"DO NOT DO LAUNDRY AFTER 10PM" [ I ]

Part One — The Rule

When I moved into Pinewood Apartments, I thought the creepiest thing about it was the smell — that strange cocktail of rust, detergent, and the faint sweetness of something old, like time had soaked into the walls and refused to leave. The building itself looked harmless enough: red brick, a few weeds sprouting between the cracks, a faded welcome mat that had seen better days. But then I saw the laundry room door.

The sign stopped me cold.

In thick, angry strokes of black Sharpie, someone had scribbled onto yellowed paper:

DO NOT DO LAUNDRY AFTER 10 PM.

No explanation. No polite “quiet hours” notice. No “machine maintenance” warning. Just that. Bold, sharp, commanding.

I laughed. Honestly, I thought it was a joke. I snapped a picture, sent it to my friends, captioned it: “Ooo spooky laundry ghosts lol.” They sent back laughing emojis. I told myself I was just being paranoid, that maybe the apartment manager had a weird sense of humor.

If only I knew.

See, I work late. By the time I drag myself home, it’s usually past nine-thirty. And I hate dirty clothes. I like the smell of fresh detergent, the feel of warm, clean fabric. It makes me feel human again, like the day hasn’t completely drained me. So yeah… I broke the rule.

And that, I would come to realize, was mistake number one.

The laundry room itself was worse than the sign suggested. Buried deep in the basement, it was illuminated by a single flickering bulb that cast more shadows than light. The walls were damp, streaked with water stains that seemed almost intentional, like they were weeping quietly. The machines — four of them, all relics that should have been retired decades ago — stood in a row. Their metal sides were scratched and scarred, as if something had tried to crawl out. I should have noticed that. I didn’t.

I dumped my clothes into Washer #2, pressed the start button, and settled down with my phone. The hum of the machine filled the silence. Oddly comforting, almost hypnotic. For about five minutes.

Then another washer started.

I froze.

No one else was down here. No buttons had been pressed. And yet Washer #4 rumbled to life, gurgling water through its pipes. Its lid was closed — and the machine was empty.

The sound was wrong. Not just spinning, not just machinery humming. It was alive somehow — deep, rhythmic, wet… almost breathing.

I leaned closer, heart pounding, and that’s when I thought I heard it. A whisper, soft and fleeting, moving through the vent. My skin crawled. I told myself I was tired. Old machines made weird noises. My imagination was running wild. But even as I rationalized it, my hands trembled.

I grabbed my laundry halfway through the cycle and ran upstairs, laughing nervously at myself. The kind of laugh that sounds hollow even in your own ears.

That night, I noticed something strange. My clothes smelled… wrong. Not like soap. Not like mildew. Warm, damp… like skin. Goosebumps prickled along my arms. I tried to convince myself it was nothing. A leftover odor from the old machines.

The next day, during daylight hours, I rewashed everything. The smell didn’t go away. It lingered, subtle, almost personal. And that night, when I closed my eyes, the dreams came.

I dreamed of something pressing its face against the washer’s glass window. Round, pale, too smooth to be human. Watching me. Waiting. Its presence left a heaviness in my chest that refused to leave even when I woke.

Even now, I could still hear the machines humming through the floor. Not a random hum. A rhythm. A pulse. Like something was alive down there, listening, remembering, waiting for me to return.

And I knew, deep down, I would go back.


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To Be Continued…
(Part Two: “They Remember Their Owners.”)