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The Vindo Viper

The night I received the first message of what would soon haunt me and ruin my peace of mind I was nestled with my wife in front of a warm, friendly fire. There was a howling storm outside and the trees in the yard scraped the stucco of back outside wall of our home with an eerie scrabbling sound as if in response to the whistling of the blowing wind.

My cell phone rang. "Hello?"

An accented female voice said, "Een fife deez, the Vindo Viper vill be heeyah."

"Pardon?"

"Noo. You vill see. The Vindo Viper ees coomink."

She hung up. God, that was spooky, I thought. I told my wife it was the wrong number.

Three days later, as I came into the driveway, my wife was waiting. She looked upset.

"What's the matter?" I asked?

"I got this strange call. This lady with a weird accent said something that sounded like "In two days the Vindo Viper will be here? What could that mean? It was spooky, I tell you. I'm afraid! I think we should call the police."

"Just a crank call, dear. Don't let it get you down."

I had completely forgotten about the whole thing, when two nights later, the door bell rang. I opened it and standing there was an old crone, who looked like one of the witches from MacBeth.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Ya," she said holding up a sqillgee and a bottle of Windex, "I'm the Vido Viper. Vould ennyvun vant dair vindows viped?"

Learn more about this author, Jerry Curtis.
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