The Ice Cream That Made People Come Back

At noon, you inspect Sugar Rush and buy a one dollar ice cream cone.

At 3:07 a.m., you wake inside your car behind the closed shop with no memory of driving there.

Then Humunks steps into the alley, looks directly at your car, and smiles like he was expecting you.

Humunks disappears through the locked back door with the refrigerated container.

The craving tells you to follow him before your training does.

You slip inside Sugar Rush through the alley entrance.

The kitchen smells sweeter than it did at noon.

Your hands start shaking.

Not from fear.

From wanting another taste.

Humunks carries the container into a preparation room behind the freezers.

You wait until the door closes.Then you notice every lock is on the outside.

Inside, metal tubs cover a long table.

Chocolate. Vanilla. Strawberry.

Every normal ingredient is still sealed.

But one silver mixing bowl is almost empty.

The smell coming from it makes your mouth water instantly.

Your stomach twists so hard you nearly fall.

Whatever brought you back at 3 a.m. is inside that bowl.

Beside it sits a notebook covered in fingerprints.

The pages contain customer names.

Beside each name is the time they first bought ice cream.

Then another time.

The time they came back.

You find your own name at the bottom of the newest page.

Beside it, Humunks wrote 3:07 a.m. before you ever returned.

Humunks unlocks the freezer and steps aside.

You expect tubs of ice cream.

Instead, you see wallets.

Watches.Car keys.

Dozens of them, sealed in clear bags and marked with dates.

You recognize the first name from the ledger.

He was reported missing eight months ago.

The next name belongs to a woman whose car was found near the beach.

Then you understand what READY means.

These people did not stop coming to Sugar Rush.

They came back one last time.

Humunks watches you put it together.

The craving was never proof his ice cream was good.

Something in the first serving made people desperate to return.

And Humunks waited until they came back alone.

Your eyes move to the stainless steel containers beneath the shelves.

Each one carries the same dates as the missing customers.

One container is still warm.

Tonight’s date is written across the lid.

Under the date is your name.

You reach for your badge.

Humunks reaches behind the freezer door.

That is when you notice another inspector’s badge hanging from the hook beside his hand.

The badge has been missing since 1979, and Humunks is still wearing the man’s wedding ring.