DO NOT DO LAUNDRY AFTER 10 PM

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.
Then I saw the laundry room door.

In thick, angry strokes of black Sharpie, the words were carved into a yellowing paper sign:
DO NOT DO LAUNDRY AFTER 10 PM.

No explanation. No “quiet hours.” No “machine maintenance.” Just that.
I laughed when I saw it. I even took a picture for my friends, captioned it “Ooo spooky laundry ghosts lol.”

If only I knew.

The problem was — I work late. By the time I get home, it’s nearly ten.
And I hate dirty clothes. I need the smell of detergent and fabric softener to feel human again after a long day.
So yeah, I broke the rule.

That was mistake number one.

The laundry room was buried in the basement — one flickering bulb, walls damp enough to weep, and four machines that looked like they’d survived the Cold War. Each had little scratches running along the sides, like something had tried to crawl out.

I should’ve noticed that. I didn’t.

I dumped my clothes into Washer #2 and sat down with my phone. The hum of the machine filled the silence. It was oddly comforting. For about five minutes.

Then another washer started.

I froze.
No one else was there.
I hadn’t pressed anything.

Washer #4 rumbled to life all on its own, water gurgling through the pipes. Its lid was closed — and the machine was empty.

The sound wasn’t right, though. It wasn’t just spinning… it was like breathing.
Deep, rhythmic. Wet.

I told myself I was tired. That old machines make weird noises.
But when I leaned closer, I swear I heard something whispering through the vent.

I grabbed my laundry halfway through the cycle and ran upstairs, laughing nervously to myself like it was no big deal.

But that night, my clothes smelled different.
Not like soap.
Not like mildew.

They smelled like skin.

Warm, damp… skin.

I rewashed everything the next day during daylight hours. The smell didn’t go away.
And that night, when I closed my eyes, I dreamed of something pressing its face against the washer’s glass window — round, pale, and too smooth to be human.

When I woke up, I could still hear the machines humming through the floor.

Part Two — They Remember Their Owners

I didn’t go near the basement for two days.
But every night, right at 10:03 PM, I’d hear the pipes in my wall shudder.
It was faint at first — like water running through old metal. Then it got louder. A steady, mechanical rhythm.

Whrrr. Whrrr. Whrrr.

The sound pulsed through the floor, like a heartbeat.

On the third night, I pressed my ear to the wall. The sound wasn’t coming from inside the pipes. It was below me — in the basement. The laundry room.

The one I’d promised myself I wouldn’t go near again.

The next morning, I ran into Mrs. Lorenz, the apartment manager. She was this small woman in her late sixties with a silver bun so tight it looked painful. Always polite. Always… watching.

“Morning,” I said, trying to sound casual.
She didn’t reply. Her eyes went straight to the faint detergent stain on my sleeve.

“You went down there,” she said quietly.

I froze.
“How did you—”

“People think that sign is a joke,” she interrupted. “It’s not.”

I tried to laugh it off. “What, are the washers haunted or something?”

Her face didn’t change.
“You must follow the rule,” she said flatly. “Some things wake up when they hear the spin.”

The way she said it — not if they wake up, but when — made my stomach twist.

That night, I stuffed towels under my door and blasted music, but I could still hear it — faint whispers crawling up through the vents. Sometimes they said words. Sometimes my name.

By the fifth night, the whispers were inside my apartment.

I woke up to the sound of fabric sliding across the floor. My laundry basket.
It was moving on its own.

I didn’t breathe. I didn’t blink. I just stared as the basket stopped by my bed. Inside, folded perfectly, were the clothes I’d taken to an off-site laundromat earlier that day.

They were still damp. Still warm.

My phone buzzed. A notification.
Video saved: LaundryRoom_10_03PM.mp4

I hadn’t recorded anything. My hands shook as I opened it.

The video was grainy, but I could see the basement. The camera faced Washer #2. The one I’d used.
The lid opened slowly. Something pale slid out. Something shaped like a person but wrong — limp, like a body made of wet cloth.

It stood. Its limbs jerked, like it didn’t understand how to move.
Then it tilted its head toward the camera.
The video ended.

I threw my phone across the room.

When I looked back at the basket, one of the shirts inside had a single black thread sewn through the sleeve. A new seam that hadn’t been there before.

And under my breath — though I didn’t mean to say it — I whispered:

“What are you?”

From inside the vent came a whisper, almost gleeful, almost mine:
“We remember.”

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