Homemaking

January 8, 2024

The sign flickered, but Joel glimpsed enough to know he was at the right place: Wight’s Funeral Home.

His Great-Uncle Stuart had nearly reached his ninety-eighth birthday, so Joel hadn’t exactly been shocked to receive the notice from the funeral home about the visitation. But he had no idea Great-Uncle Stuart had fallen ill or taken a bad turn.

Since Joel’s grandparents had already passed, his parents were away on vacation, and Great-Uncle Stuart had no descendants of his own, he figured he’d make the trip so there’d be a family member in attendance. But as he looked around at the parking lot occupants, his own car and a single hearse, it appeared he might be the only attendee.

He pushed open the large front door which creaked eerily. The air inside was stale and warm like a blanket of morning breath. An attendant with a drooped head and a shuffling gait led him to a table where yellowed pages of a guestbook were illuminated by a dim light. Joel added his name to a short list. Glancing at the trail of ink forming the entry above, he paused.

Michael Parks. October 12, 1973.

Fifty years ago! This place clearly didn’t get much business.

He read the words scrawled another line higher:

Samuel Jenkins. December 2, 1949.

How could such a place stay open if they only held a funeral every few decades? Joel thought about asking the attendant, but the guy kind of gave him the creeps.

Joel made his way into the main room, walked past rows of chairs and approached the casket. An old man was displayed within, but it wasn’t Great-Uncle Stuart. He looked at the nameplate: Michael Parks.

Why would the last person to sign the guestbook have his funeral here so many years later? Where was Great-Uncle Stuart? Something was wrong with this place. Joel backed away. “There’s been a mistake.”

The attendant raised his head, his eyes were solid white. Joel felt fear grip his heart.

“Without someone to live in it, a house is just a house,” the attendant chuckled. Manic laughter echoed all around. “And as you can see, we’re in need of a new tenant."

Joel sprinted back through the rows of chair, past the guestbook, and to the door. He grabbed the handle and pulled with all his might. It was locked.

He turned to find the attendant had materialized soundlessly behind him. The feeble lights were growing dimmer and glowing eyes began to take shape in the darkness.

The attendant smiled wickedly, "Welcome home, sir. We’re so glad you’re here.”

Author's Note: This was originally written for the first round of the 2024 NYC Midnight 100-word Microfiction Challenge, but has been revised into a longer microfiction. My assignment included the following: Genre - Horror, Action - Signing a guestbook, Word - trail