Newgrounds.com — Everything, By Everyone.

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The storm raged. Lightning lit up the sky every few seconds, and the wind pounded against my house with all the pleasantness of a sledgehammer. It was an awful time—and Henry wasn’t home yet.

I tossed in our bed, unable to fall asleep. How could I? It was late—too late—and his warm body wasn’t beside mine.

The phone rang, and I barely heard it over the thunder.

“Hello,” I said.

“Honey, it’s me. I’m leaving the office now. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“Okay. Be careful. I love you.”

“Babe, don’t worry. You know me.”

I smiled. Henry’s confidence was one of the many traits I loved about him—one of the many reasons we were getting married next month.

But, no matter his promise, he wasn’t home soon. I waited and waited. I picked up the phone to try his cell, but I didn’t have a dial tone.

In my heart, I knew something was wrong. Maybe the weather was worse in the city, and he had to pull over? Maybe his car broke down, and he was stranded? Maybe a road or bridge washed out? So many horrible thoughts rushed through my head.

I felt sick with worry.

Unable to calm down, I got up and filled a glass of water. I took a pill and tried to relax in bed. More time passed.

Suddenly, I heard the front door slam.

Henry was home!

I flipped the light switch, but the hall lights wouldn’t come on. I slowly walked to the front entry way, touching the wall for guidance in the darkness.

“Henry?”

Suddenly, the front windows lit up from lightning, and a dark silhouette appeared by the door. I screamed out in surprise.

“Henry? Oh, thank God.”

He was there—drenched and shaking.

“Oh, I’m a nervous wreck,” I sighed, burying my head in his wet jacket. “What took you so long?”

Henry whispered, “It was terrible. There—there was an accident—right in front of me on the interstate. I had to wait…for the police and ambulance to get there. I—I—can’t describe it…it all happened so fast…”

I caught my breath. I held him then, not caring that my clothes were getting soaked. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re safe.”

We hugged for a long time. He didn’t want anything to eat or drink. He just wanted to go right to bed. He had another important meeting in the morning.

In our bedroom, and with Henry—my security blanket—by my side, I was able to finally relax and sleep. The storm ended at some point in the night, but it did so without my attention.

I awoke the next morning well past my normal time. Henry had already left for work. I made coffee and sat down at the kitchen table.

The phone rang.

I checked the caller ID and frowned at the familiar number. His mom was probably calling with more “important” wedding advice.

“Hey,” I said, doing my best to sound cheerful.

She was crying.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

It took a few moments for her to speak. I just caught fragments between sobs. “I—he—they couldn’t find any—his wallet—the accident—all gone.”

“Linda, calm down. What are you saying?”

I heard her take a few labored breaths. “The police couldn’t find his wallet—they just identified him now.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

She moaned again. Then, with fury in her voice, she said, “Henry, damn it! Henry! He’s dead! He died last night on the interstate.”

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At 5/19/13 09:43 PM, Adam-Beilgard wrote: ManleyPeterson "His House"

So many feels, bro. Very descriptive storytelling puts me in this man's shoes (if he has any). The coming home imagery is reminiscent of Gladiator (and not like a ripoff, just another version of the release in death concept). I can't think of much to say on this, because it was a simple idea done well!

Let us know how your other projects are coming!

Thanks, Adam-Beilgard. I'm glad you like so many of these stories. Many were excellent.

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Thanks to Tom and Newgrounds for running the TouchJam contest.

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His House by Manley Peterson

The city was frozen. A blizzard had rampaged for half a day and dumped piles of snow on the decrepit buildings and abandoned streets. A man trudged along the sidewalk fighting his way through white mounds of snow and ice. He pulled an ill-begotten jacket tightly around his chest and hunched his shoulders, shivering. His thin garments did nothing to keep him warm and his unkempt hair and scraggly beard were stuck together like cement below a filthy winter cap.

The man walked in a haze unable to ignore the pain that pulsed in his body. His last meal consisted of a throw-away scrap of jelly donut and little shreds of meat he sucked from chicken bones found in a garbage can. Lately, finding food of any kind had become a full-time job. But that was the least of his worries now.

The cold wind thrashed the man's meager frame threatening to slam him to the ground. He staggered, barely able to keep one foot in front of the other. His short, quick breaths misted out between cracked lips and each exhalation drained his body of precious liquid and heat.

