My mother lives in the next town over, but she’s dead. My dead father lives with her.
Their house is small, and silent because it’s empty. The dead are quiet for the most part, although sometimes there is a sound like weeping in the bedroom and once the bathroom door slammed so hard it cracked and then there was a hole in it big enough to put your foot through, but it’s the just the wind, murmurs my mother, the same wind that skirls along her teeth, hissing through the dark cavern of her yawning jaw, a wind that bobbles my father’s empty skull and makes it nod along in agreement.
My dead parents hover in the house like paper wasps, droning softly as they chew and spit, building a wall that spirals forever into itself. It’s artfully constructed, but easy to destroy; I used to drive over there weekly, spray it, knock it down with a broom. Believe I’d done something useful, but my efforts were pointless. My parents just buzzed around me, angry and bewildered. Then started to rebuild, droning and chewing and spitting.
My doctor is patient, but professionally concerned. “I understand that you are speaking in metaphors,” he tells me earnestly, “but I need you to confirm that your parents are alive.”
I cock my head to one side, puzzled. “I told you; my parents are dead. They live down the thruway in Elmira. They have for more than thirty years. Go on over, here’s the address,” I say, and he says, “There’s nobody there,” and I say, “Exactly.” He looks down at his desk and sighs.
He’s clearly frustrated. I wish I could help him, but if he doesn’t know where they are after all I’ve told him, I’m at a loss as to how to continue. My parents are dead. Their house is small and silent and empty and filled with the sounds of slamming doors and splintering wood and sobbing, humming with industry as they buzz and build their gray paper wall that spirals and turns and never ends. They work day and night, chewing and spitting. They live in the next town over. They couldn’t be anywhere else: they built a wall, not a door.
“Unless they went into the hole,”I muse, and I must have spoken aloud because my doctor asks, “Into the hole?”
“To get out. Maybe they went into the hole. The one I told you about, in the bathroom door?” I prompt, thinking perhaps he’s forgotten. He stares at me in confusion.
I sigh impatiently. “A hole is as good as a door when you need a way out. Maybe they needed a way out.” I pause, pondering the idea for a moment. “Everyone needs a way out, sometimes. Don’t you think?”
My doctor is staring at me, his hand on the phone. “You think your parents went into…a hole.”
“It’s what I would do, if I was dead,” I say.
This image was originally posted to Flickr by John Tann at https://www.flickr.com/photos/31031835@N08/5477749709. It was reviewed on 6 February 2015 by FlickreviewR and was confirmed to be licensed under the terms of the cc-by-2.0.
Two paper wasps on a nest.
literally stories 
Jennifer
The MC almost convinced me until I asked myself “why is she talking to a doctor?”
Truly a wry little thing with a great closing sentence.
Leila
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A lovely twisty little piece, beautifully constructed and with just the right touch of weirdness!
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an intriguing piece that leaves the reader wondering and trying to see sense in it because it gives the distinct impression that there is sense there if only one can work it out. Great word play – thank you – dd
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Jennifer
Nice use of repeated phrases and deadpan diction. Perfectly sensible. It’s what I would do too, if I were dead.
A quite wonderful read! — Gerry
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Very imaginative. “…a wind that bobbles my father’s empty skull and makes it nod along in agreement” is a fine image. Like others have commented, the last line is excellent.
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“A hole is as good as a door when you need a way out.” . . . “a wind that bobbles my father’s empty skull and makes it nod along in agreement.” Just two of the many killer lines in this weirdly intriguing piece.
Geraint
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Jennifer
Samuel Beckett wrote, “Suddenly, no, at last, I couldn’t any more, I couldn’t go on. Someone said, You can’t stay here. I couldn’t stay there and I couldn’t go on.” In the old days, the crazy folks were the sane ones. These days, no one is sane, not even the therapists, and sometimes especially not the therapist. Your “Where the Dead Live” says much in few words with excellent, lively drama and tension while remaining open to mystery, and as such, is a joy to read. Great first lines and title, too. Thank you for writing!
Dale
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Lovely story. As others said, strange, but engrossing.
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thank you all for taking the time to read and comment!
Jennifer
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Hi Jennifer,
Visual, baffling but with that weird sort of clarity that can simply make you accept.
What the reader accepts is up to them and that is the beauty of this. Many writers try to leave too much to the reader and it works, some are more sparse but again it works. Whichever way they go, it’s only very skilled writers who have a bead on this type of writing.
Excellent.
Hugh
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Kind of reminds me of a more quirky version of Jon Fosse’s writing – and I mean that in a very good way as I love Fosse’s work. The piece reads well, is fun in an odd way, and the opening and closing lines are particularly superb.
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The doctor is in the world of logic and reason, the patient in the realm of metaphor and dream/delusion. She’s trying to tell him something but he doesn’t get it. They’re operating in different systems. We certainly all need a way out, a way to communicate…. I wonder how the client will get out of her dilemma, what to do about the parents? Original and sticking in my mind like a planted paper wasp nest. Lots of buzzing going on!
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