“You’re Going to Have Sex With Us” — Said the 3 Giant Women Already Living on the Farm He Bought

The deed felt heavier than paper should as Boon Whitmore stood in the dusty yard, staring at the farmhouse he thought was his. The place was supposed to be empty—at least, that’s what the seller had promised. Instead, three women loomed on the porch like guardians of a gate he was never meant to cross.

The tallest stepped forward. Broad-shouldered, sun-browned, with arms that looked strong enough to wrestle a steer, she offered him a smile that never touched her eyes. “You must be the new owner,” she said, voice calm but carrying an edge that made the hair on Boon’s neck rise…See more in c0mments

The two flanking her didn’t speak, but their gaze was just as sharp—predators sizing up something that had wandered too close.

Boon raised the deed, its official seal still gleaming. “This is my property now. I have the papers to prove it.”

The woman’s smile widened, revealing too many teeth in the fading light. “Oh, we know who you are, Boon Whitmore. We’ve been expecting you.”

A chill ran down his spine. Expecting him? The seller had assured him the deal was private, the land forgotten and waiting for a new beginning. He had spent his life savings for that promise of solitude, riding three days through wilderness to claim it. But now, with the women standing firm and unyielding, the isolation felt like a trap tightening around him…

Boon didn’t lower the deed. His fingers only tightened around it, knuckles whitening as evening bled into the horizon and shadows began to move across the dirt.

The tall woman took one measured step down from the porch. The boards didn’t creak under her weight—somehow, that bothered him more than if they had.

“I’m not here to start problems,” Boon said, making his voice steady. “But I paid for this land. Whatever business you had here before—it’s over.”

The woman gave a low chuckle that didn’t match any sane kind of humor.

“Bought land doesn’t mean you bought freedom,” she said. “And claiming this farm doesn’t mean you understand what lives on it.”

The two women behind her watched him with unblinking focus. Not once had they shifted, blinked, or spoken. They could’ve been carved from the wood of the house itself.

Boon took a slow step back—not out of fear, he told himself, but out of caution.

“You all need to leave,” he said. “Tonight.”

The tall woman tilted her head, as if studying a creature she hadn’t fully decided how to kill.

“Oh, Boon,” she said softly. “We’ve never left. We don’t leave. Not since the Whitmore name first touched this soil.”

His heart stuttered.
“What did you just say?”

This time, all three spoke at once.

“Welcome home.”

Something in their voices wasn’t natural—too synchronized, too deep, vibrating through the earth itself. A tremor passed under Boon’s boots, like something shifting beneath the ground.

Before he could move, speak, or breathe, the last of the daylight died behind the tree line.

And the farm exhaled—like something long buried had just woken up.

If you want the horror to build slowly—with psychological dread, local legends, and a slow reveal—I can keep going that way.

Or…

If you want it to escalate fast—supernatural presence, body horror, twisted history—I can turn up the intensity.

Which pace should we take for Part 3: slow-burn dread or immediate escalation?