John was the manager at Romeoâs Pizza and Pasta - one of those off brand places that tries to feel like a family restaurant but always smells faintly like fryer oil and bleach. Better than Olive Garden. Cheaper too. With huge portions. Stupid huge.
Heâd bring home leftovers for family movie nights with the kids, and weâd queue up the latest rental from Netflixâs envelope. We still had the kind that came in the mail - two a month, usually, and always scratched to pieces.
Lately, though, things had changed. Some new regional manager started breathing down his neck at work, and John was bringing that stress home. He didnât talk about it much - he just started falling asleep in front of the TV.
I didnât think much of it at first. Just background noise to drown out the bad day.
But as the days went on he grew more distant⊠not just tired - it was like his mind was somewhere else.
One night, around 2:00 AM, I woke up to find his side of the bed empty again. The house was dark, except for that flicker. The soft glow of static and odd hues of color bouncing off the hallway walls.
I went to the living room, expecting to find him asleep on the couch.
But he wasnât.
He was sitting upright, eyes wide, and dry. Fingers fumbling desperately with the remote. Just flipping through channels, one after another, like he was searching for something in the sea of advertisements and late-night programming.
The remote was slick in his hand, his thumb was raw, red, like he had been pressing the same button for hours. Maybe longer.
Then he stopped.
It was her.
She was perfect. Like a woman from a dream. The heroâs dead wife in every action movie. Big 1980s hair, lip gloss that shimmered like mercury. Her smile didnât flicker with the TV - it cut through it. And in her arms: a jug of Laceumâs Detergent, held like a newborn. She turned, winked. But the commercial didnât end.
John staggered forward - so close to the screen that his ragged breathing fogged the glass. His fingers trembled as he reached out, drawn to her.
And then - to my surprise. She reached back.
Her hand hovered just inches from his. Like she could see him too. Then the commercial ended.
John blinked, turned, and drifted past me like a sleepwalker. Like I wasnât even there. That night and every night after, it was the same.
2:00 AM. The flicker of static. The constant clicks of the remote. He would be there, searching, and waiting for her.
The Woman in the Laceum commercial.
I needed to know more. I went to store after store, aisle after aisle, but none of them carried it. âNever heard of it,â one clerk told me. âAre you sure thatâs even a real brand?â It was like it never existed.
So I used my phone and snuck a picture of her. Searched online for the actress - reverse image, ad databases, and casting agencies. Nothing. No name. No match. She didnât exist anywhere that could be traced.
Then one night, I heard her voice.
It was soft and sweet like cotton candy dissolving on the tongue.
âJohnny,â she whispered. âIâm ever so lonely. If only you could join me.â
Tears streamed down Johnâs cheeks as he crawled forward. And then - he slammed his head against the glass.
âTry again,â she whispered.
Then⊠a sharp CRACK.
The static warped and buckled. The screen distorted like melting plastic. And this time - he went through it.
I screamed and ran to him. His body was halfway inside the screen, twitching. I grabbed his arms, pulled with everything I had. And then I saw them.
Her hands. Red nails. Pale skin. Pulling him deeper.
I braced myself, feet against the cabinet, and yanked - until he collapsed into my arms. The screen buzzed behind us. Unshattered and untouched. So I pulled the plug.
John slept for what seemed like hours, like nothing had happened. When he finally awoke, he didnât remember a thing. He said it was a dream. Just static.
I threw away that old TV the next morning. Smashed it in the alley and dragged it to the curb. The kids were sad however, so we pooled our paychecks and bought a new flatscreen. Bigger and better in every way.
For a little while, it felt like things got better. Until I woke up one day, and he was gone. No note. No texts. No one at work had seen him.
I didnât sleep that night. Just stared at the TV. Channel after channel. Endlessly.
Until I saw him.
Smiling. Holding a bottle of Laceum detergent. And she was there too - arms wrapped around him. I ran to the screen and screamed, tears running down my face.
âJohn! Can you hear me?â I cried. âCome home.â
He didnât react. His smile was perfect but so very empty.
She turned. Her lips curled into a soft satisfied grin.
âHe already is.â
The channel changed. But for just a moment⊠her silhouette lingered.
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