The Ice Cream Man’s Last Trick

In the summer of 2002, I lived with my mother and younger brother in a creaky farmhouse on the outskirts of Nowhere, Nebraska. We had inherited it from my great-aunt, a woman who had died under mysterious circumstances that no one in the family liked to discuss. The house was old, with peeling wallpaper and floorboards that groaned under the slightest pressure. But it was ours, and we tried to make it a home.

One sweltering July afternoon, our neighbor, an elderly man named Mr. Hollis, passed away. He was a quiet, bird-like man who had always tipped his hat to us but never spoke more than a few words. His funeral was a somber affair, with just a handful of mourners. Afterward, my mother said we should pay our respects by visiting his grave on the anniversary of his death. I didn’t think much of it, but my brother, who was only eight, was terrified of the idea.

Two weeks later, I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. I blinked, but the hallway beyond was empty. My heart pounded. I assumed it was my brother trying to scare me, so I crept to his room and found him fast asleep, his chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. I shook him awake and demanded to know why he had opened my door. He mumbled that he hadn’t, that he was dreaming of a man in a straw hat who was calling his name. I dismissed it as a nightmare and went back to bed, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me from the shadows.

The next afternoon, I was alone in the house, watching reruns of an old sitcom. The television flickered, and then I heard a voice, clear as a bell, whisper my name directly into my ear. I spun around, but no one was there. The voice was a man’s, low and gravelly, like the sound of stones grinding together. I shouted, ‘Who is it? Stop playing games!’ But the house was silent except for the hum of the air conditioner.

Over the following days, the voice grew more persistent. It would call my name from the kitchen, from the attic, from the garden. Sometimes it would laugh, a low, rumbling chuckle that made my skin crawl. My brother started having nightmares, waking up screaming about a man wearing a straw hat and holding a wooden cane. He said the man would stand at the foot of his bed and just stare, never blinking. I tried to comfort him, but I was scared too.

Then, one evening, I found an old photograph in the attic. It was of Mr. Hollis, standing in front of this very house, with a straw hat on his head and a cane in his hand. On the back, in faded ink, was written: ‘To my dearest friend, remember me always.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. I realized that Mr. Hollis had lived in this house before we did. And I remembered that my great-aunt had died mysteriously, and that Mr. Hollis had been the one to find her.

That night, as I lay in bed, the door to my room opened slowly. I saw a shape in the doorway, a tall figure in a straw hat. It walked toward me, its footsteps silent on the carpet. It leaned down, and I felt its breath on my ear. ‘You forgot me,’ it whispered. ‘You didn’t visit my grave like you promised.’ I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The figure reached out with a cold hand and touched my forehead, and then everything went black.

When I woke up, I was lying on the floor of the attic, covered in dust. The photograph of Mr. Hollis was clutched in my hand. And I knew, with a terrible certainty, that I was not alone. From that day on, I always left a bowl of ice cream on the back porch every night, just as Mr. Hollis used to for his dog. And every night, I would hear the creak of the porch steps, and a voice would whisper, ‘Thank you, friend. I’ll always be with you.’ And I knew that some friendships, and some hauntings, never really end.