The Waking Window

“Now I want you to pay attention: an oval encrusted pewter ring, this is an Art Deco cubic zirconia. That’s right, zirconia. That’s the buzzword today—cubic zirconia—and that’s Art Deco-inspired. Look at that, gaze into it and see it sparkle in the light. Now, I need you to grab that credit card…” the television clicked off; the glass turned black. Evan caught himself in the reflection.

“Nice,” he had a double chin and his belly was hanging out. Sprawled on the couch and watching the Quality Shopping Channel in the middle of the afternoon again. The red front door creaked open, and Samantha poked her head in.

“You’re watching QSC! I could tell by the interlude.” Sam called him out. She came in with a stack of bills and letters and threw her bag on the velvet high-backed chair.

“New Jersey is expensive to live in,” she concluded with a sigh. Sam said this almost daily after reading their mail. She scattered the letters on the cluttered coffee table and fell onto the sofa, bouncing on Evan’s feet and legs. Sam leaned over and gave him a kiss.

“How was your day?” She inquired as the TV turned itself back on. The remote was sitting in front of them. 

“Weird,” they both laughed and ignored it. “Jinx!” Evan poked Sam in the ribs.

An older woman with thick blue glasses and way too many colorful bracelets said nothing. She stared at them with her permed auburn hair. The TV flickered.

“Uh oh,” Sam announced, “You’re on! Say something!” She mocked the host.

The woman stared back, unblinking, as if she were waiting patiently for them to say something.

“Well, she’s fired. So, are we still on for the bar? I need Italian food,” Samantha whined.

“I didn’t turn the TV on,” Evan realized, pointing to the remote on the table.

“You know what? I don’t have time for this,” she crossed the threshold to the credenza. She clicked the TV off, and the weird woman vanished, just like that.

“Be ready in fifteen minutes?”

The waitress dropped off the bill at the mahogany table. Evan looked at Sam and smiled as she grabbed the tray and paid for them. They returned that evening and went straight to bed. Sam had to be in the office the next morning and wasn’t looking forward to sitting in Monday traffic. The numbers won’t crunch themselves, she would always say with no energy. Evan was looking for a job, having been fired from his last gig as a wedding DJ.

“I hate work,” Sam brushed her teeth and went to bed. Evan was already snoring under the soft covers.

 Samantha became lost in an abandoned and rundown mall, unable to see the end through the fog and falling paper streamers. She could feel someone watching her.

Her eyes shot open, and the bedroom was pitch-black. The air smelled like patchouli to help her sleep. She sat up in bed with a splitting hangover. Sam looked around and tried to focus on the clock. Three in the morning, great.

“I’m never drinking again,” she agreed with herself. Sam sensed Evan’s absence as she scanned the room. The bed was empty, and his sheets were on his side of the floor. She could see a white and grey blinking light filtering down the hallway while a soft conversation came from the living room.

“Evan? Are you not feeling well either?” No response. The television light continued to flicker.

Sam climbed out of bed and meandered through the dimly lit corridor. She peered into the living room, almost toppling her potted peace lily. 

Evan was sitting on the floor in front of the TV. He gazed at it while taking long-winded bites of mint chocolate chip ice cream. He put the spoon into the carton and dragged it back out, drawing it to his lips.

“What are you doing?” Sam whispered, but he kept eating.

“These sales don’t last long, people,” the host looked familiar. It was the same weirdo they had seen earlier. The strange woman crossed her arms, and her colorful bracelets jangled as she commanded the room, “You have to act now, you have to do it now...”

He took another bite of ice cream, putting it in his mouth and removing the silver spoon. The reflective metal slid past his mouth, and ice cream dripped down his chin and arm. It fell into a green puddle, pooling in front of him, making his pajama pants sticky.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Sam flipped the light on. Evan blinked and snapped back to reality. The spoon clattered to the floor.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know what’s going on,” he confessed. Evan was in a daze as his wife helped him off the floor. She washed her hands in the kitchen sink after cleaning him up in the bathroom. As they lay in bed, he snored soundly.

“Tomorrow will be a new day,” she repeated her mantra.

The next afternoon, the doorbell rang. Samantha yanked the door wide open, and James greeted her. He was the neighborhood’s most friendly face.

“Got a few for you here,” he held out the electronic clipboard while checking his smartwatch. “Are you all right, Sammy?” He noticed.

“Ah yeah, I just didn’t get a full night’s sleep last night. You know how that is.” She commented, hoping he didn’t think she meant him. She reluctantly grabbed the clipboard and signed: Samantha Reed.