Forcing his face into the raging, biting wind, he looked down the shrouded city street. Not a single store or building looked open. No movement anywhere. But who could blame the shop owners? Which city dweller in their right mind would be outside now?

The man sunk to his knees as a hard cough rattled his lungs and pain streaked his throat. He hacked and spit into the snow. He opened his blurry eyes to stare at the gobs of reddish phlegm. He groaned and shook his head. He rocked back and forth on his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced out a pathetic cry. Maybe he should just lie down and give up. Just close his eyes and fade away into the emptiness.

"Honey..."

The man jerked his head up in surprise.

"Honey..."

There it was again. He could just barely make out the word above the howling wind. He pushed off on a hard chunk of ice and slowly stood up on wobbly legs. The wind circled around his thin body nearly blowing him over. He put his head down and walked on into the freezing draft. It was painful to move, painful to keep going.

The voice - her voice - was closer now. Still calling to him. It seemed to be coming from an alley down the street, so he forged ahead against the aches and pains from taxed limbs and the slicing cuts of ice specks swirling in the air. He churned his legs faster in the heavy snow and made it to the mouth of the darkened alley with little strength left.

The man fell forward onto a waist high snow bank. He struggled to lift his heavy head and stare into the blackness letting his eyes adjust. The whole damn city was dark, but this alley especially so.

"Honey..."

The woman's voice was clearer now, louder now. He struggled to climb over the snow bank into the darkness and slid down face first on the frozen snow before coming to rest on his back.

From the ground he could see nothing but vast dots of white flailing and dancing against the towering featureless buildings that made this city so wonderful and so awful at the same time. In a moment of weakness, he gave in and closed his eyes, not knowing if he had the strength or will to open them again.

"HONEY!"

The man's eyes flew open and he started to shake. She was here. She was close. It sounded like she was nestled right in his ear.

He moaned and lifted his head in time to see some flitting movement over behind the alley dumpster. With great pains, he rolled over to his side and got up to his knees. He sat like that for several moments to push down the retched feeling in his throat. He coughed hoarsely but didn't spit. He needed every part of his depleted body to stay with him.

The man crawled to the dumpster. His fingers were split and numb. His knees were raw. The distance seemed insurmountable, but he refused to stop, even when it felt like his entire body would soon fall apart. He couldn't remember what it felt like to be free of pain.

Finally, he made it to the dumpster and peeked behind it. To his surprise, he found a snow-covered refrigerator box on its side. The cardboard was wet and warped but mostly held its rectangular shape. The flaps on the end were partially open, but they only revealed darkness.

The man heard the woman call out again. She must be in the box. With a wail, he flung open the box flaps and dove into the darkness.

Moments went by. Then, minutes, hours, and days. Time was no longer important.

Slowly, the man processed his surroundings. He became aware of his face and hands touching soft brown carpet. He could hear a heating system quietly running, blowing warm air into the room. His eyes saw a living room complete with a sofa, chairs, and flat screen television. Paintings hung on the near wall and a clock ticked from another room. Something wonderful and appetizing wafted from the kitchen. His mouth watered. Suddenly, it dawned on him.

He was in a house.

But not any old house. His home!

He gingerly stood up, bracing for the imminent pain sure to course through his body, but nothing happened. He looked at his hands and briefly wondered who they belonged to. They were pink, strong, healthy, and normal.

He pulled the winter cap from his head and let it fall to the floor. He took off his worthless jacket and shirt and pants and shoes. He inspected his body. The raw cuts on his knees were gone. His unending hunger was gone. He could feel his toes, and they felt wonderful against the carpet. Even the scar on his arm, the one from childhood where he fell out of a tree, that was gone, too. He was normal again. No, he was better than normal. He was complete.

"Honey..."

He froze in place. He had forgotten her. How could he? Tears ran down his cheeks. He ran upstairs and found his old bedroom door.

He turned the knob and walked in.

Days later, after the blizzard had abated and city crews had time to clean the streets, police officers were called to an alley to investigate a death. Within a few minutes, they radioed for the city coroners.

Twenty minutes later, the coroners removed the nude man from the cardboard box and cited preliminary cause of death to be hypothermia and extreme malnutrition.

The police officers would write up a short report and get on with their lives.

The coroners would finish the correct paperwork and file it away and never look at it again.

The city would go on like always, barely registering another homeless death in the papers.

But the man...

The man was free. He was content in his own house. With her.