Crime - Short

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. Househusband Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

HOUSEHUSBAND

James imagined a starter home of their own, with a furnace just like the clunky green unit in the basement. James set down his toolbox and looked out the window, thinking that a furnace would be a pricey update. He imagined putting in a new system, watching his wife pay, and the thought made his heart ache.

The snow started sometime in the night and the heat had pumped off and on since—so far so good.

The world was all new and a husband might eat the bread his wife brought home, but that didn’t mean it was easy. There was a word for a man like him. That unspoken title echoed in his head as if taunted by schoolchildren, Househusband! Househusband!

James rubbed his jaw. A few more inches out the window and he’d have another task on the list. Another that carried no monetary value. He inhaled deeply and exhaled, breath fogging the little pane of glass next to the door. An old fingerprint came into view and he used the cuff of his flannel shirt to wipe it away.

He turned and looked at the freshly unpacked home. The place had more room than they were used to and it made their accumulated stuff seem inadequate. Three weeks and it felt far from normal. All day at home when he was used to being elsewhere.

The midday sun streamed through the living room blinds, dust particles hanging on the air made the house seem aggravatingly unclean. There was a scent lingering, not exactly bad or dirty, a lived-in scent of others. The past dwellers clinging alongside those dust particles like gassy ghosts. The hues fruity and sour.

The furnace pushed these scents around rather than away. Cleaning the ductwork was another job for James, one he’d already popped onto the list.

He picked at the arm of the couch and pictured his father and grandfather accepting what he had. James worried about his pride without ever admitting the cause of his anxiety. There was a job and one that paid well, but it wasn’t his. It belonged to his wife, Leanne.

His father wouldn’t have lived like that and scoffed at anyone who did. His grandfather might’ve laughed in a man’s face who stayed home while his wife went to work, questioned that man’s manhood.

Moving to the new place for her work meant Leanne alone paid the bills. Oh, he’d find something, eventually. Maybe. It wasn’t easy and was getting harder all the time.

Before they moved and made the idea a reality, it brimmed with promise. They’d dreamed where her education might take them, the vacations and cars, the toys and a home all their own. While she furthered her schooling, he worked and with that work knew the great pride of contribution. Deep down he always assumed she’d be number two, he’d wear the pants, because…just because.

Househusband! Househusband!

Man earned the meatier share. Man protected that share. Woman pitched in to help, mostly with the family, the nurturing, the hugs, and the bandages.

James shook his head and punched his hip, trying to cast away the feeling. Equality didn’t have set jobs and he loved his wife. The move was good. Her job was great. A career.

As if affronting a household law, James was without income and his wife didn’t need a protector. Worse, she didn’t mind at all that he wasn’t either. He agreed and smiled when she’d explained it over the phone to her mother.

Thankfully, James’ parents were a decade underground.

When they moved, the world came at him in a flood. The small house needed work. It kept him busy and if he got most of it done quickly, he might equal Leanne’s wage with the effort. Those first few months anyway. The owner had placed an advertisement online the same week Leanne accepted congratulatory handshakes of the new future. The ad stated an interest in swapping work completed for housing. Renovations in exchange of a year’s rent, some expenses covered. Must have own tools.

Before the move, James had had a job. Hated it the four years he’d been there. This while Leanne sat in campus classrooms, learning to better their collective fate. The money dreams were fun, but the reality cut, and the voice inside whispered revelations until it was time to shout.

Househusband! Househusband! Real men earn real money!

The unfinished basement was the first chore. It involved the heaviest lifting, but came together with the least mental strain. The room was a fleshless skeleton, pink fluff under plastic, like guts in need of muscles and meat, drywall and paint. Wires ran without obstruction and came down with ease. The new walls received updated lines for modern needs.

At three past noon, James had glanced at the cracked face of his cellphone and stopped for lunch. Bell hadn’t yet come to fit the home with an internet router. Tuesday between eight and one, they’d said.

