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

Part Three — The Replacement

I didn’t sleep after that video.
Every shadow in my apartment looked like it was breathing.
Every thread on my bedsheet felt alive beneath my fingertips.

By morning, I’d convinced myself it was all some kind of breakdown. Stress. Hallucination.
But when I checked my phone again… the video was gone. Deleted. No trace in the trash folder.

Instead, there was a new message.
FROM: MRS. LORENZ
SUBJECT: COME TO THE BASEMENT. BEFORE 10 PM.

I should’ve packed my bags right then.
But curiosity isn’t logical. It’s a hook in your ribs. And mine pulled me straight to the basement door.

The hallway felt longer that night. The air thicker. Every bulb hummed like it was holding its breath.

Mrs. Lorenz stood inside the laundry room, staring at the machines. They weren’t running, but I could feel them vibrating — like something alive was pacing inside.

“They like you,” she said without turning.

I swallowed. “Why me?”

She finally faced me. Her eyes looked bruised with exhaustion.
“Because you broke the rule,” she said softly. “Just like me.”

She nodded at the washers. “When this building was a textile factory, the workers ran shifts around the clock. Accidents happened. Arms caught. Bodies crushed. They say the machines never forgot. When this place turned into apartments, they just… kept spinning. Kept remembering.”

“That’s insane,” I said. “They’re just machines.”

Mrs. Lorenz sighed. “No. They’re graveyards.”

Before I could react, the washers roared to life. One by one.
All four lids slammed shut, then lifted slowly — as if something inside had heard its cue.

I stepped closer, drawn by morbid curiosity. And then I saw them.

Four figures.
Human-shaped.
Made of fabric.

At first they looked like mannequins, stitched from sheets and shirts and hair. But as the lids rose higher, the details came into focus — the freckles on their cheeks, the curls of their hair, the exact birthmark on my neck.

They weren’t mannequins.
They were me.

Each one more complete than the last. The final one opened its eyes — pale, button-round, glinting in the flickering light.

I stumbled back. “What is this?”

“They’re practicing,” Mrs. Lorenz whispered. “They can’t keep you until they finish you.”

I turned to run, but she grabbed my wrist — her hand soft and cold.
When her sleeve slid down, I saw it: faint seams running along her arm. Pale thread holding her skin together.

She met my stare, tears glinting in her tired eyes.
“I followed the rule too late,” she said. “Now it’s your turn to take my place.”

Before I could speak, she shoved me toward the machines.

The floor was slick with detergent. I hit the ground hard.
The fabric figures climbed out of the washers — their limbs jerking like puppets.
Threads trailed from their fingers like veins.

I tried to crawl backward, but one of them caught my ankle. Its touch was cold, damp, and impossibly strong.

Mrs. Lorenz’s voice echoed above me.
“They only stop when they’ve replaced what’s missing.”

The figures swarmed. Needles glinted. Threads dug into my skin. I screamed as they pulled — not just at my clothes, but at me. Skin. Flesh. Hair. Everything unraveling, stitch by stitch.

Then… silence.

When I opened my eyes, I was standing in front of the machines again.
The lights were back to their normal hum.
The floor was dry. The washers sat still, lids closed.

Mrs. Lorenz was gone.

I looked down at my hands — smooth, pale, perfect.
Too perfect. The seams ran faintly along my wrists. My reflection in the washer glass smiled a split second before I did.

And from somewhere deep in the drum, a whisper crawled out:
“Welcome home.”

Now I wait here.
Every night at 10 PM, I listen for footsteps on the stairs.
For the next tenant who breaks the rule.

And when they do… I’ll teach them what it means to be remembered.

DO NOT DO LAUNDRY AFTER 10 PM.
Because the machines remember their owners.
And now, I remember too.


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🩸 End of Story