Speaker 1: You know those nights when the whole world feels like
it's holding its breath. That's what it's like at Peat's
twenty four hour laundry mat at two am, just me Dad,
watching my clothes tumble and circles under this flickering fluorescent lights.
I bought company tonight though, a little something called velvet Grave.
The bud tender said it was perfect for solitude, for
those moments when you want to sink into yourself and
let the world fade away. I figured, what a better
place than here? Right, The smoke curls up towards the ceiling,
dancing with the steam from the dryers. At first, everything
feels warm, peaceful. Even the rhythm thump of my clothes
and the dryer number thirteen becomes a heartbeat, steady and sure.
But then something shifts. The shadows in the corner start
to breathe that comforting hum of the machines. It starts
to sound like whispers, low and secretive, like people gossiping
out of earshot and dryer thirteen, why didn't have to
be thirteen? Keep stumping, But now it sounds less like
a heartbeat and more like something trying to get out
the smell of detergent changes too. Underneath the lemonee scent,
I catch something faint, damp earth, like a graveyard after rain.
I rubbed my eyes, cough, but the smell clings, warming
its way down my throat. I can't shake the feeling
that I'm not supposed to be here. Then maybe this
isn't just any laundromat, and maybe, just maybe velvet Grave
wasn't just a clever name. The fluorescent lights above flickered
once twice, and I swear, And that split second of darkness,
I saw someone sitting in the plastic chair across from me,
same spot I left my laundry basket, their head tilted forward,
hair covering their face, unmoving. But when the lights studied,
the chair's empty, only the basket, only my socks. Hm.
I laugh it off too much, read too late at night.
The laugh dies quickly. When the whispers turn into words,
they don't come from the walls. They come from the machines.
Good good, good, every washer, every dryer. My name stretched thin,
like it's being pulled through water. I gripped the edges
of the folding table, trying to focus, trying not to bolt.
My last load's almost done, just five more minutes, But
then suddenly those five minutes feel like an eternity. I
can't stop staring at Dryer thirteen, wondering what might be
tumbling inside besides my clothes. The glasses fogged, but every
now and then the shape presses against it, a handprint
too big, too many fingers, sound of a dryer buzzer.
I jump. The machines fall, silent, every single one, like
they've been holding their breath too. The buzzer echoes in
the empty room, sharp and final. I walk towards Dryer thirteen,
legs shaking. My reflection stares back from the round glass door, warped, distorted.
But there's something else behind me in the reflection, someone
leaning over my shoulder. And when I spin around, silence,
only the faint click of a machine starting again by itself, click,
oral hum. One of the washers started up behind me.
The lights overhead flickered, like they're straining against something. I
don't remember putting anything in that machine. My clothes were
all in Dryer thirteen. I stepped back, my throats dry,
and the last hit of velvet grave is still clawing
at the edges of my brain. I tell myself. I'm tripping,
and that it's just the weed mixing with exhaustion. But
then the washer door swings open, slow, deliberate. Wet clothes
bill onto the tile floor. Except they're not mine. They're old, torn,
gray with mildew. They smell like dirt and copper. I
kick them away, heart pounding. That's when I hear it again,
my name, not whispered, this time spoken from inside Dryer thirteen.
The glass door fogs over and then clears, and I
see movement, something shifting in the tumble, something that isn't fabric,
the outline of a face pressing against the door from
the inside, mouth opened in a silent screen. I stumble back,
slam into the folding table. My phone buzzes in my pocket,
startling me worse than the machines. Did I yank it out?
The screens lit up, no number, just a message, notification
circle not complete. Guess I freeze. My thumb shakes over
the screen. Another buzz, another message, We need one more day.
The laundrymat goes dark, only Dryer thirteen cloths, its round
door spinning like an unblinking eye, casting pale light across
the room. The face inside the drum is clearer now,
it looks familiar, It looks like me. Low distorted sound
of dryer rumbling. I should leave, I know I should leave,
but my legs won't move. My reflection in the glass lifts.
A hand presses it against the door. I feel the
warmth against my palm. The dryer brosure screams again, sharp
and final silence, and then the door latches, click, it
swings open. Something wet hits the floor wet slap, drip, drip.
Something heavy lands on the laundry mat floor, leaking a
puddle that spreads towards my shoes. I stagger back, gagging
at the smell rot and fabric soften or tangled together.
It's not clothes, not exactly. It's me, a bundle of
shirts and jeans twisted into the shape of a body,
my body, pale skin, stitch together with sleeves, eyes sown
shut with shoelaces. My mouth hangs opened, stuffed with lint.
I reel, gripping the table to steady myself. My head
spins the velvet graves, turning the scenes liquid dream like.
But this, this isn't just a trip. The thing on
the floor shifts twitches as if it's trying to breathe.
Low hums begin again, machines powering up one by one.
The washers around me fill with water on their own
glass windows. Foggy faces pressed against the door, dozens of them, pale,
blurried like a drowned people staring through a vel. They
whisper in unison. Load cycles repeat. I vote for the exit,
but the door won't blunch. Our reflection in the glass
door stares back. Only it's not me anymore. It's the
stun shut version. It's mouth tearing open to smile. M
new phone message. I lift the screen with shaking hands.
The message reads, thank you for your load. Next pickup
down behind me, tryer thirteen. Click shut again. The drum
begins to spin, and through the round window, I see
fresh clothes tumbling inside, my hoodie, my jeans, my skin.
I slam the emergency bar on the exit, praying for release.
The door gives way, this time spelling me into the
night air. I don't stop running until the laundrymat is
a block behind me. It's neons flickering in the dark
like a dying heartbeat. I collapsed on the curve, gasping,
clutching my phone. The screen is black, now lifeless, my
hands reek of detergent, engraved dirt. I tell myself I'm safe,
that I left it behind. But then soft hum right
beside my ear, like a dryer spinning. I turned my
head slow, dreading what I'll see. My laundry basket sits
next to me on the curb, full, freshly folded, and
right on top of it, neatly pressed and still warm.
A shirt I've never owned, one stitched from pale, unfamiliar
skin at