Grumble in his belly, he scrolled through meagre updates on his Facebook page while he heated a can of Campbell’s chicken and rice on the stovetop. The new life wasn’t far from their past. They’d moved an hour away. It was a lonely mess. James had never been so far for so long from his friends and family. He’d become a spy, snooping through social site profiles with equal parts nostalgia and boredom.

Before, he’d liked maybe a handful of updates a week. Since the move, he did that much a day and then some.

Bubbles bounced in the soup and he dumped it into a large bowl. Crumbled nine crackers over the broth. The digital tuner atop the television accepted signals from four stations. James settled on the CTV news, blowing on his soup while he sat on a couch found amid the free listings on craigslist. It was nice enough but had worn armrests and a big tear in the back. He’d tried to sew it, but it triggered his anxiety and he did the man thing, pinning the flaps together, running a seam with Gorilla Glue, and pulling the pins once it dried. It would just rip again, but he couldn’t sew it, couldn’t.

Househusband! Househusband!

The couch wasn’t a keeper. A decade plus a year if they stuck to the loan schedule. They could get a better couch then, sooner if James finished the renovations quickly and found a job—doing something, anything, just so a paycheck featured his name.

The troublesome voices in his head never went so far to state a woman’s place in life, but suggested, surely, that there was a man’s place. A man’s place affects a woman’s place, but not immediately and not intentionally.

Househusband! Real men earn real money! Real men provide food, shelter, and protection!

Such thoughts were disgraceful, felt—

Househusband!

“Stupid,” he muttered.

He sipped back the final bit of broth and rice from his bowl, then killed the power on the television. Before returning to the basement, he took a flathead screwdriver and two tiny screws and swapped out a cracked light switch plate. He then scooped up his phone. One last refresh to social media. Nothing new, it was as if he needed some bit of hope, a job offer, a windfall, something.

He dropped the screwdriver he’d pinched beneath his middle finger into the toolbox before he stepped into the kitchen, bowl and spoon in one hand, cellphone in the other.

The bowl and spoon clanked in the sink. The cupboards were ugly wood, shiny and cheap, something not on the list, but if the house were his… Outside, a gentle rumble rolled in the lane. It was a private place with a private driveway, stubby wide coniferous trees offered peaceful solitude and a buffer between property lines.

Just as likely to block the neighbors from seeing the rental house as it was the other way around.

A Ford Expedition cut over the crystalline world. This was not a Bell van and James did not recognize it. Curious and somewhat annoyed, he stepped onto the porch in just his shirt sleeves, his breath puffed and he squinted against the cloudless sky

Most of the homes in the area were newer and much bigger than the rental. James wondered why the owner kept the home, why he didn’t build afresh, a mansion or a timber-frame, something big and pricey, like the neighbors had. The little place stuck out in its lack. Stuck out in the fact that it didn’t actually stick out. It was small and old. It did not scream for attention and did not promise anything more than the most assumable homey attributes.

Country guitar twanged through the windows of the vehicle. The music reminded James of his old job. That made him tense. He held one hand at his eyebrows to shield the sun and the other at his side, cellphone still in palm.

A wave of gravel dust and powdery snow plumed in the Expedition’s wake until it stopped right where Leanne usually parked. A radio call filled the air for a moment when two doors swung open before the engine ceased: “…hits you know and—” The driver’s door opened, followed by other doors, and one at a time, three men stood.

There were cracks in the chrome-coated bumper and rust patches blooming through the paint on the nose where gravel chips went unattended. The men moved closer—shadowy silhouettes under the blazing sun—one smoked a cigarette, he dropped it.

“Can I help you?” James asked.

The driver and apparent leader stepped forward with a hand out. James swapped the cellphone from right to left, unthinkingly, and shook the offer. It was soft and greasy. The men had a sweet scent that carried below the odor of smoke, heavy on the crisp air.

“We stopped by to welcome you to the community. I’m Geo, and that’s Liam, and that’s Roddy.” The man nodded over his left shoulder and then right shoulder.

