. I'm broken. A man ruined by the ice cream truck that rode in on hot summer day. I'm sure you'll all see my name folded in the paper, enjoying to some variation of the term family annihilator. But it wasn't me. I bare blame.

God, how I do. But it wasn't homey. Please don't make the same mistake I did.

And if your kids have ice cream, buy them a tub of the store box dust. It's just as good.

“HXD, B-C-R-U-U-C-U-R-W-T-H-X-D-J-A-N-B-J-O-N-L-X-W-C-H-X-D.”

Thank you for your patronage. Hope you enjoyed your new relic as much as I've enjoyed passing along its sorted history. It does come with our usual warning, however. Absolutely no refunds,

no exchanges, and we won't be held liable for anything that may or may not occur while the object

is in your possession. If you've got an artifact with mysterious properties, perhaps it's a company by a history of bizarre and disturbing circumstances. Maybe you'd be interested in dropping it and it's story by the shop to share with other customers. Please reach out to [email protected]. A member of our team will be in touch. Till next time, we'll be waiting for you. Whenever you close your eyes, in the space between sleep and dream. During regular business hours

of course or by appointment, only for you, our best customer. You have a good night now. The antiquarium of sinister happenings, lot 1-2-0. If you see a nice cream truck in your neighborhood, go inside and lock your doors, consigned by the crooked boy, starring Conan Freeman, Everchand, Jade Shand, and Romy Evans, featuring Steven Nulls as the antique dealer, engineering production and sound design by Trevor Shand and Lauren Shand,

theme music by the new brothers. Additional music by Coag, Vivic Abashek, Clement Panchau, Nicholas Reading, and Conan Freeman. The antiquarium of sinister happenings is created and curated by Trevor Moren Shand. Follow us on Instagram and Twitter @antiquariumpod. Call the antiquarium@646-41-7197. Imagine a city unlike any other, simmering 300 years in a rocket skumbo of debauchery versus devotion.

“Gathalicism, confession is anonymous, versus voodoo. I think I've then made a deal with the devil.”

What's you call life? And what I call death? It's a mysterious crossroads where the denizens of this world, and others. It's a trickster and I'm sure whatever he brought back

we'll see you in there, and Nicky Goodlock. This will be a dark ride. Welcome to New Orleans, babies. Listen to something wicked on Spotify. Apple podcasts or whatever you enjoy listening.