Chapter 1

I started working nights at a 24-hour laundromat about six weeks ago.

It's not a bad job. Mostly cleaning lint traps, wiping machines down, selling detergent, and occasionally explaining to somebody that stuffing two comforters into one washer is why it sounds like it's trying to escape the building.

There's one dryer in the back row, number 18, with an OUT OF ORDER sign taped over the door.

I assumed it was broken.

On my third night I asked my manager when they were fixing it because customers kept trying to use it.

He said, “We aren't.”

Then he told me something I thought was just an old employee joke.

If dryer 18 starts running after midnight, don't touch it.

Don't unplug it.

Don't open it.

Just let it finish.

I laughed, and he didn't.

He said it happens maybe once every couple weeks. The machine turns on by itself, runs for exactly 47 minutes, then stops.

I asked why they didn't remove it.

He just said the owner didn't want it moved.

The first time it happened, I was alone.

1:26am.

I heard the drum start turning behind me.

Dryer 18.

The display was dark. The OUT OF ORDER sign was still taped over the door. But the drum was spinning.

I checked the plug.

It wasn't plugged in.

That was the point where I stopped thinking my manager had been messing with me.

There was something inside.

A dark hoodie, I think. Maybe jeans. They kept tumbling past the glass.

I called my manager.

He answered immediately, which somehow made it worse.

“Is it 18?”

I said yes.

“Leave it alone.”

I asked how there could be clothes inside when the dryer had been empty all night.

He repeated, “Leave it alone.”

So I did.

Forty-seven minutes later, it stopped.

The clothes were gone.

I didn't open the door.

The next morning my manager came in, checked the machine, and acted like nothing unusual had happened.

I almost quit.

Instead I convinced myself there had to be some explanation involving wiring, reflections, sleep deprivation, anything.

Then it happened again last Tuesday.

This time there was a red jacket inside.

I recognized it.

A woman had come in around 10pm wearing the exact same jacket. Bright red, white zipper, little black patch on one sleeve.

She'd used washer 6 and dryer 11.

We talked because she couldn't get the card reader to work.

She left around 11:15 wearing the jacket.

At 2:03am it was tumbling inside dryer 18.

I took a picture through the glass.

The photo came out almost completely black.

Then I made the mistake my manager specifically told me not to make.

I opened the dryer.

The drum stopped immediately.

The jacket fell into the bottom.

It was wet.

Not washing-machine wet.

Warm, sticky wet.

There was also a phone inside one of the pockets.

The screen was cracked but still on.

The lock screen showed 1:58am.

There were seventeen missed calls from “MOM.”

I didn't touch anything else.

I called my manager again.

When I told him I'd opened it, he went completely silent.

Then he asked whether I'd removed anything.

I said no.

He told me to close the door and go wait outside until he arrived.

I did.

He showed up twenty minutes later with the owner.

Neither of them looked surprised by the jacket.

The owner put on gloves, took everything out, placed it in a black trash bag, and carried it to his car.

I kept asking what the hell was happening.

Finally my manager said, “This is why we don't open it.”

I asked about the woman.

Neither answered.

I went home.

The next afternoon I searched local news.

A woman matching her description had been reported missing overnight.

Same age. Same general area.

There was a photo.

Same red jacket.

I called my manager and told him I wasn't coming back.

He said he understood.

Then he asked one question.

“Did you take anything from the dryer?”

I said no.

He asked again.

I said no.

That was Tuesday.

Yesterday I found the phone in my apartment.

The cracked one from the jacket.

It was sitting on my kitchen counter when I woke up.

I live alone.

The battery was dead, so I plugged it in.

I know I shouldn't have.

When it turned on, there were no missed calls anymore.

No photos.

No contacts.

Just one video.

The timestamp said it had been recorded at 3:41 that morning.

The video is twelve seconds long.

It's filmed inside my bedroom.

I'm asleep in bed.

For the first ten seconds, nothing happens.

Then the camera slowly turns toward the bedroom door.

My work uniform is hanging from the doorknob.

It looks wet.

About an hour ago, my old manager called me.

I didn't answer.

He left a voicemail.

He only said:

“You opened it, so now it knows where you take things home.”

I haven't taken the uniform off the door.

I don't want to touch it.

But I can hear something in the washing machine downstairs.

It's been running for 47 minutes.