The hotel laundry has been running itself after midnight

I work laundry for a mid-range chain hotel — the kind with fake marble floors, “continental breakfast,” and carpets that smell faintly like wet dog no matter how often they’re shampooed. My shift’s usually 4 p.m. to 1 a.m., but I’m often the last one here. Nobody wants to be the person closing down the laundry room at night.

You’d think it’s because of the noise, or the heat, or the constant lint dust that makes you feel like you’re breathing through cotton. But that’s not it.

It’s the fact that the machines don’t stop running.

It started small.

About two months ago, I noticed the dryers would still be spinning when I came in, even though the day shift swore they’d turned them off.

The timers would be flashing 00:00, but the drums kept turning. Sometimes I’d open one to stop it, and the load would still be wet.

Then I started hearing the carts moving.

They are these big, metal laundry carts with rubber wheels, heavy enough that even empty, they clatter like thunder across the concrete floor. One night, around 12:30, I heard one roll out from the storage wall. Thought it was the draft from the vent — until it rolled a few feet, turned a corner, and stopped beside the industrial washer.

I checked.

No one there.

No footprints in the lint on the floor. Wrong clothes. At first, it was just weird. Then it got… off. The washers would be loaded with clothes that weren’t ours. We use white towels, white sheets, and standard housekeeping uniforms.

But sometimes I’d find other things inside — muddy jeans, shredded jackets, bloody shirts, and once, what looked like a military uniform older than my parents.

I brought it up to my supervisor. She said maybe guests were sneaking in to wash their stuff. But that didn’t explain the style of some of these clothes. 70s disco shirts, denim vests with patches from companies that don’t exist anymore, even a maid’s apron with our hotel logo — but the old logo, the one we retired decades ago.

And the strangest part? The clothes never made it to the lost and found. By morning, they’d vanish from the carts.

The cameras.

Security installed a camera in the laundry room last week. They said it was to catch whoever was sneaking in at night.

That night, I stayed late again. Midnight rolled around. Machines off, carts lined up, lights dimmed.

Then I heard it — a metallic clatter and the squeak of wheels.

I didn’t move. Just stared through the small window of the office.

One of the carts rolled itself out from the corner, slow and deliberate, like someone invisible was pushing it. It stopped in front of a dryer.

The dryer door opened on its own.

Steam poured out.

When I checked the footage the next morning, it was all static from 12:01 to 12:44, but there was one frame that still loaded. It showed the laundry room empty — except for the cart. And what looked like a handprint, pressed into the metal of the dryer door.

Last night.

I came in early today, around 3:30 p.m., and noticed something sitting on my workstation. A folded shirt.

It wasn’t one of ours.

Old fabric, yellowed with age, faded hotel logo. The name tag stitched above the breast pocket said “R. Wilson.”

That was the name of the guy who used to work this job — the one who died here about ten years ago when one of the dryers caught fire. They said it was an accident. But I found the dryer he’d been using. It’s still plugged in, still part of the rotation. Number 7.

Every night since last week, it turns itself on right after midnight. I tried unplugging it. It still hums.

Tonight.

It’s 12:02 a.m. right now.

The carts are starting to move again. Number 7 just clicked on by itself.

The timer says 00:00 — but I can hear something knocking from inside the drum. Not like tumbling clothes. Like someone tapping, trying to get out.

I’m not staying to check this time. If anyone reading this works laundry in any hotel, any state —

Please tell me if your machines ever start themselves after midnight.

Because I think ours are washing more than linens.