Elara's finger trembled on that sensitive point on the trigger, but she didn't pull. The thing in front of her—that freakish appendage trying to mimic a human hand—was insistently thrusting the ice cream toward her face.
The air was so hot that her lungs were burning, but the coolness radiating from this white truck—no, this *thing*—resembled the damp chill emanating from the mouth of an open grave.
"My mother..." Elara said, her voice dry and raspy. Her eyes were locked on what the creature extended as a "hand." The fingers... they bent in the wrong places. There was an extra joint on the pinky. "My mother died twelve years ago. And that damn woman hated vanilla."
The entity's mimicry faltered for a moment. That fatherly, reassuring tone wavered, interrupted by the interference of a broken radio frequency. A low groan, like metal scraping against metal, was heard from the chassis of the ice cream truck.
"Taste..." the voice said, more impatient this time. The word rang in her brain like a command. "Taste it... now."
Elara's stomach churned. That vanilla scent... It was so intense that it overpowered the smell of rust and motor oil from the junkyard, burning the back of her throat. But this wasn't the scent of a fresh bakery. It was the sickening, cloying smell of stale, fermented sugar on the verge of rot.
Without letting go of the gun, she reached into her pocket with her left hand. She took a deep breath as her fingers touched the crumpled pack of cigarettes. This wasn't a reflex; it was a defense mechanism. Her body was used to poison; nicotine, caffeine, and the chemicals coursing through her veins were the only things keeping her upright. And her instincts screamed at her that this "pure" whiteness before her would not care for her dirty blood.
She pulled the pack out with one hand and brought a cigarette to her lips. The moment she flicked the lighter, the feeble light of the flame glinted in the creature's faceless shadow.
She took a deep drag. She filled her lungs with smoke, felt that familiar poison mix into her blood, and then blew the smoke with all her might toward that sticky hand extended to her.
The effect was immediate and violent.
The moment the smoke touched that pale, white skin, a *hissing* sound was heard, as if acid had been poured. The creature's "arm" jerked back; a pink blister formed and burst. That perfect porcelain skin blackened and shriveled wherever the smoke touched.
"Filth..." hissed the voice inside the truck. There was no mimicry this time. Only pure, mechanical rage.
As the creature convulsed in pain—or disgust—the ice cream cone slipped from its fingers.
The cone fell as if in slow motion. The asphalt was so hot that the ice cream began to sizzle the moment it hit the ground. The white scoop fell apart, melted, and revealed the secret within.
Elara aimed her gun at the ground, at that melting whiteness, but she froze at what she saw. (Draft 15)
XXXALINTIXXX
> *"Memories are poisonous candies leaking through the teeth of the mind; they start sweet but always leave a rotten aftertaste."*
> *— Dr. Aris Thorne, Case Records, 1999*
Just as she was about to examine the ice cream, she noticed it: embedded right in the middle of the vanilla, that perfect whiteness, was a bloody molar wrapped in a clump of yellow hair.
There was still a piece of fresh, pink flesh attached to the root of the tooth.
This wasn't an animal tooth. It belonged to a child.
At that moment, the truck's cheerful, irritating music slowed down like a broken cassette tape, turning into a low and muffled groan. The *Calliope* melody was no longer a song, but the death rattle of someone dying.
"Mistake..." the voice said. The truck's doors creaked open like the jaws of an animal. The darkness inside swelled outward toward Elara, defying the laws of physics. "You... spoiled the taste."
Elara stepped back, her boots making a *squelch* sound as they stuck to the melted asphalt and ice cream.
"Fuck," she whispered to herself, her voice trembling, but her gun was still locked on the target. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
The pink neon lights hanging inside the truck flickered and died. Now, under the purple static sky, there were only two yellow dots staring at her from within the heap of metal. They weren't eyes. They were just... tears in the void.
And that thing began to glide out from inside the truck like a spider emerging from its cocoon, snapping its joints. It was no longer a six-foot human imitation. It had cast aside the conservation of mass, beginning to vomit its remaining biomass from the exhaust pipe as a pink, sticky liquid.
Elara squeezed the trigger.
*BAM.*
The muffle hit the creature's shoulder. But instead of blood, a white powder like powdered sugar and that goddamn strawberry-scented liquid sprayed into the air.
The creature didn't stop. It just smiled. Or rather, the skin on the lower part of its face tore to mimic a smile.
"More... sugar," growled Mr. Frost, sliding toward her on the melting asphalt. "Your blood... is too... bitter... Elara. We need to... sweeten it."