Closet Treats

by Paul E. Cooley

  "How?" Alan asked.

  "I need to know what happened, Alan."

  Alan felt a shudder go through him. The Ice Cream Man. The thing. The yellow eyes with their fiery pupils.

  "Stay with me, Alan," the doctor said. He snapped his eyes back to the doctor's. The doctor nodded to him. "Good. Can you tell me what happened?"

  "The bad man," Alan said after a deep breath, "the Ice Cream Man got Daddy." The words came out in a breathy rush that set his throat back on fire. "The bad man--" Alan's voice drifted off.

  Fingers snapped in front of his face. Alan looked up. The doctor's face peered at him. "Alan? You're having seizures."

  "Just like Daddy?"

  The doctor frowned. "Yes, like Daddy. Who hurt your daddy?"

  "The Ice Cream Man hurt Daddy."

  "Alan," Moody said, leaning in so close the end of his nose nearly touched Alan's, "your Daddy is very sick. Something poisoned him."

  "The Ice Cream Man poisoned Daddy."

  Moody pulled back a little. He exchanged a glance with the nurse and then stared back at Alan. The smile on his face was somewhat forced. "Did the Ice Cream Man smell bad? Did he--"

  "The Ice Cream man eats little children," Alan said. A tear made its way from his eye, but he didn't know why. He didn't feel anything anymore. "He told me he eats little kids like me."

  "I--" Moody shook his head, stuttering.

  "He smells bad. Bad. Bad."

  The room was dark. Alan had drifted off, drifted away until his mother's screams brought him awake, shivering and crying. He'd wet the bed. Outside in the hall, he heard distant conversation, shoes on tile, and the sound of squeaky wheels.

  There was another sound too. A scratching.

  "Hello?" Alan raised his head.

  A pair of yellow eyes winked at him from the foot of the bed, their centers burning like fire.

  Chapter 64

  The man, George, walked behind Alan down the hallway. The floor felt pliable, as though he were walking on a deep shag rug instead of tile. Since he started taking the pills, every footstep felt like that.

  George was a nice man. Big man. George always smiled at him, always asked him how he was doing. Alan thought George was a lot like Daddy. Before--

  "Here we go, Alan," George said and placed a hand on Alan's shoulder.

  Alan stopped and turned as George opened the door. A table sat in the middle of the room. Alan smiled. "Tony," he whispered.

  "Hey, kid," Tony said, waving.

  Alan walked as fast as he dared on the flexible floor and sat in the chair across from Tony.

  "We're good, George," Tony said. The door closed behind them. "And how are you today?" Tony asked, his smile wide and friendly.

  "Doing good," Alan said. "I've been playing chess with George."

  "Have you been beating him?"

  Alan looked over his left shoulder and then his right, as if checking to see if anyone was listening. He leaned in across the table and whispered "I think he lets me win."

  Tony chuckled. "Uh-huh. That's okay, Alan. One day," he whispered, "he won't need to." Alan leaned back in the plastic chair and kicked his feet beneath the table. "I'm here to ask you a couple of questions."

  "Okay," Alan said.

  "You still seizing?"

  Alan shrugged. "Sometimes. George told me that when-- George said that I should stare at the clock when I feel bad, and see if a lot of time passes."

  "And does it?"

  "Sometimes. I think about a minute or so is the longest."

  Tony nodded. He wrote something down in his large notebook. "Good, that's real good, Alan. That means we're getting close with the drugs."

  "Can I see my Daddy soon?"

  Tony's pen stopped in mid-scratch. He looked up from the notebook, his smile dampened. "We're going to talk about that in a minute, okay? I need to ask you some more questions first. All right?"

  Alan frowned. He knew the answer would be "no" or "not yet." It always was.

  Tony had a tough time hiding his feelings from Alan. Alan didn't know why, but he could almost feel the man talking to him, as though he could sometimes hear what Tony was saying before he said it.

  "Okay," Alan whispered.

  "Good," Tony said. "George and the others say you're not sleeping very well." Tony tapped the pen against the notebook. "Eyes?"

