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

Ricky and Chad turned around and started to walk back in the direction of the house while I hung my head like a scalded dog. I worked through the pouting after a second though and followed them back into the thick of the crop.

“That house must have had some serious paint fumes or mold or something because I swore I saw you two bleeding all over the place and locked in cages like dogs. Thanks for running me down,” I said and finished with an awkward laugh.

Ricky and Chad stopped just before the wheat broke off into the rocky side yard of the house. They turned to me with stone faces glazed in sweat.

“Yeah, and you fucking left us,” Ricky said.

Ricky spat on the ground and walked off into the yard with Chad following.

“Wait. Hold up.”

I took off after Ricky and Chad but lost track of them as soon as I got out of the wheat.

“I…”

I clammed up in the clearing. Ricky and Chad were nowhere to be seen.

The faint sound of painful moaning picked up on the wind. I followed it over to the house. It seemed to be broadcasting from the open main floor window I had jumped out of.

The single candle looked to still be lit in that room. I thought I could see the shadow of someone standing in there next to it.

I made a move south, towards the road where we parked the car. I was done with the madness. The headfuck of a maze. I didn’t care if the entire Yakuza gang was waiting for me back at the car.

Jack has written professionally as a journalist, fiction writer, and ghost writer. For more information, visit his website.

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