Horror dawned on everyone’s changed faces as they faced the full reality of the changes that’d transpired. Tears started streaming down Megan’s rugged face, Steve’s high pitched voice couldn’t stop muttering in disbelief, Alan kept pulling on his hair, and Janet had collapsed onto her hands and knees.
“Now, now,” the witch cooed in a mocking tone, “There’s no need to get so worked up.”
She raised her gnarled walking stick again and waved it in the air. A gust of wind whirled towards the changed bunch, causing them to fall onto the floor, dead asleep. The witch, cackling, took her cane in both hands and struck the rotting wooden floor. Immediately the mansion went dark, the old crone’s wicked laughter echoing in the dark...
~~~
Steve, Janet, Alan, and Megan all came to. Gray light filtered in through the moth-eaten silk curtains. They each stirred, and sat up. They were in a large, canopy bed, in a lavishly decorated, but dilapidating nonetheless, bedroom. Dusty dressers and wardrobes sat in the corner. A strangely clean ceramic bowl sat on a small table, the steam rising from it had fogged up the small mirror that hung above it on the fading wallpaper. Each of the Donaldsons were in an identical, cobweb-covered room, but they were alone.