“What is this stuff?” She noticed another postal worker stacking boxes on her stoop as she handed back the clipboard.

“All from that shopping channel,” he scanned two forms, “must be items you ordered.” 

James forced a smile and gently took the clipboard back from her tight grasp. 

“See ya, Sammy,” he tipped his hat.

Sam stood there surrounded by mountains of cardboard boxes, all white or brown and bound with packing tape. Evan was toast, she said to herself. She cursed under her breath as she drop-kicked the last package into the living room.

“Christmas time!” She dryly joked to herself, knowing she wouldn’t keep any of it.

The first box contained a mountain of packing peanuts and a red air fryer. Oh, nice, she thought, kind of surprised. She shook a similarly sized box. She tore it open, and it contained the same air fryer, in the same color.

“Huh?”

One box was overflowing with hundreds of unopened fountain pens. Another package felt light; it contained dozens of colorful tinsel party wigs. There was a gold-plated watch, high heels, several tablets and video game controllers, and boxes of clothes that didn’t even fit. She dug through mounds of plastic bubble wrap and tissue paper before ceasing to open anymore packages.

“They are taking this stuff back.” She said, pulling her cellphone out of her pocket. Sam punched in the number and called the return service on the invoice slip. The line rang through to the Quality Shopping Channel hotline. Sam waited as patiently as possible but was immediately put on hold. Forced to listen to elevator piano with harp accompaniment. 

The music cut out, and a voice clicked over…

“Get out while you can.” One heavy breath later, and the line went dead. Sam stared at the phone, trying to form words.

Gravel crunched in the driveway, and a car door slammed shut as Evan came home.

“Hey babe!” He came in the front door with his backpack slung over his shoulder.

Sam turned around, dropping a carton of beach towels and plastic statues of various birds wearing tiny outfits.

“Evan, what is this? Did you order a bunch of crap? I’m having trouble returning it.” She said. He shrugged and landed on the couch, kicking off his shoes.

“I’ll deal with this later. What’s for dinner?” She said, observing the mess. “I’m on the verge of a migraine.”

Sam lay in bed and was gazing at the back of her husband’s head when the moon shone through the blinds and into her eye. Sam huffed and rolled over to face the wall. Some time later, she tossed back to face Evan, but the bed was empty. Concern washed over her as her chest tightened. She felt the ground with her toes and crept down the hallway. Sam knew he’d be in the living room watching that stupid TV again—she could just feel it. Stopping short of turning the corner, she listened by the potted peace lily.

“Evan, we had a deal. I gave you a fantastic chance,” a concerned Midwestern woman complained.

“You and I both know you have to return her. She’s broken, you see, plus you can do better, Evan.” The voice pleaded. “Kill her and we can offer you complete customer satisfaction.”

Samantha held her hand over her mouth and tried not to make a sound. She kept listening.

“Look, it’s me—Tammy Duncan, you know me—and I’m here to tell you, you will have satisfaction… or else. Customer happiness is our guarantee, low prices are our game,” she smirked.

“For six dollars and sixty-six cents you can…” the TV clicked off, and Evan could see Sam in the reflection, holding the remote control.

“What are you, my mother?” Evan turned around, glaring in anger. He climbed off the floor and stormed to bed. The door slammed, and Sam threw the remote onto the couch. It bounced off the cushion and fell on the floor.

The next morning, the doorbell rang throughout the house. James was standing there, whistling to himself. He tipped his hat to Sam.

“Got a few more for you.” He held out the clipboard.

“Oh no,” she uttered as two mailmen started bringing large boxes and parchment-covered parcels into her doorway. Anything that didn’t fit was left on the porch.

“Sign here, Sammy,” he said. 

“You have to take it all back,” Sam demanded, crossing her arms in front of her.

“What? We can’t—” he insisted. James wiped sweat from his brow and was losing steam. 

“Look, Sam, I’m really sorry. I’m just doing my job, don’t take it out on me,” James shifted his weight off his cramped leg.

She snatched the clipboard, signed the thing, and threw it back at him before turning and going inside the house.

Ripping the tape off the first box, she reached in and yanked her hand back out. She yelped—The parcel was filled to the brim with glistening, pointy blades. 

“Ouch,” she had poked herself with a lengthy kitchen knife. The next box had a long-barreled shotgun. 

“Whoa, a gun?” Sam jumped back and gulped, nervously smoothing her blue turtleneck. 

She pressed on to an envelope that came scrawled with a caution: Hazardous. Gently sliding the contents of the package out into the light. Sam gasped and tossed it onto the kitchen table.

