I was lying awake in my room at 1 a.m, just laying there, until I heard the creepy distant rumbling of an ice cream truck's theme song, steadily creeping down my street. Slowly, slowly, it came to a stop right outside my house. I peeked at it through my curtains. It didn't seem to be going anywhere, so I decided to go downstairs and check it out. I walked out into the humid and muggy night air and to the truck.
"Can I get an ice cream sandwich?" I asked.
The man went to the back and brought me the ice-cream and said, "It's on the house." With that he also gave me a tiny box and said "Don't open it until you've finished your ice cream."
And with that, he drove off.
I walked back into my house and was suddenly overcome with an undeniable urge to finish my ice-cream, and so I did. And then I opened the box. Inside it was a key and a note.
713 Hickory Avenue. I swallowed.
He was back.