They were youngish men, early thirties, Geo obviously the eldest. All three wore clean, collared button-ups, two blue and one pale orange, beneath heavy canvass Carhartt jackets. Faded blue jeans and off-brand boots fashioned to imitate Sorels. To James they looked like down on their luck farm insurance salesmen in need of a meal. Skinny and soft.

“Hello, I’m—” James started, but was cut off by Geo.

“I bet this place sold at a steal.”

James looked over Geo’s shoulder, unsure if the man meant it offensively or he just had odd manners. “I don’t know.” This was an honest answer. He nearly added that it probably had, the owner bought it to eventually flip, once James made it more liveable.

“Nah, you wouldn’t. So what do you do?” Geo asked.

“Right now, I’m just fixing up the place, needs a lot of work. We moved here for my wife’s job.”

“Ooh, a kept man. Househusband, what’s that like?” Geo grinned, his teeth yellow with too dark gaps. Before James could answer, Geo swung out a hand. “I’m just playing with ya. It’s how the world is and people need to rely on each other. And who better to rely on than the one ya married, am I right?” Geo squeezed James’ forearm as the two others nodded.

Looking at them together, his eyes settled enough to drink in their features better. It struck, a total a-ha moment.

Grown brothers.

“I suppose you’re right. Can I do something for you fellas?”

“We only stopped in to greet ya, but if you’re offering, a coffee would be mighty nice of ya,” Geo said.

“Coffee maker broke, but I’ve got some lemonade.” James wondered why he added the second part, why offer anything?

“Whoa, and you got out of bed?” Geo’s grin stretched. “Nah, lemonade would be great.”

It was a surprise when James heard the three men follow him inside the home. He’d expected they wait outside. Upon running back over his offer, he decided they’d done nothing out of place given that it was winter. If anything, offering lemonade when there was frost on the ground was out of place.

“A table and a hutch would sure look nice right there.” Geo pointed to an empty corner of the kitchen as he wiped his boots on the mat. The floor had indents from where furniture once stood.

“Maybe, someday. I’ve got to tear up this linoleum and put down some nice wood. Going to class up the place, I guess.” James said this as if in defense—the home was rough and he would make it better, promise.

The men were in the kitchen, still in their jackets and boots as James reached into the cupboard looking at the tall glasses and deciding on the shorter ones. There was work to do and short glasses equaled short offerings, equalled short delays.

“This linoleum don’t even look all that old, but I guess some people have rich tastes, some people have all the money in the world,” Geo said.

The other two grunted.

James poured the lemonade from the pitcher into four glasses. A problem. There was offense intended, these men didn’t seem as if they lived in the neighborhood at all. The nice houses and the aging vehicle didn’t fit together. These men wanted something.

James drank back his lemonade in three quick gulps and put his glass into the sink. “Look, is there something else I can do for you guys? I have a ton of work to get to, as you can maybe guess.”

James turned his back to the men, his left hand still on his cellphone, his right on the handle of a knife Leanne had used to fix her pack lunch before she left that morning. This was an instinctive clutch like a child’s grasp on a teddy bear.

The quiet brothers slurped their drinks.

“No, sir, just saying hello. We’ll get right out of your hair. I can see you’ve got lots of work to do.” Geo tilted his glass to let the cold lemonade slide down his throat.

The brothers followed suit and Geo led the way to the door, boots clomping. Hearing them, James let go of the knife. Once they were out, he’d lock the door. There was something odd about these brothers, something unnerving in the way his politeness let them in and had to assume nicety, even when appearing otherwise.

At the door, Geo turned back and held out a hand for another shake. James took the hand. Geo squeezed tight.

“Hey, you know that fella?” Geo pointed down at a small pile of mail.

James looked at the table and the tension washed away. He’d had them almost all the way out and maybe they knew the rightful owners of the mail that refused to stop coming. Maybe they’d get rid of it for him.

James set down his cellphone and scooped up the pile, let go of Geo’s hand. He flipped through. The first three were to a Roderick Duguay, the fourth to a George Duguay, and the fifth to a Liam Duguay. A connection blazed, finally. The names and the scent, they didn’t belong in the area, not anymore, not neighbors at all. These men used to own that home and were up to…what?