  Always the yellow eyes, the burning centers. Always staring into the eyes, losing himself in them like they are a whirlpool pulling him down and down and down--

  "Alan?"

  "What?"

  Tony looked down at his watch. "20 seconds that time, Alan. Do you remember what I asked you?"

  Alan nodded. "It's him."

  "I'm not going to say his name, Alan. I know that upsets you. So, he still comes at night?" Alan nodded. "But all you see are the eyes?" Alan nodded again, watching Tony's smile flatten into a thin line. "Until we get seizing under control, there are lots of things we can't talk about."

  "Can we talk about my Daddy now?" Alan asked.

  "Sure," Tony said and dropped his pen to the notebook. He folded his hands into a tent, elbows on the table, and rested his head atop them. "Your Daddy's doing better, Alan. Much better."

  "He is?"

  "Yes," Tony said.

  Alan frowned. "You're lying to me," he whispered.

  Tony's eyes widened. "Why do you say that?"

  Alan stomped his left foot. "Your feet, Tony. When you say things that make you uncomfortable, you tap your left foot."

  The man laughed, shaking his head. "You are too damned bright, Alan, I'll give you that." Alan's face remained impassive. Tony's laugh disappeared. "Okay, Alan." He brought his arms back in and rested his hands on the table's edge. "Your Dad's health has improved. He's no longer sick."

  "He's not? You promise?" Tony nodded. Alan frowned. Tony was telling him the truth. He knew that much. But Tony was definitely holding something back. "Then why can't I see him?"

  "The doctor's fixed him up, Alan. His ribs, lungs, all that's okay. The last of the poison is gone too."

  Alan knew Daddy had been very sick. The Ice Cream Man had done something to him. Blood poisoning was what Tony had called it. Alan didn't know what that was, only that Daddy had almost died.

  "How long have I been here?" Alan asked.

  Tony shrugged. "Three weeks, I think. About that, anyway."

  "How many more before I can see Daddy?"

  Sucking in a breath of air and then exhaling slowly, Tony looked down at the table. "Alan, I--" He stopped speaking and then looked up. Tony cocked his head slightly. "I haven't seen your Dad yet." Tony swallowed. "I'm going to see him today, though. Right after this. If he's better, I'll take you--"

  "You just said he's better," Alan said.

  Tony thrummed his fingers on the table. Alan watched them in fascination. Daddy had done something similar to that. "I said his body's better, Alan. But he's not talking to anyone."

  Alan blinked. "But, he'll talk to me."

  The flat expression on Tony's face turned into a soft smile. "He might, Alan. He might. But let me see him first, and then we'll know."

  "I know--" Alan wiped at his eyes. "I know Mommy's gone. She's not coming back," Alan whispered. Tony said nothing. "But I want Daddy."

  Alan wiped away another tear. "I want to see my Daddy."

  "I know, Alan," Tony said. He reached his hand across the table and touched Alan's. "I know. And I want that too."

  Alan nodded. Tony was sad. Tony was always sad when he came to see Alan. He wanted Alan to get better. He wanted Daddy to get better. He wanted Mommy to still be alive.

  "I think I want to go back to my room," Alan said. "I-- I feel very sleepy."

  "Okay, Alan," Tony said. He patted the boy's hand. "Okay." Tony stood up and placed his notebook inside a battered leather valise. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

  Alan met his eyes. "Tony?"

  "Yes, Alan?"

  "What is he?" Tony blinked at him, looking co
nfused. "What is the Ice Cream Man?"

  Tony swallowed hard. "I--" His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "We don't know, Alan. But I promise, he's never going to bother you again."

  "Or Daddy?"

  Tony smiled. "Or Daddy." Alan frowned. "What's wrong, Alan?" Alan pointed down at Tony's left foot. It was tapping.

  Epilogue

  He swam in darkness for days, poison streaming through his blood. Each short period of consciousness was filled with pain and confusion, the bright lights, the constant beep of a heart monitor, followed by distant screams, and the inevitable rush of cold, liquid sleep.

