The Funeral Home

Today was the day I moved into the funeral home— my new humble abode for the next three weeks. 

There has really been not much to tell since I have arrived. The house is loudly silent, which seems impossible but I tell you it is most certainly true. Above my own footsteps, no other sound in the house is heard. I open the front door as a truck is barreling down the road but no sooner do I shut it then that same truck is nonexistent, deathly muted, as if the house lives on a different level of frequency. The house is as quiet as the grave (no pun intended).

However, the stillness is enormously loud, so much so that it has enveloped even the floorboard creaks and the refrigerator groans. Its hush infiltrates every room, every hallway, every crevice of this place. The house is so quiet in fact that I dare not stop treading my bare feet across the kitchen floor lest the silence overtake me. I dare not cease voicing my thoughts aloud lest my tongue grow numb and stop moving altogether. I dare not stop lest I too become a victim of this curse.

I can tell you all the perks about this house such as a large kitchen, the large collection of DVD’s at my leisure, or the comfy chair I am currently lounging on. But I could also tell you the multiple drawbacks as well, like the fact that the downstairs once housed the dead or that the bathroom light flickers only at night. I could tell you about how the back room leads into a dark garage-like basement with a door that cannot be closed. I could tell you about the spider I found frozen in an ice cube tray or the multiple bugs I found crawling in my bed. I could even tell you about the corpse half buried in the backyard that I named Charlie. 


But I don’t want to freak you out, because despite these things, the place is great.