James looked beyond the envelopes to the table by the door. His cellphone was gone.

“What do you want?” he asked and lifted his eyes.

“Ya shouldn’t a did what you did, Billy boy.” Geo swung a heavy fist that landed on James’ left cheek. The crack sent a momentary blackspot over James’ mind like a solar eclipse, rattling his teeth and rocking his head back in a whiplash jerk.

Then the trio rushed him. The rumbling footfalls of scurrying boots thumped like beats on a plastic drum. James was falling. The unmistakable sound of toolbox clatter chased him down.

The blackspot disappeared and he looked up at five arms. The sixth didn’t reach toward him at all. It had reared back, above a head. James wasn’t sure which brother. A hammer swung as James groped at those reaching arms.

The blackspot was different after the wet strike landed. It was like a burn on a movie reel, stalled on a single frame.

James exhaled what was in him in a huff and felt those hands, but the world was too bleary to make out much. The color differences and the movements, but nothing to distinguish.

“Took our home!” a voice shouted.

The hammer came down again. James’ world shook loose and that blackspot spread until he fully lost connection.

On the ground, the world came back. In and out, under a thick brown shroud, blipped voices around him laughed, calling him Billy, Bill, William. He heard them and wondered why they said that and what it meant, was it a slur? A colloquial name for…what?

A foot pounded James in his gut, pain flashed, and his body coiled tight. Another foot made a great sinking shadow for two-tenths of a second before landing on his temple.

Out and back. The quality of light coming to him was better than the last time he’d awoken, but James didn’t connect any of that. Didn’t know he’d been out, only knew that he hurt all over.

Two coherent thoughts fluttered above the pain. Firstly, he was thankful, almost ecstatic, that Leanne wasn’t home. What would they do to her? They might do unthinkable things, things maybe worse than dying.

The second thought was of a man named William Pire. William Pire had handed over the keys when they’d signed the rental agreement.

“Robbed us, motherfuckin’ shit bag!”

Billy, Bill, William.

Another foot landed and a rib cracked. The sound was dull on the outside. On the inside it was a blow horn. His bent back straightened and a fist connected four times in quick succession. The blackspot was a blanket then, swaddling him until his world returned to a muddy ocean.

The ocean cleared after an indistinguishable sum of time. Heat pattered onto James’ face and laughter filled the room.

“Ya like piss, Billy boy? Pire, what is that some fuckin’ French name? Come here and think ya can kick good people out their homes?” Geo screamed these things as his urine ran over James. “You and that mortgage cunt? Don’t think we don’t know ya was in cahoots from the beginning, sign us up and make it so hard to pay, then snatch the place!”

James took a breath and opened his mouth, tasting piss and blood. He wanted to tell them, no, it’s all a mistake. I’m just a renter, basically a contractor. I’m not the one who put you out, but the words remained locked somewhere behind the broken teeth and the swelling in his throat. I’m just a Househusband, fixing up the place. I don’t own shit!

The piss stung in James’ eyes and smelled just like it tasted. It didn’t matter. He knew he was dead. The piss was just one of the final sensations of his existence. At least Leanne was safe at work. Leanne was young, and attractive, and smart, and she had a good job.

She had the tools to move on. Didn’t need him anyway.

Consciousness was a tug o’ war and he was punch drunk clinging to the rope until it disappeared from his grasp. Out again.

James’ head was harder than he’d ever imagined possible. Not that he ever thought about how much abuse he might take and still come out of it.

Pain, bright as the sun, flashed over the blackspot. He blinked and rocked forward, sending aches into overdrive. He moaned into a puddle that reeked of piss and shit. A world where he reeked of piss and shit.

New trouble. Pain came from his right hand. Beyond whichever brother it was who lifted his arm, he saw that they’d brought over one of his toolboxes—could tell for sure because of the shape and the color: a bright yellow rectangle. Another shot of pain flared and James attempted to yank back his arm.

The Duguay men wailed, laughing as Geo worked. James squinted and grimaced, looking down to the end of his arm. Something didn’t make sense, until it did and Geo snipped another of the fingers from James’ right hand.

