There’s A Farmhouse In Southeast Washington Called ‘The Richards House’ And Anyone Who Goes In There Supposedly Disappears

A long spray of barf roared out of me when I finally stopped. I dropped my hands down onto my knees and collected myself in a little clearing in the grain stalks. I looked around with watering eyes and watched the tops of the stalks sway in the moonlight.

Safety. Life. Maybe not.

I heard a cluster of crunches behind me. The sound of feet crunching the dried-out bases of some wheat stalks.

I spun around and saw two beams from flashlights approach. They temporarily blinded me long enough for me not to move another muscle until I was face-to-face with my comrades who I had left behind. Ricky and Chad hacked loogies at me as soon as they came into focus.

The snot-laced piles of spit fell onto the tips of my boots and Ricky started laughing.

“Dude, you fucking bitched out in there,” Ricky said in between dorky laughs.

“Wha?”

“You ran off right when we were finding the shit,” Ricky went on.

“But we fucking got it,” Chad shouted out.

Chad lifted up a black plastic bag bulking with goods.

“Even more than we planned for,” Ricky said. “Got greedy. I bet we got a hundred large in that thing. But let’s get the fuck out of here. We followed your ass out here hoping you weren’t going to run off until you end up dead in the Snake River like your dumb ass frat boy butt buddies would.”