Darkness Creeping: Twenty Twisted Tales Page 2

  “Dad, do you think you could get me some surveillance videos from Fillmore Savings for a school project?”

  “No,” his father said. “What’s the project?”

  “We’re doing a mathematical study of how many people use the ATM machine. Can you get those tapes for me?”

  “No. Why don’t I just get you the bank’s statistics?”

  “We’re supposed to write up the statistics ourselves. Can’t you get me some videos?”

  “No,” said Mr. Zybeck. “I’ll ask around.”

  Mr. Zybeck had so many strings he could pull around town, he was often getting tangled up in them. Getting the tapes was fairly easy—certainly easier than having to listen to Marty nag about them—which is exactly what Marty was counting on.

  With a determination he rarely showed, Marty settled in to watch the surveillance tapes. The thing about the Creamy-Cold man is that he didn’t come every day, and he always came at a different time. You could never predict when you’d hear that maddening “Pop Goes the Weasel” tune. Marty had no way of knowing when he might pass by in the background. He watched hour after hour of tape, amazed at how many people at the ATM made faces at the camera, figuring no one would actually watch it. He saw one mugging, which his father claimed to already know about, but no ice-cream truck. He was about to give up when a white blur zoomed past in the background—a blur that was somehow different from all the other cars, trucks, and buses that zipped by. Marty hit the pause button so hard, the remote flew out of his hand. He picked it up and played the last few seconds frame by frame.

  It was there in the tenth frame.

  It was blurry, it was faint, but it was there: a speeding white truck with pictures of ice-cream selections on the side, and there was a big sign over the service window that said CREAMY-COLD.

  Success! Proof positive! There actually wasa Creamy-Cold truck. Tyler had been wrong—it was real. Maybe he was right in saying that it never stopped—but that could just be because it was driven by a psychotic ice-cream man. Sure—that was it—some lunatic who got his kicks taunting people with the promise of ice cream never delivered—but this was no ghost truck!

  Then Marty let the video go one more frame—and what he saw in the next frame reallygot his attention.

  The truck had progressed farther into the image. Its front end was already out of the picture, but now the entire sign above the service window could be read. It said CREAMY-COLD. CATCH MEIF YOU DARE.

  Marty smiled. This was a challenge if ever there was one. He would catch the Creamy-Cold man—not just for himself but for all the kids who had ever run out into the street only to be denied the ice cream they so rightfully deserved. The Creamy-Cold man was going down!

  Literature tells of a captain, name of Ahab.

  Ahab had an unhealthy obsession with a great white whale that led to the destruction of his ship, and to his own untimely end. He had a first mate named Starbuck. I know what you’re thinking, but Starbuck had absolutely nothing to do with making coffee. If he had, perhaps Captain Ahab might have kicked the whale habit and pursued the white-chocolate latte instead of the white whale. Unfortunately, as Ahab discovered, obsessions are rarely reasonable, and quite often will lead to one’s personal doom. Although few involve the death of a sea mammal.

  Marty’s great white whale had four wheels and played a painfully annoying tune. He had no Starbuck to help him, since his first mate, Tyler, was off at the tribal casino, which, thanks to the luck of the Irish, was raking in big bucks. Therefore, in this obsession, Marty was alone.

  Catching the ice-cream truck on film was different from catching it in person. It required a plan. He drew a map of the neighborhood, marking the entry and exit points. He labeled the sight lines from various key vantage spots. Then Marty took stock of the tools at his disposal. There were lots of them, because Mr. Zybeck often brought home things from the office that wouldn’t be missed. Things like paper clips, or police tape, which was good for wrapping presents if you ran out of ribbon. Mr. Zybeck brought home a few body bags once. Mrs. Zybeck found them wonderful for storing linens, although they did give Grandma quite a scare.