James convulsed and tugged. The men weren’t letting go.

One digit at a time. Red geysers sprouted and slowed as quickly as they came. They let go and James looked at his hand, a stump of oozing gore. He attempted speech.

“Shut up!” One of them landed the hammer on the top of his head, as if swinging a croquet mallet. That blackspot was all-encompassing and delivered him once more from the pain and humiliation. 

Time passed. Wading through the thick brown reality, James awoke to a quiet room. Certain he was a ghost and ghosts were deaf. He looked around, tried to float. It had the same outcome all the times he’d tried to use The Force as a kid.

He and his body remained tied. No floating.

The sun had fallen and he thought of his wife again, long before he recalled the brothers. Was there an accident? She’s home late, oh God don’t tell me…

Househusband can’t protect his wife!

There was a potluck at the office. It was a monthly thing that didn’t include spouses. It was nothing to worry about, nothing bad. There was no accident. She was out eating meatballs, and fried tomato hunks, and little wieners on toothpicks, drinking box wine from a plastic cup or a can of Diet Coke. They’d make jokes and tell stories until one of them drank too much and crossed a line.

James moved his arm. The pain reminded him of the brothers and what they’d done to him. He opened his eyes as wide as possible. A distracting brown smear teased, clinging to an eyebrow. It was a foggy view, but it was something, and he wasn’t dead. He needed to call Leanne, needed to call her and tell her what happened, keep her away, keep her safe.

Calling for an ambulance wasn’t such a bad idea either.

He put his right palm flat and tried to push. Pain screamed through the numbness. He slipped on sticky, wet linoleum. The thud of dropping sent his head spinning. A new moan erupted from his chest. There was blood everywhere, so much that he thought it couldn’t possibly all belong to him. Then, if it did, how did he get it back inside?

There, next to the fallen set of shears, were his fingers. He looked at his hand and then down to the arrant digits and back to his hand. At the tips of his knuckles were blackish, clotted, sponge-like stubs. He used his left and pushed himself into a sitting position. His head was groggy and swaying on a loose neck, as if wedding guest wasted.

James wanted to move, had to move, but decided he’d sit for a moment, wondering if they’d come back. He’d surely die and they’d want a finished job. You can’t almost kill a man and stop, not when he knows your names.

A breath wheezed free, whistling out at the end. He was a dead man. There was no way to see it otherwise. They left for a break, maybe just to get coffee, but maybe to wait for Leanne.

Did I mention Leanne?

Of course you did, househusband.

Luckily, they’d left his legs alone and he could push. They were heavy, but functioning. James leaned up from a wall to his feet, dragging his head as he walked, bloody piss smeared over the wallpaper.

He groped at the door with fingers that weren’t there. Pain shot like lightning, and he tried his left hand.

The doorknob had transformed into a safe’s wheel, spinning but without the combination, he’d never get the door open. Click. Click.

“C’mon,” James mumbled, a reddish saliva bubble formed and popped as he wheezed. His words sounded more like “Muh-mon.”

He closed his eyes and thought about Leanne. He had to protect her from this. They’d be back and he had to warn her, tell her to drive and drive and drive when they returned…maybe they hadn’t truly left. It’s possible they lay in wait, wanting more action, more violence, another victim of misplaced retribution.

The doorknob eventually took pity on James and turned. It was dark outside, but it was obvious that the big Ford was no longer in Leanne’s spot.

How far had it gone?

James still wore his sneakers and stumbled, teetering, nearly falling through the open door. His cellphone lay in pieces at his feet on the cement porch. The hope to call someone vanished, and really, he hadn’t figured they’d leave his phone. This was a game and games had players. Outsiders could only obstruct a game in progress.

James crawled, blood dribbled from his lips into the snow, filling in a boot print. It had snowed an inch at least. Soon he’d have to shovel and…he was a dead man and dead men don’t shovel.

