“We don’t go in there anymore,” June informed Tim.
“Why not?” asked the boy as he plucked grass. They sat in the shade of a tree, across the field from a pristine farmhouse, June’s old home.
“Cuz that’s where they live now.”
“I’m not supposed to say their name. Dad says it makes ’em angry.”
“Who? And they can’t hear us way over here.”
“I dunno,” June said, unable to look at her old home.
“Ah, you’re just messin’ with me,” Tim said. “I bet nobody’s in there and you’re just tryin’ to scare me.” He began marching across the expanse.
“Don’t-” said June, grasping. He shrugged her off. She followed behind several feet, arms wrapped around herself.
The grass grew brown and the air got cold as they approached. It seemed to Tim that the sun even dimmed, somehow. But he wasn’t about to be a coward. Not in front of June, anyway.
“Please,” pleaded June. Tim got to the steps and glanced back. June was still in the field, terrified.
Tim felt a pang of fear, but he was committed. He ascended and grabbed the handle, twisted, and pushed.
There was a scurrying sound from the other side as the door opened.
Tim stumbled backward and fell down the steps to the ground. He sprang up and ran. June was already halfway across the field. Tim didn’t know what it was, but the thousands of spindly legs he saw would haunt him until the day he died.
2 thoughts on “The Farmhouse”
Nice short story!
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