Main Menu
Front Page
News and Announcements
Ask the Elder
Meet the Council
From the Associates
Night's Beat
Art Gallery
Articles of Interest
Short Story
Interview with a Vampire
Reviews and more
The Vampire's Vestibule
Polls
Letters to the Editor
Comments from the Website
Cartoon Corner
From the Staff
Advertising
Credits
Link To Us
Friends
Past Issues
The Vampire Church
The Darkfear Network
Guestbook
Have a Comment?
Contact
VC Magazine
PO Box 831
Tappahannock, VA
22560
VCMagazine_Staff@ yahoogroups.com
Magazine Staff
Damien Daville, Producer
LA Judge, Editor
Tell a Friend
Click HERE to tell a friend about the VC Magazine.
Top Site Listings
Vote for us in the
|
Lactose Intolerance
by Blaise Shaw
There it was again. That sound, like a soprano being strangled; shrill, shrieking, melodic and mechanical. The ice cream truck was coming.
The churning began; twisting, knotting in my stomach. My heart leapt into my throat. Even the thought of ice cream could send me running; phobia related lactose intolerance.
But that was irrational, right? A fear of a truck just because it made sounds only found in B-rated horror movies.
But it wasn’t the truck with its morgue like interior. It wasn’t the cheesy, nerve-grating music. It was the person who drove the ice cream truck.
No matter how many ice cream trucks I had seen, the driver was always a friendly, smiling old gentleman. The kind who probably took the job to see the smiles a simple pleasure brings. Who doesn’t love ice cream, right? This is what I was afraid of.
Why? My sister would be the culprit of that. When I was seven, I was standing in front of the missing children poster that hangs in most department stores. I remember looking up at the poster thinking how big it was, how many little faces there were smiling down at me. My sister walked up beside me, staring wide-eyed at the faces, too. Even after all these years, one particular face stays in my mind. Samantha Sullivan.
The poster said she had blonde hair and brown eyes, age seven when she disappeared. I couldn’t tell from the black and white photo, all I could see was the sweet smile on her face. She was just like me. And if it could happen to her, it could happen to me, too.
“What happened to them?” I asked.
My sister was still standing was still standing beside me, looking at those same faces, and with all seriousness she looked me right in the eye and said:
“The Ice Cream Man took them.”
No one could horrify me like my older sister. She had a natural talent and she practiced every chance she got. But the Ice Cream Man was different. She told me how the Ice Cream Man chose his victims, all the little children who went up alone to get ice cream. He would ask them to step around to the back of the truck because the window would be stuck or some other excuse. Once the child got to the back of the truck he would pull them in and rip them apart with his jagged teeth. She described in detail the dismembered body parts in the freezer and how he used the sink to clean up. And then she pointed straight at little Samantha and said:
“Doesn’t she look like a tasty treat?”
All children have probably been told stories like that; little stories to scare them into behaving or not talking to strangers. They’re as common as fairytales. Thousands of dollars of therapy later I’m ready to confront mine. The jangling sounds are right outside the window; the truck has stopped at the foot of my drive. I know what I have to do.
My hand shakes as I turn the knob. There it sits, like a menacing dragon screeching, waiting to devour its prey. The money in my hand is clammy with cold perspiration. The little old man smiles down at me from the driver seat.
“Looks like you’re my only customer today, “ he says as he makes his way to the back of the truck.
I edge closer, the serving window is shaded with a sign reading, “Sorry, Out of Service”.
My heart jumped into my throat. I can’t do this. I can’t go through with this. Not today. I’ll come back tomorrow, when there are other people around. When there are children who aren’t afraid of him…
But there was the little old man, smiling at me from the open doorway.
“It’s been a slow year. People just don’t seem to want ice cream anymore,” he sighed.
“But what can I get for you today?”
“I-I’m not really sure. I h-haven’t had ice cream in a long time,” I stammered.
“Well, that’s okay. You just step on into the truck and see what you like. I won’t tell if you won’t,” he said with a conspiratorial tap of his nose.
I closed my eyes and stepped into the truck. A sharp, metallic scent overpowered me. I opened my eyes and saw a little blonde pigtail jutting out of the freezer, bloody handprints smeared across the walls, the freezer. My eyes fell to the sink where a chubby arm protruded, the little hand still grimy from ice cream.
All those years of being laughed at, going to therapy, and it was true. It was all true.
I turned to run and there he was, the little old man smiling down at me. Except for now his face did not seem so friendly, his dentures dangled in his left hand. Sharp, jagged teeth smiled at me.
“You’re never too old for a tasty treat…”
|
|