He lifted his head and looked into the blue night, studying the shadows for unnatural shapes. Men shapes. Ford Expedition shapes. Hammer shapes. One of them would come, as if stepping from a movie cover in the horror section at Walmart. 

Lights flared at the end of the lane. They were bright and huge. The brothers had come back. Of course they’d come back. They’d waited until he got up.

“No,” he moaned, thinking, At least you won’t get Leanne too. You came back too early. Hurt me, I know you will, but go away after that.

The vehicle approached slowly, as if worried about the fresh powder. The lights grew, joined by the rumble and grind of Death rolling over gravel.

“Leanne,” James whined, wishing she was there, but so glad she wasn’t.

Househusband! Can’t provide! Can’t protect!

Those brothers would do so much worse to her. A flashed image: her naked and strapped to a wall. Them with cocks out and knives and the hammer. But they’d spun it around on her, maybe tie her to a table and bend her over.

Leanne.

The violations James bore from the brothers rode outside the hardened shell of his body. What they’d do to her would run deeper, they’d touch her in places she’d never be un-touched. They’d cut and ruin and then they’d get to the real pain.

Would they kill her or leave her…or keep her?

“Go’way fucks,” he mumbled and spat blood. “She ain’t here, you can’t have her.” None of these words sounded like words. These were wet and incoherent gobbledygook.

The lights bathed him on the cold porch, the radio played, lower than before, yet audibly. He needed them finished with him before his wife returned. She’d need protecting and he wasn’t up for it, better to sacrifice himself and send them on their way.

He crawled out and down the first step, tipping and falling over the second. “Hurry up, if you’re comin’,” he said. Tears welled in and on his puffy eyes.

That light ate his sight and he leaned over, falling to his side. Let them kill him quickly and be gone. The vehicle had stopped. A door swung open. It was over, any second they’d come upon him. They’d just gone for a snack, a coffee break even, there was still work left to do.

“James!” a voice screamed.

James shook his head, tried to rise, tried to wave her away, and then dropped into a heap.

No, Leanne, no! They’re coming back! Who will protect? Who will provide?

“Run,” he mumbled.

She couldn’t be there. They’d be back. She couldn’t be there. The things they’d do to her. He wasn’t up to task. He couldn’t live with what they’d do to her on his watch.

“Leanne, no!” he howled to the moon watching over his head.

“What happened to you?” Leanne cried and cradled her husband’s bloody body as she rooted into her purse for her phone. “Who did this to you?”

Her hands hurt so good on him. He tried to warn her, but his mouth had become mashed potatoes in gravy.

Leanne.

She squeezed his head and the blackspot invaded. He fought it. Blinks of a brown halfway place, blinks of reality. Blink. Blink.

“You can’t be here,” he whispered. “There’s bad brothers and they’ll come back.” The words had no middles, no pauses, mostly vowel sounds.

“Shh. Shh.” Leanne rocked him like a baby. Her tears fell onto his smattered face.

Lights flared out in the yard. James saw them rolling toward them, heard the radio call from an open window. They’d come and do horrible things.

Not a man. You can’t provide. You can’t protect. You’re no man at all. Househusband, they’ve come back and you can’t do jack!

“Run Leanne! Leave me!” These words joined frantic movements. The only thing Leanne understood was the panic.

Why didn’t she get it? They were back and would do things and he couldn’t protect her.

She hushed him, sobbing. “They’re here now. I’m here now. I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ll protect you, nobody’s gonna do a thing.”

She didn’t understand the torment they’d perform on her. They’d finish him off and do unspeakable things with her soft, beautiful body. They’d exploit her femininity.

“Run away,” he said, garbled, blood bubbles forming on his puffy lips again. The shadowy silhouettes approached through a blinding flashing red and white glare. “I can’t protect you!”

“Shh, you’re safe. I won’t let anyone hurt you anymore. I’m here. Everything will be all right. I’ll make sure of it. I’ve got you. I’ve got everything,” Leanne whispered and then let go when the hands came down onto her, cutting into this new vehicle’s glow.

Leanne did not argue and stepped aside to let the paramedics do their job.

XX