I ain’t never been the smart one, okay? Like, I once microwaved a metal spoon and wondered why the kitchen smelled like the Fourth of July. So when I grabbed the night job at Moonrise Laundromat, I figured the worst thing I’d deal with was drunk frat boys puking in the coin tray. Spoiler: puke I could handle. Vampires, not so much.
First weird thing was the temperature. Every night at 2:22 a.m. sharp, the place turned colder than my ex’s heart. The digital clock on the wall would flicker, and the fluorescent lights buzzed like they were singing some creepy lullaby. I started calling it the “freeze-frame” moment, ‘cause even the tumble dryers paused for a sec, like they were holding their breath.
Second weird thing: socks. Yeah, I know, socks are already the devils of laundry, but these weren’t just disappearing—they were coming back. I’d find them folded into little origami bats, perched on top of the folding table. I blamed Carlos, the evening guy, ‘cause he’s into origami and weed, but he swore he’d quit both after he accidentally folded his passport into a swan and got detained at the airport.
Third weird thing: the customer who never brought clothes. Dude’s name was Viktor—like, straight-outta-Transylvania Viktor. Pale as printer paper, hair so black it looked wet, and a smile that said “I floss with jugulars.” He’d stroll in at 3 a.m. sharp, buy a single packet of detergent (lavender-scented, fancy pants), then sit and watch the machines like they were Netflix. Never said much, just “Evening, Natasha,” in this accent that curled my toes and not in the fun way.
One night I finally asked, “Yo, Viktor, you gonna wash those clothes you ain’t got, or are we filming a Tide commercial for ghosts?” He laughed, low and slow, like a record played backwards. Then he leaned over the counter and whispered, “I’m not here for cotton, devochka. I’m here for you.”
I laughed too, ‘cause awkward is my default setting. But inside, my stomach did the Macarena. I mean, sure, he was hot in a “might murder you” way, but I’ve seen Dateline. I know how that story ends: ditzy girl winds up in a ditch.
Next freeze-frame night, the lights cut out completely. Emergency bulbs kicked on, bathing everything in zombie-movie red. Viktor stood by Dryer 13—yeah, of course it’s 13—holding one of those origami socks. He unfolded it slow, and I swear the cotton was stained with something darker than fabric softener. “You’ve been marking me,” I said, voice shaking like the spinning drum above us. He nodded. “Every bat is a bite delayed. I was… how you say… savoring.”
That’s when I noticed the dryers behind him. Doors hung open like screaming mouths, and inside weren’t clothes but people—well, former people. They tumbled slow, skin flopping like wet jeans. One chick’s face pressed against the glass, eyes wide, mouth frozen in a spin-cycle scream. I recognized her: local college kid, went missing last semester. Her poster’s still taped to the window, only now she’s the poster child for “don’t go to laundromats after midnight, kids.”
My legs turned to ramen. Viktor stepped closer, detergent packet in hand. “Lavender masks the scent of decay,” he explained, polite as a flight attendant. “I do hate the smell.” He offered me the packet like it was a freaking wedding ring. “Join me, Natasha. Immortality, free dryer sheets, all the quarters you can carry.”
I thought about it—for like half a second. I mean, eternal life plus unlimited fabric softener? Tempting. But I’ve also seen how my grandpa’s dentures pop out when he sneezes, and if that’s aging, I’ll pass. I grabbed the nearest weapon: a bottle of bleach. “Back off, Count Sock-ula!” I yelled, channeling every B-movie I’d ever binge-watched.
Viktor hissed, fangs sliding out like switchblades. But here’s the thing nobody tells you in vampire school: bleach burns them worse than sunlight. I splashed that Clorox like I was seasoning a salad, and dude started smoking like a forgotten toaster strudel. He screamed, high and girly, which honestly ruined the whole dark-and-mysterious vibe.
He lunged anyway, knocked me into a cart. Coins flew everywhere—turns out dying is expensive. I scrambled, grabbed a lint roller, and stuck it to his face. Lint rolled right off his cheek like he was made of velvet. He paused, confused. “What even—” I didn’t let him finish; I ripped the sheet off, taking a layer of undead skin with it. Gross? Absolutely. Effective? You bet.
Bleach smoke set off the sprinklers. Water rained down, mixing with soap, blood, and my tears of “why is this my life.” Viktor slipped, cracked his head on the folding table. While he was down, I did what any rational person would do: I shoved him into Dryer 13, slammed the door, and hit “extra hot.” Machine rattled like it was digesting a bowling ball. I held the door shut with a mop handle, screaming, “Tumble dry BITCH!”
Minutes later, the cycle ended. I opened the door—slow, ‘cause I’m not stupid twice in one night. Inside was just a pile of ash and one lavender-scented dryer sheet. I pocketed the sheet; figured it was the least the universe owed me.
Cops came, yada yada. They blamed a “freak lint fire.” I didn’t correct them. They’d never believe me, and I need the job reference. Management installed new security cameras, but every time I replay the footage, that 2:22 a.m. slot is just static shaped like a bat.
I still work nights. Call it trauma, call it rent, whatever. Every so often, I find an origami sock waiting on the table. I burn it in the utility sink, sprinkle a little lavender detergent to mask the smoke. Just in case Viktor’s got cousins.
So if you ever wash your undies at Moonrise, maybe skip Dryer 13. And if the clock hits 2:22 and the air turns cold, don’t be a hero—grab your quarters and run. Immortality ain’t worth the price of a vending-machine detergent, trust me. I’m the genius who microwaved a spoon, and even I figured that out.