Stranger-Danger

Table of Contents

The ice cream truck had been a fixture of the neighborhood for as long as anyone could remember. Its cheerful jingle floated through the streets every afternoon, weaving itself into the fabric of summer like the smell of freshly cut grass or the lazy buzz of cicadas. Children would come running from every direction, their pockets jingling with coins, their voices bubbling with laughter, drawn by the promise of sweet, cold treats on sweltering afternoons.

But there was more to the truck’s charm than its inventory of rainbow popsicles and soft-serve swirls. There was the clown.

Big Top Benny, as he liked to be called, was impossible to miss. He was a towering figure, broad in the shoulders, with a painted red smile that stretched unnaturally wide across his pale white face. His makeup was flawless—almost too flawless—his eyes glinting darkly behind the greasepaint. His bright polka-dotted suit, massive floppy shoes, and oversized bow tie completed the look, but it wasn’t his outfit that made people remember him. It was something harder to pin down. The way his gaze lingered just a little too long. The way his grin never seemed to change. The way his voice—a sing-song lilt that would sound charming on paper—carried an edge that prickled the skin.

Every day, without fail, he’d lean out of the serving window, holding out cones and sundaes with exaggerated theatricality, offering free sprinkles or “special toppings” to certain kids. The children adored him, of course. They giggled and waved, chasing after the truck if they missed it, thinking of Benny as their funny, harmless friend.

The adults… not so much. Most of them never said anything outright, but there were unspoken glances exchanged between porch steps. A quiet tension hung in the air when he parked at the corner. Mothers and fathers stood a little closer when their kids approached the truck. The cheerful jingle somehow sounded less like a call to joy and more like a warning. Still, no one had cause to interfere. It was, after all, just ice cream.

Martha had always been one of those mothers. Every summer since Tommy had been old enough to hold a cone without dropping it, she’d taken him by the hand and walked with him to the truck. She never let him go alone. Not because she didn’t trust him, but because she didn’t trust the man behind the greasepaint.

Benny always greeted them with a booming “Hellooooo, Tommy-boy!” and a big wink, his painted mouth grinning so wide it seemed like the skin might tear. Martha would smile politely, accept the cone, and lead her son home.

But today was different. Tommy had just turned seven last month, and lately he’d been puffing himself up with declarations of independence. “I’m a big kid now, Mom,” he’d said that morning over breakfast, between mouthfuls of cereal. “I can go to the ice cream truck by myself.”

Martha hesitated, her spoon hovering midair. “I don’t know, sweetheart…”

“Please?”

He pleaded.

“It’s just around the corner. I’ll be back in five minutes. Promise.”

He puffed out his chest, trying to look older than his years, his mop of brown hair flopping into his eyes. Reluctantly, Martha agreed. She told herself she could watch from the doorway, keep him in sight. It wasn’t like anything bad ever happened in their quiet neighborhood.

Tommy beamed, grabbed a few coins from the jar by the fridge, and trotted toward the front door.

From the hallway, Martha watched as he skipped down the sidewalk, the afternoon sun painting him in warm gold. He turned the corner at the end of the street, and for a brief moment, she lost sight of him.

She lingered in the hallway a little longer, her eyes flicking to the television where the news was running softly in the background. The anchor’s tone was calm, but the words made her blood run cold.

“Police are urging residents to be on the lookout for a suspect known as ‘Big Top Benny,’ a clown associated with an ice cream truck linked to several disappearances in neighboring towns. He is considered armed and dangerous. If seen, call authorities immediately—do not approach.”

Martha froze. The screen changed to a grainy photograph. There he was—same polka-dotted suit, same oversized shoes, same smile that looked like it had been carved into his face with a knife.

Her heart lurched into her throat.

Without thinking, she slammed the door behind her and broke into a sprint, her bare feet slapping against the pavement. The familiar jingle was playing somewhere ahead, but now it sounded different. It was slower, more deliberate, as if mocking her.

She rounded the corner.

The truck wasn’t where it should have been.

It was a few houses down, parked at an angle near the curb. The open window faced the street, but no one was lined up. The music warbled out of a tinny speaker, drifting on the heavy summer air.

“Tommy!”

She shouted, her voice cracking. No answer. She ran to the side of the truck, her breath coming in sharp gasps. The serving window was closed now, the steel shutter locked tight. Her eyes darted around the street, desperate for a glimpse of her son. That’s when she saw it.

Lying in the gutter, slowly melting in the heat, was a single ice cream cone. Pink swirls of strawberry pooled around it, dripping into the cracks of the pavement. One of the coins Tommy had been carrying sat beside it, glinting in the sun.

Her stomach turned to ice. She pounded on the side of the truck, screaming for Benny to come out, to open up, to tell her where her son was. There was no response—just the hollow echo of her fists on metal. Then the jingle stopped.

The air felt too quiet, too still. A shiver crawled down her spine as she stepped back. The truck’s engine revved once, twice, and then it lurched away from the curb, accelerating down the street until it vanished around the bend. Martha stood there, shaking, her hands trembling so hard she could barely clutch the coin she’d picked up.

She didn’t remember running home, but suddenly she was inside again, fumbling for her phone. Her voice was a high, hysterical pitch as she called 911, stumbling over her words as she tried to explain—about Tommy, about the truck, about the news report.

When the police arrived, they searched the neighborhood, then the surrounding blocks, then the roads leading out of town. They found no sign of the truck. No trace of Benny. No sign of Tommy.

By sunset, the street was bathed in the fading orange glow of day, the air heavy with the smell of melted asphalt and something faintly sweet. The officers promised they’d keep searching, but Martha could see the doubt in their eyes.

Days passed. Then weeks. Flyers went up, search parties combed through woods and fields, news crews came and went. But Tommy never came home.

Some nights, when the air was still and the crickets quieted, Martha swore she could hear it—the faint, distant chime of an ice cream truck. The melody was slow, almost mournful, drifting through the dark like a lullaby for someone else’s child.

And sometimes, if she dared to look out her window, she thought she saw him—Big Top Benny—standing under the streetlight at the corner, his painted face turned toward her house, smiling. Always smiling.