There were skittering legs and beady eyes crawling around a cage. It was a wooden case of live, poisonous spiders. Sam darted across the room, slipping on the slick kitchen floor. Everything spun as she hugged the wall—who would try to hurt them?

Samantha dialed the police. They arrived and listened to her story before asking where her husband was. She called his parents, but the police said they would put out a missing person’s report if he didn’t come back by tomorrow.

“We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” the officer assured her. 

The crickets were out in full force, and Sam sat alert in the velvet high-backed chair. She was twirling a much-needed bourbon with one ice cube when she dozed off into a dream. Samantha ran through an empty mall where all the shops were vacant. She walked swiftly past boutiques and food stalls, once operating but now covered in webs. A person in the distance was standing on the second-floor balcony. Their hair was red, and they were watching her.

“Oh no,” Sam sprang forward and sat up in the chair. She checked, and Evan was still gone, and the house was empty. The television set to infernal static that was piercing her brain. It was on that inescapable QSC. There were colorful bars and a loud siren before the snow dissipated. Tammy was waiting with her hands on her hips.

“Well, aren’t you just a bee in my bonnet, Samantha.” The host scowled.

Mannequins filled the studio in brand-new clothes and expensive shoes. They stood posed like dolls and flanked Tammy Duncan on all sides. A woman carrying an expensive purse was posing and twisting slowly, trying to cry but couldn’t. People, all in some kind of purgatory. One looked a lot like Evan. Sam got closer to the TV—it was Evan.

He was a permanent model for the Quality Shopping Channel now. Plastic skin and unable to move, he blinked in agony. His eyes were bloodshot. They were all models for QSC now, and Sam was next.

“He works for me,” Tammy cackled, almost giddy. “We’re going to sell him when we’re done, piece by piece.”

Sam didn’t play into the host’s game and analyzed the situation instead, scanning the showroom on the TV. Green plastic plants were on either side of the stage. There were unnecessary stairs, bright lights that were hot as hell, and Tammy in her fiery rage. She couldn’t understand how to get Evan out of the screen.

“What did we do to you?” Sam had a lot of questions. “How did you even get into my house?!” She picked up a heavy ashtray as a weapon. She heaved it and cracked the screen.

“Honey, we’re in everyone’s home. Why do you think you’re so special?” Tammy’s demeanor soured.

“You’ll never get rid of me. You can’t live without me. I know your kind—you humans.” Tammy arrogantly sauntered closer to the TV threshold, peeking her head out into the living room.

Sam could only focus on Evan’s frozen face. He was trying to move, and his face twisted in agony. A red tear fell down his cheek as Sam looked on in horror. She cared for him so much that she didn’t back down.

“Face it, Samantha, we know you better than you know yourself.”

“You don’t know me at all,” Sam corrected Tammy. “I don’t have time for TV. In fact…” she grabbed the screen’s edge and shook the heavy television. 

Tammy braced herself as Sam slammed the glass window onto the shag carpet. It plunged to the floor, and the plastic split open; shards of screen flew over all the furniture. The back panel sparked and went up in flames.

“And this is for commercials!” She stomped on the dying electronic’s back. 

“Evan…” Samantha wasn’t sure what she had just done. She bit her nails, fearing the worst. 

The doorbell rang, and Sam screamed. Her hair hit her in the face as she whipped around.

“Hello?” She cracked the barrier and peeked out. She pulled open the red front door and faced a large QSC package. It started to jostle and jump around.

Sam slowly opened the square box, one flap at a time. She unfolded the cardboard and saw a hand—it had Evan’s blue school ring on the ring finger. Sam tore the top off the box like an animal, and there he was, in the fetal position. She yanked Evan out of the cardboard and he glistened, completely coated in a clear membrane. They didn’t know what it was, but she hugged him close. He hacked and spat up liquid. Slowly Evan returned to consciousness.

He turned his head and threw up clear white ooze. “Let’s read books from now on,” he coughed. “Please, no more idiot box.”

One month later, during their inaugural meeting of Sam and Evan’s book club, there was a rapid pounding on the front door.

“Excuse me, everyone, keep talking about Madame Bovary. I’ll be right back. Evan, can you refill the snack tray?” 

Their red front door swung open, and a flat brown box was waiting for her. It said fragile and the return address was missing. Morbidly curious, Sam opened the top of the package. It looked like a brand-new flatscreen television, and of course, one she hadn’t requested. She looked around, as there was no sign of James’ mail truck. Fighting the urge, she turned around and went back inside. With grey clouds rolling in, Sam chose not to invite it into her home. The storm rained sheets of water, saturating the box and destroying the product inside.