It’s Tale Weaver Challenge #192 over at the Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie blog. The writing prompt is the image below, courtesy of Google Images labelled for reuse.
Sheryl double-checked the address with her boss, and he confirmed it was correct.
This is the place, 1122 Oakton.
She banged on the door again, “Pizza Delivery!”
Screw it. This dump didn’t even look lived-in. No lights, and the house itself was falling apart. Even the wood under her feet was rotting.
She glanced around the neighborhood and all of the houses were dark. This is creepy… and the familiar flight or fight instinct began to kick-in.
She pounded on the door for the last time, and yelled “Pizza Delivery!” Nothing.
As she turned to walk away, her boot heel slipped on one of the rotting boards causing her to twist her ankle a morbid 180°.
It was then that the door creaked opened, unleashing about a thousand cobras, all in striking position. She tried to scream but no sound would come out and the cobras inched closer and closer…
Sheryl woke up in a puddle of sweat. Her hair was soaked and so was her pillow. When she went to brush her matted hair out of her eyes she discovered she was handcuffed to the wrought iron headboard.
What the…
At least she was wearing clothes, but whose? Sheryl didn’t own a pair of black leather pants or a psychedelic tank top.
The room didn’t even look familiar. There were no windows, but a sliver of light managed to sneak in beneath the door. She could hear voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Suddenly, it was quiet except for the sound of shuffling footsteps coming toward the bedroom door. Her heart was beating wildly and she wanted to throw up. The door opened slowly and a huge white hand reached in and flicked on the light.
Sheryl screamed.
Her captors’ wildly painted face, its round, plastic nose, bright red hair standing on end, and shoes as long as a pair of skis — one of those “Clowns run Amok” she’d been reading about in the newspaper.
“Aw, don’t scream little girl. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” the clown said cheerfully with an exaggerated frown. “I’m going to treat you to your very own private circus!”
The clown removed the white glove from his grotesquely oversized hand.
Samantha was in love Kenny. Everybody at Riverview High knew it — even Kenny, but he didn’t love her back. She tried everything to get his attention; he was a quarterback on the football team, so she became a cheerleader. He took chemistry, so she did too, even though she hated it. When the Sadie Hawkins Dance rolled around, she asked him to be her date and he turned her down flat.
The whole problem was a girl named Natasha. Kenny and Natasha had been a couple since 7th grade. That’s five years, which might as well be a lifetime when you are seventeen. You rarely saw one without the other. Eventually they became known as KenTasha.
This irked Samantha to hell and back.
It wasn’t like Samantha was homely. In fact, she was an attractive girl and lots of guys liked her. But she only had eyes for Kenney.
The day Kenny gave Natasha a promise ring was the last straw. Samantha knew she had to think of something quick if she was ever to have a chance with Kenny.
Then she remembered a guy on the other side of town who was supposed to be a witch doctor— just like in the old Alvin & the Chipmunks song, except this dude was for real. His name was Zane. Just Zane.
The following day, Samantha ditched school and drove herself over to Zane’s place. If not for GPS, she’d have surely gotten lost. Zane lived at the end of a dead end street as one might expect, but in a charming Tudor house. It wasn’t the least bit creepy and Samantha was disappointed.
Maybe this whole witch doctor thing was a load of crap…
But, she was desperate and this Zane guy was her only chance.
Samantha touched up her make-up in the rearview mirror, then boldly walked up to his door and rang the doorbell. It made a fancy sound like you see in the movies when someone rings a mansion’s doorbell. She was about to walk away when finally, the door opened.
It was an old guy dressed like a waiter, so Samantha assumed he must be the butler.
A witch doctor who has a butler? Weird…
“Yes, Miss?
“Uh…Is Zane around?”
“Have you an appointment, Miss?”
“Well, n-no. Do I need one?”
“It is customary,” he said in a condescending tone.
“This is very important, sir.” Samantha’s eyes welled up. “Would you please see if he’ll talk to me?”
The butler heaved a deep sigh. “Your name?”
“Samantha.”
“One moment.” He shut the door in her face. Samantha felt like an idiot standing alone on the portico, or whatever rich people called their porches.
After about ten forevers, the butler returned. “Mr. Curtis will see you now.” He stood aside and allowed her to pass.
So he does have a last name!
“Follow me…”
He led her through a labyrinth of hallways and up two flights of spiral staircases. She’d never been in such an extravagant home.
Witchdoctors must really rake in the bucks…
Finally, they came to a large entryway to an even larger office. It was as big as her parents’ living room.
“Sir, may I present Samantha.” It was more of a statement than a question. The butler turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Samantha in the doorway, gawking at Zane.
He was not at all what she had expected. He was young; mid-20s at the most. He had dark curly hair that touched his shoulders, and penetrating blue-violet eyes enclosed by a thicket of dark lashes. His beard and mustache were neatly trimmed and he wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt.
Zane stood up and walked around his desk. “May I help you?”
Hell, yeah! “Oh! Umm…” Samantha felt her cheeks flush. “Yes, I was wondering about your services.”
“My services?” He smiled a disarming smile.
“Well, yeah. I mean…aren’t you a witchdoctor?”
Zane threw his head back and laughed. “No, that was my grandfather! I’m just an investment broker.”
Now Samantha really felt like an idiot. She stared at the floor, wishing it would swallow her up. A tear trickled down her cheek.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Zane asked. “Come here, sit down.” He led her to a comfortable overstuffed chair.
“Wanna talk about it?”
So, Samantha spilled her guts about Kenny and Natasha.
“I see,” Zane said. “Kenny’s a jerk. Forget about him.”
“How old are you?” Samantha blurted.
“Twenty-three. And you?”
“Eighteen next month, right after I graduate.”
“Would you like to have lunch sometime next month?” Zane smiled.
“Okay.” Samantha’s heart pounded in her chest. “Sure!”
“Great! Listen, I’d love to chat with you some more, Samantha, but I’ve got to get back to work.”
They exchanged phone numbers and made plans to keep in touch. Zane then walked Samantha to her car and watched her drive away.
The minute he was back in the house, he leaned against the door in a cold sweat. Thick blotches of hair began to grow on his hands and arms. Fangs contorted his mouth and soon, he was salivating.
Ergo, the Ogre 