In their studio, Lonny sipped from a crystal goblet filled with water and electrolyte powder, lightly stirred. The drink glowed blue under the blacklight. Light jazz played over the speakers. They were seated in their studio, primping for the camera. The only light was the blacklights and a few red buttons from the streaming equipment. Lonny’s outfit glowed green, and when they smiled, their teeth floated in the darkness.
They checked their face one more time in the mirror that was anchored on a swivel arm to their desk. Last-minute touches to hair and their top. They did their best in the shadows of blacklight. Poking. Prodding. Pulling. Tugging. They were ready.
A sound shuffled behind them. They jumped.
“Who’s there?” they called out. They listened for another moment. There was nothing else.
“Shit,” they muttered. They looked nervously behind themselves.
Still nothing.
Lonny debated getting up to poke around, but there was no time. They had to go live or be late. This studio had always been creepy. There had always been noises in here. Just an old house settling. Too many people walking around the earth. That was it. Getting up to explore would just make them late.
Lonny listened intently thirty seconds more, spinning in the chair, staring into the corners within sight in the gloom.
Nothing.
Lonny spun back towards the camera.
“It’s showtime,” Lonny muttered with one last hesitant glance in the mirror.
With the click of a button by a long, glowing nail, the stream was live.
The façade of the social media personality hijacked the frightened child.
“Hello, my darlings, welcome back to your Saturday Fright Night Theatre. Well, it’s not really theatre if it’s true, right?”
Lonny grinned, leaning into their opening spiel.
“Tonight’s tall tale is a cautionary one. Perhaps its origin was to keep kids in line; perhaps it really happened. Perhaps its an urban legend. A modern fairy tale. A truck full of bull. You be the judge. Here goes,” Lonny said as they sipped from the glowing goblet.
They took a deep breath before beginning. As they slowly let their breath out in a studied manner, they jumped. Breath control gone; Lonny gulped.
“Who is it?” they asked, turning sharply.
Nothing.
“Well, I guess I’ll see on the replay if anyone is there. Or you can tell me in the chat,” Lonny said.
“It was, oh, about fifteen years ago, maybe. Perhaps you’ve heard about this case already. There was a lot of it going around at the time. These things come in waves, you know. Every decade seems to have this. Just a few nuanced variations, but ultimately the same.
“I shared with you all recently some of my ghost stories, some hauntings, and such. The thing about ghosts and hauntings is that no one ever knows the truth. No one ever knows for sure if anything is there or not. And the more the story is told, the more the webs of uncertainty sprawl.
“But then there are stories that you wish were ghost stories, urban legends, a comic book. However, truth is stranger than fiction, yet truth is often obvious and right in your face. Seriously, keep your guard up at all times. Always.”
Lonny reached across their desk and grabbed a container of deodorant in a steel tube that looked like a dildo. They held it up and waved it.
“When you’re stuck in a sticky situation or just feel sweaty all over, the new formula for Lady Big Deal is now available worldwide if you just click on the link. Also, make sure to use the code BUNNY to get fifteen percent off. Lady Big Deal can help the sweatiest, stinkiest person feel fresh and clean with just a couple of strokes.”
Lonny grinned, showing off the stick, and then tucked it away.
“You’ll really need your Lady Big Deal when you hear about this.
“Like I said, fifteen years ago, in a pretty swanky part of Toronto, actually. Not the super-rich mega-mansions, but damned nice houses out of the average person’s reach, certainly. There was yard work being done. All the time. All those monster homes needed gardeners, painters, and other maintenance on a regular basis because homeowners were way too busy to keep up with their own home repairs themselves. So people were used to seeing white vans around.
“However, there soon came reports of people having interactions with white vans. Being lured to them. Friends would tell of other friends who went to check out the van and then was never seen again. No phone calls. No letters. No body. No trace. Just vanished.
“Then there was a tale of a young teenager, an athlete, who had been lured to a van under the guise of an impromptu photo shoot. He escaped, barely, according to reports. The teen himself denies all information. And the laws prevent reports on a minor.
“He had been lured after winning some kind of sporting event. A couple of friends had seen him go into the van, and then it drove away. They wanted to write down the number, but the license plate had been removed.
“Don’t forget, honeys, that back then, flip phones were the norm and though yes, you could take pictures on them, people just didn’t think of such things back in the day. It wasn’t a habit like it is now. Taking a picture was still a Big Deal, just like with a camera, even though digital files had been out for ages.
“As technology changes, the ability to solve these old crimes grows more hopeful. As long as the evidence is saved.
“So no one is sure where the van took the athlete or what transpired, just that he was shaken up and refused to ever speak of it. He wouldn’t go to the police despite the friends urging. The friends had already reported his abduction to the police, but since he returned so quickly and the teen wouldn’t talk, it was thrown out.
“However, that rumor leads to more rumors or, rather, stories. Another person came forward, a young lady, telling a tale of how she too was lured in with promises of photo shoots. She was afraid to come forward, but as several others had told stories of their escape to the news, she had grown confident no harm would come to her.
“Here’s a creepy bit for you…over the past few years, almost everyone who had spoken out about escaping from a white van, no matter their experience, had died. There still remain a few living, that we know of. And maybe there are more, those who never spoke up to begin with.
“People go missing in cities all the time. Especially in big cities like Toronto. Yet they go missing in small towns, too. And white vans are everywhere.”