  He was haunted by dreams of the Closet Man, the Grubby Man, the Ice Cream Man, dreams where a severed head rolled to a stop in front of him and opened its eyes. Sometimes it was Alan's head, sometimes Carolyn's, and sometimes, it was his own.

  The lips always moved in those dreams, speaking words he couldn't hear. Regardless of whose head came flying at him in the hallway and what words it tried to speak, the dream always ended with the thing, the Fiend, standing over him and groaning in pain. In those dreams, Trey always smiled--Alan was still alive and safe.

  The periods of consciousness finally grew longer, the dreams fading. He knew people came to see him--Dewhurst, Kinkaid, nameless doctors and nurses. They would sit next to him in a plastic chair, ask him questions he didn't understand. Through his remaining eye, they looked out of focus, somehow not real.

  Trey couldn't wait for them to leave, to stop their questions, and let him doze through the day.

  When Tony Downs showed up, things were different. The questions he asked echoed in Trey's mind, bouncing around until he was finally able to grasp them firmly in his mental hands.

  "What did it look like?"

  Trey didn't speak, didn't try to form words. His only answer was an image, the thing standing above him, its long nose dripping with blood, puffed out scaly flesh, the yellow rings of its eyes barely discernible in the sea of crimson.

  "How did you make it go away?"

  The knife. The cleaver buried to the hilt in the middle of its back, black ichor washing down.

  "Did you hurt it?"

  Only a sound, the groan, an inhuman wail of pain.

  "Where are you?"

  He couldn't speak, couldn't find his voice, only think the answers. "I'm safe," he thought. "He can't get me here."

  "You're hiding," Tony's voice bounced in his head.

  "I'm safe here. Alan's safe here. Carolyn's safe here." Carolyn. Carolyn sat on the couch with him, her arms wrapped loosely around his neck. Alan was on the floor, racing his Koopa through the Mario Kart tracks, giggling while he did it. Trey smiled.

  Tony's voice faded away. Trey didn't want to listen anymore. He didn't want to hear, didn't want to see. He was safe, and nothing else mattered.

  Author's Note

  Stories do not happen in a vacuum. Stories are bred by what authors see in their every day lives, or hear from other people, or read. They can be sparked by the simplest occurrences or the most profound events.

  Closet Treats owes itself to two events. The first is related in the following essay. The second was a conversation I had with an old childhood friend who had suffered from psychosis.

  After the events described in "The Death of Childhood" essay, several of my twitter friends demanded I write a story about an ice cream man. I demurred because the story would have been far too trite and cliche. But after thinking about a character suffering from psychotic delusions, the ice cream man seemed like an interesting foil.

  As with most of my longer works, Closet Treats started out as a novelette which quickly turned into a novella and then novel. The more I dug into the story, the more material kept swirling in my mind. Over the years I've learned that if a story speaks to me, I should listen, and Trey's tale had plenty to say.

  The following essay, "The Death of Childhood" was one of the first essays podcast at shadowpublications.com and one of the most successful. Since its release date, I have received countless photos of creepy ice cream vans and trucks from all over the world. After the release of Closet Treats, those numbers skyrocketed. I can only assume the two works have struck a nerve.

  The Death Of Childhood

  A long time ago, in a suburb far far away, there was an elementary school called Greenwood Forest Elementary. It served children between kindergarten and 5th grade with great teachers, horrid bullies, and spoiled children. Well, I was spoiled. So were a lot of my classmates. Trust me, you know who you are.

  Tucked in the middle of an idyllic suburban setting that seems so far away to me now, I remember the school bell would ring in the late afternoon and all us tykes, in all our different age groups, would run through the playground's various metal webs, bars, barrels, and contraptions, through the copse of too tall pines, and to a mystical van covered with pictures of various ice cream bars, sandwiches and tasty candy treats.

  The Ice Cream Truck. Its music was loud, but not earsplitting. I don't remember what its purveyor looked like, but I know this-- I wasn't afraid of him. He always made sure we had the right change. He was always patient and somehow managed to keep order with all those children begging to part ways with their coin for a sugar high.

