The Nightmare

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 rearing 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 over-sized hand.

Sheryl screamed again.

 

Susan Marie Shuman/SusanWritesPrecise

Google Images

11 thoughts on “The Nightmare

  1. Pingback: Mr. Jamison | The Abject Muse

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