  The various items Mr. Zybeck made off with from the police station were stockpiled in the garage. Marty systematically went through them, searching for things that he could use. There was a stun gun, but it was missing its charger. There was an entire case of pepper spray. There were batons and police lights, but none of them could be retooled for Marty’s big scheme . . . until he saw the spike strip rolled up in the corner. Marty had seen spike strips before. In a police pursuit, they were rolled out in front of a speeding car to pop the tires and bring the chase to an end. Mom and Dad had used the strip once to stop Marty’s older sister from sneaking out at night—but it was only effective the first time. This is exactly what he needed! Maybe he couldn’t stop the ice-cream man, but four flat tires would slow him down to a crawl! With surprising stealth and cunning, Marty set his trap, and waited until he could spring it.

  Fables tell of a tortoise who manages to beat a hare in a race.

  The hare started out in the lead, but he was so sure of his victory that he took a nap as he neared the finish line, and slept while the tortoise slowly but surely took the gold. Of course, in reality, the hare was probably eaten by a pack of wolves, and that’s why the tortoise won the race, because, after all, nature is cruel, but it doesn’t lessen the moral of the story: slow and steady (and a really hard, fang-proof shell) wins the race.

  This was a lesson Marty always took to heart. He was always last. He was always behind—but in the end Marty always reached his goal—and he had a tough enough shell to ignore the bites and pecks of others who would much rather see him fail.

  Marty waited with uncommon patience until July Fourth, when at 8:40 in the evening, he heard a familiar tune piercing the twilight. He wasted no time—he started his stopwatch and ran into the street.

  The streets were deserted, as everyone had gone down to the lake to watch the fireworks that would be starting at any moment. It would be perfect! There was no one to get in Marty’s way!

  Instead of following the music, as he usually did, he ran across the street, through two backyards, until he came out onto another street. His neighborhood was like a maze—streets that wound back and forth. It was easy to get lost if you didn’t know where you were going.There were only two entrances into Marty’s subdivision. A vehicle moving at the breakneck speed of sixty miles per hour could wind through the streets from one entrance to another in exactly one minute and forty-five seconds.

  By cutting through backyards, he got to the first entrance in fifty seconds. Sitting there, on the sloped street, was his sister’s car. His sister had recently gotten her license, and was forced, in spite of the utter embarrassment of it, to drive their mother’s old Buick station wagon. Marty had promised her his dessert for three weeks if she would just park her car in this exact spot.

  Now he pulled open the door, put the car in neutral, and moved away from it. It began to roll backward, where it hit a plastic trash bin resting in the gutter across the street. Marty had positioned that trash bin there, and filled it with bricks, so it would stop the rolling car. It did the job. Now the station wagon was blocking all traffic in and out of the neighborhood.

  As for the Creamy-Cold truck, it had come in from the other entrance. It would try to get out this way in exactly twenty-five seconds. When it couldn’t, it would have to turn around to go out the way it came. Even as he ran from the station wagon, he could hear the truck drawing nearer. But he didn’t wait for it. Not here.

  He took off again, stumbled over a picket fence, then crossed through more backyards, until he emerged on the other end of the subdivision. By now the ice-cream truck had tried to escape, but the station wagon would have blocked its path. It would be heading this way now. In fact, he could hear the music growing louder.

  He pulled out the spike strip, which he had hidden under a hedge, and rolled it out so
that it spanned the entire width of the street.

  His timing was perfect, because ten seconds later, he saw with his own eyes, for the first time in his life, the Creamy-Cold truck! It had screeched around a corner and was heading straight for him. CATCH ME IF YOU DARE, the sign had said. Now the truck would be at his mercy!

  Marty stepped out of the way as it came crashing past, bringing an icy wind in its wake, then it hit the spike strip. Boom! Boom!All four tires blew, the spike strip flew from the street, snagging in a hedge, and the truck lost control. It spun a full three-sixty before hitting a streetlamp so hard, it blew out its light.

  And there it sat with four flat tires. It was pure white, with a shiny silver grille. Its front windows were dark, so he couldn’t see in. The music it always played had fallen silent, and all Marty could hear was the engine in a menacing idle.

  Marty slowly approached it, ready to relish his victory. The solid steel gate of the service window was down, but as he drew near, it slowly began to rise, and fog spilled out; the icy breath of the mechanical beast. Then, inside, someone began to sing in deep, gravelly tones.