  In those days, I walked fearless, except for the fear of bullies, of course, through the neighborhood and back to my home. I never heard the music of the ice cream man except outside that elementary school. After 5th grade, when I moved on to the middle school, I never partook of the confectionary wonders of that brilliantly colored van.

  I am a couple of months shy of 39 now. I have no children of my own, but I like kids. I always have--except when I was one of them. All that aside however, I was sitting here and working on my horror novella when I heard music. Caliope. A music box wound to an insane volume or an organ grinder being played by a gorilla the size of King Kong.

  Those bells. I heard those bells and for no reason I can think of, my skin erupted into goose pimples and a shiver ran through my bones. And still the bells grew louder. I was frozen to my chair, unable to do anything except cock my head toward the front door as the volume continued to increase.

  Adrenaline coursing through frozen veins, I managed to get up from my chair, open the front door and peer out. A large Econo-line van, modified with a facade overhang, made its way down my street toward the cul-de-sac, those bells piercing the afternoon air and shocking the singing birds to silence. The van was white, but covered in decals. Its windows were tinted. I stood there agape as the van passed by.

  It continued down the street and I was riveted in place as the vision of a twisted-faced madman, absurdly large canines jutting from swollen, grey lips, filled my mind. A small curl of blood dripped from one of the yellowed, cannibal teeth to stain the lapel of a white jumpsuit. With dead eyes, the ghoulish thing surveyed the empty lawns, heart hammering in its unnatural chest as it waited for its next morsel to bounce out from a front door and come running into its waiting, taloned arms.

  How many children's body parts were in the refrigerated cases in the back of the van, beneath the colorful wrappers of sugary, frozen joy? How many girls and boys had felt the terrible zip of those sharpened claws down their sternum as they were eviscerated for his pleasure? How many parents wondered where their children had gone, not even remembering the cheerful calliope music that accompanied their child's disappearance?

  The imaginary ghoul trolled through my neighborhood, those bells shrieking to children to come, visit, and stay a while. Maybe forever. I felt fear in a way I haven't experienced for a very long time. It was the fear of losing the last of my childhood, the last innocent memories I have left.

  Here I am, childless, and I've been briefed to death about the lurkers, the pedophiles, the child molesters, the child murderers, the lost boys, and all the other horrors in the world that now conspire with the media to make every shadow seem as though it's wielding a knife or gun. Every man who smiles at a child, me for instance, might be some kind o
f sex criminal or violent offender. "Better check the pervert registry! They could be on your street!"

  There are some of us who carry sticks when we go walking after dark. We say they're to ward off mean dogs or the pack of coyotes that supposedly haunt The Woodlands. I've seen us carrying them. I've seen the cans of mace tied to hands, dangling from clenched fists. I have watched the expression of a young woman change from casual disinterest to nervous fear when I've said hello.

  The fear. The terror. The panic. The distrust.

  We horror writers, we entertain you with it. We scare the hell out of you with it. You come to read our literature or watch our movies because you like those fears. You like those fears because they are so absurdly implausible when compared to the news we see and read every night. Who should be afraid of reptilian alien monsters when we know from the paper that the truly scary monsters are your neighbors, the strange kid on the block, or the fucking ice cream man driving down the street.

  I think my innocence is finally dead. I've known it was for a long time, but I think I have just now accepted it. Once and for all. To think, all it took was to have that last memory taken away from me. And strangely enough, it was all due to the sinister profile of that Econo-line van and its tinted windows. That, ladies and gentlemen, is all it takes to put the final stake in the heart of a childhood. That is too fucking scary.

  Acknowledgments

  I have been fortunate to fall in with a great group of people and supporters who have made this book possible. There are far too many to thank by name.

  To those of you in The Graveyard:

  your financial assistance made this work possible.

  To the podcasting community at large:

  I owe you a debt of thanks that can never properly be repaid.

  To my family:

  You never gave up on my talents, even after I had. Thank you for pushing me, encouraging me, and giving me the faith in myself to succeed.