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

The attic reminded me of the little crow’s nest you would find on the top of old barns out in the country. It was about the size of an average bedroom, but circular. A bed in the middle, surrounded by dressers and a couple easy chairs, it harkened me back to the guest room at my grandma’s house.

I shouldn’t have wasted time taking in the room. I could hear footsteps coming up the stairs behind me. I turned and slammed the wooden door shut. I pushed a dresser across the entryway.

I spun around and inhaled the awful scent I smelled earlier down in the hall. It shot into my throat and almost knocked me off my feet.

Lying before me in the bed was the source of the smell. Sprawled across the white bedspread was a bleeding woman, naked from the waist down. She let out a horrible cry when we locked eyes.

“Did he send you up here?” The bleeding woman screamed. “Well you can go ahead and tell him it didn’t make it then.”

I followed the woman’s eyes to a pool of blood puddled between her legs. I looked only for a second. It was long enough for me to know what I saw.

“I…uh…

The woman cut me off by jumping off the bed. She grabbed a sharp piece of surgical equipment from a tray by the bed.

I panicked and ran towards a broken out window to my left. I dove out the window without even looking.

I opened up my eyes when I hit the grating shingles of the roof. I was out on the space of the roof that surrounded the attic. I scrambled to grab hold of a shingle to keep myself from falling off the slanted roof.

The roof gave out before I could steady myself or fall off the side. I felt my body gain momentary weightlessness as I tore through a sloppy nest of rotten wood and mortar.

I hit hard a floor and felt the wind knocked out of me. I gasped and wheezed, trying to take in air.

The room I had fallen into was much like the one in the attic – dated and musty with the feel of an old museum, but with a much more masculine touch. The large bed was framed in lacquered wood, rotten deer heads lined the walls and the room smelled like whiskey barf and a little hint of classic Old Spice deodorant – the kind in the red container.

I started to pick myself up off the ground, but stopped when I felt something hard smash against the back of my skull.

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

Keep up with Jack on Twitter and Website

More From Thought Catalog