  “All around the mulberry bush . . . the monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought ’twas all in fun . . . Pop! Goes the weasel. . . .”

  In the darkness of the truck, a figure came forward to the service window. A man. He was entirely bald, but had a bushy brown beard covered in frost. He wore a white-and-pink polka-dot outfit. The official uniform of the Creamy-Cold man. “Well, well, well,” he said. “A customer!”

  “I caught you fair and square. I want my ice cream.”

  The man leaned on the window’s little silver ledge. “It’ll cost you,” he said.

  Marty pulled out a dollar from his pocket and looked at the pictures of ice-cream choices. “I want a Cosmic Raspberry Swirl Bar. Now!”

  The man reached his hand toward the dollar, but he didn’t take it just yet. He hesitated, then said, “Are you offering me this money in exchange for my ice cream?”

  “Of course I am.”

  The man smiled, his lips stretching so thin, they disappeared between the hair of his mustache and beard. “Well then. The bargain is made.” He took the dollar, then turned around, reached into his freezer, and produced an ice-cream bar. He held it out to Marty. “One Cosmic Raspberry Swirl Bar.”

  Marty grabbed the bar, ripped off the paper, and took a bite.

  It was, just as he suspected, the most marvelous, the most creamy, the most flavorful ice cream he had ever tasted. The sensation was so overwhelming it took over all his senses. Bite by bite, he devoured the bar, and when it was done, he licked the stick clean. Only after the last bit of ice cream had dissolved on his tongue did he notice that he wasn’t standing where he had been standing before. He was still looking at the ice-cream man, but now Marty was standing insidethe truck, and the ice-cream man was standing in the street. The man was smiling even wider than before.

  “Wait a second,” said Marty. “How’d I get in here?”

  “The bargain has been made. Enjoy your ice cream.” He bowed deeply to Marty, but it was more a mocking gesture than a respectful one, and when he rose from his bow, Marty realized that the man wasn’t wearing the uniform anymore. He was wearing clothes that were so small on him, they were popping at the seams. A red shirt, white pants, with a red baseball cap covering his bald head. It looked like a Little League uniform.

  “It took thirty-nine years for someone to catch me. Now I’m finally free.” Then he began to back away.

  “Hey, ice-cream man, wait! You get back here! I demand to know what’s going on!”

  “Oh, I’m not the ice-cream man,” he said, and pointed a long-nailed finger at Marty. “You are.”

  And sure enough, when Marty looked down, he saw that he was wearing a white uniform with pink polka dots.

  “As for me, my name is James,” said the man in the Little League outfit. “But my friends call me Jim-Jim.” Then he turned and ran away.

  Marty’s whole body suddenly felt as cold as the ice cream he had just devoured. He tried to climb out of the service window, but the steel gate came crashing down and sealed the window shut. He went to the driver’s door, but there was no handle to open it.

  Then he felt a strange rising sensation. It’s the wheels!Marty thought. The wheels are healing themselves, and filling with air!

  In his fear, Marty found himself hyperventilating and getting dizzy, so he slowed his breathing down, closed his eyes, and tried to face the reality of his situation. Fact: he had made a bargain with Jim-Jim Jeffries for the ice cream in this truck. Fact: Jim-Jim had been trapped in this freezing place for thirty-nine years. Fact: Marty wasn’t going anywhere.

  But that wasn’t exactly true, was it? Yes, he was trapped in a cursed truck, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t goanywhere. The truth was, he could go everywhere. . .

  . . . because even a cursed truck needs a driver.

  When Marty opened his eyes again, he felt much calmer. Calm enough to reach into the freezer and pull himself out another ice-cream bar. That freezer was full of them. In fact, it seemed bottomless. Then he sat in the driver’s seat, put his hands on the steering wheel, and stepped on the accelerator, feeling the engine rev. He didn’t know how to drive, but that hadn’t stopped Jim-Jim, had it?

