As the clock strikes three a.m., something stirs in the darkness, spewed from hell itself. A warped, disembodied tune announces the arrival of a spectre cut straight from nightmares. Its lights slice softly through the thickness of night, washing the street in a colourful sea, while its call carries the false promise of sweets and ice creams. The world, a silent landscape. The spectre’s wheels peel their way from one reality to another. A dog barks several streets away and others join in, answering its cry, but slowly their voices fade as the swaying music jingles and dances its way down the street.

The van, a black, charred atrocity, moves through the world like a raised middle finger stabbing at the God-fearing cattle who sleep tightly in their beds. Its windows flash with shifting, multicoloured fluorescent lights, changing with every off-key chime of its song. Pictures of clowns, chocolates and ice creams are painted across its rusted, burnt flesh. Behind the wheel, the driver’s eyes, empty and unblinking, peer through a filthy, rotting clown mask. He sits naked in the driver’s seat, his flesh scarred and cut, each wound a roadmap carved by pain once lived.

The van, like a shark, glides through the streets, directionless, without urgency, the darkness its shield.

A pyjama-clad man stands in the middle of the road, a dressing gown clumsily wrapped around him and a shotgun hoisted on his shoulder.

“My name is Gerald Lewis. Three nights ago, you took my little girl, Annie. I want her back,” he screams through tear-filled eyes as he pumps the fore-end of the shotgun, his finger trembling on the trigger. “I want all the children back!” he sobs. The van continues to roll toward him, the driver’s gaze unbroken.

A sound, a noise, almost a growl, echoes from the darkness around him. He spins toward the bushes that line the street. An animal-like creature leaps at him. He fires. The blast tears into the thing and sends it flying back into the undergrowth, a sea of crimson painting a path to where it lies. He exhales sharply, a breath, then another. He pumps the shotgun again. The empty cartridge tumbles to the ground, and he forces another shell into the chamber as he steps forward.

The van’s warped melody drifts as it rolls along the road. He takes another trembling stride toward the body, holds his breath, glances to the approaching van, then back to the bush. He gasps, a breath piled upon another. The body is gone. He raises the shotgun, his breaths desperate as sweat pours down his brow. The night tightens its hold upon him. His chest cramps, his vision blurs, the world shrinks around him. He takes a step back towards the oncoming van, then another. His eyes never stray from the place where the body had been.

A rustle. Movement to the left of the bush. He turns and fires, quickly discarding the spent cartridge before pumping the fore-end, nervous fingers fumbling as he loads another shell. The bushes across the street tremble. He fires again, loads another shell, then freezes as every bush around him begins to shake. He gasps, his eyes widening.

“W-W-What the fuck is going on?” he stammers as a door silently slides open behind him. The back of the van is a sea of darkness. Thirty or more hands grab him and drag his screaming form inside. The door slams shut and his cries stop dead. Then only the music plays as the van rolls on, down the silent street. Tiny feet scurry through the shadows, whispers, growls, a swarm of empty vessels following the van as it collects more playthings to join them.