  With frost forming in his hair, he grabbed the stick shift, threw the truck into gear, and peeled out. As he did, he heard the music begin to play, blasting out of the speaker on his roof.

  “All around the mulberry bush . . . the monkey chased the weasel . . .”

  There were neighborhoods to visit. Hundreds of them. And there were thousands of kids to roust out of the warmth of their homes, all clutching dollar bills and spare change, running through the streets in search of an ice-cream man that they’d never catch.

  Just the thought of it made Marty floor the accelerator, and he let loose a wild cackling laugh . . . because for the first time in his life, Marty Zybeck was fast!

  WHO DO WE APPRECIATE?

  This is one of my newest stories. My sons, and now my daughters, play soccer, and quite often I ref the games. I don’t want to give away what happens in this story, but let’s just say that think we once played against the Red team.

  WHO DO ME APPRECIATE?

  Fair. It’s a word I truly know. It’s a word I understand inside and out. Fairness is the reason why I get the job. It’s the reason why theypick me. Who are they? Well, I’ll let you figure that out for yourself.

  It starts on a Saturday morning. My mother figures out a way to unlock my door, as she always does, and manages to get in, pushing away the various obstacles I’ve put in front of the door to keep her out. The obstacles are there because every Saturday morning I hold out a thread of hope that maybe this time she’ll give up, and let me sleep. Unfortunately my mother, like me, is not the surrendering type.

  “Danielle, there was a call on the machine. They need you for an early game today.”

  I groan and put a pillow over my head. “I’m sick.”

  She takes the pillow away.“No, you’re not.”

  “I’ve got the flu.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “But what if I do?”

  She sighs. “If you’re really sick, I won’t make you go.” She pauses to make it clear she wants the truth. I hate the Truth-Pause. “Are you sick, or aren’t you?”

  It annoys me that I can’t lie to her when she gives me the Truth-Pause. I’m just not the lying type, as much as I’d like to be sometimes.

  Instead of answering her, I sit up in bed. “So how early is the game?”

  “Seven o’clock.”

  “What? I didn’t even know there were league games at seven!”

  “Apparently there are, and they need a referee. They need you.”

  I had thought I was going to get out of it this week. There were no calls last night. No calls this morning, and yet sure enough, there’s a message on the machine, like it just magically appeare
d there. This should be my first hint that something’s a little bit off, but I’m still not awake enough to catch it.

  It was just last month that I got certified as a junior soccer referee. It’s not entirely my fault. Frankly, I blame my little brother, Cody. Six weeks ago, he joined up to play in the seven-and-under peewee league. I don’t know what possessed him to do it, and I don’t know what possessed me to volunteer. I’m not the volunteering type, but I just happened to be there when the coach asked for refs, and I saw my hand go up. Totally bizarre. Then two weeks later, my brother quits the team, and I’m stuck. Now they call me every week, like clockwork, to ref other kids’ games—and my parents won’t let me quit.

  “You have to learn to follow through on your commitments,” they tell me.

  “Yeah, well, what about Cody?”

  “He’s only seven.”

  As if that’s an excuse. He quit the team, but do they care that I’m stuck reffing? No. Double standards run rampant in my family, especially when it comes to Cody. See, Cody was a preemie. He was so close to dying when he was born, I think it left my parents in some sort of permanent post-traumatic shock—and they still treat him like he could keel over at any minute. They were terrified when he asked to play soccer—it freaked me out, too, because Cody’s about the most nonathletic wimp in the great history of nonathletic wimps. Even during his two weeks on the soccer team, he would run away whenever the ball came within ten feet of him. It was no great surprise that he quit. And so, as his personal purgatory, I demand under threat of death, or worse, that he come with me to every single game I’m forced to ref.

  I should mention here, that in a way, refereeing has always kind of been in my nature, but until now it was never official. Any time there’s a problem at school between two kids, I always seem to be the one who steps between them to resolve it. Whenever I’m working on some group project, and no one can make a decision, I’m the one who can, and the others always seem to accept it. “You’re a natural referee,” my parents had told me when I signed up to do this. “You were born for it.” I had laughed at the time.