The Night Shift at Moonrise Laundromat

I ain’t never been the smart one, okay? I mean, I once microwaved a metal bowl of chili and wondered why the sky lit up like July the Fourth. So when the ad said “Night Attendant—No Experience Needed,” I grabbed it like free pizza. The Moonrise Laundromat sits between a shut-down video store and a taco truck that smells like regret. My shift starts at eleven, ends at seven, and the pay is just enough to keep my phone on and my mom off my back.

First weird thing? The owner, Mrs. K, hands me a key ring heavier than my ex’s baggage and says, “If the washers in the back row start thumpin’, don’t open ’em till the spin cycle’s done.” I laugh, thinkin’ it’s a joke, but her eyes are two gray nickels—no blink, no smile. She leaves and the place feels like a fridge someone forgot to close.

So I’m chillin’, earbuds in, watchin’ TikToks of cats ridin’ roombas. Around two, the lights flicker like they’re shy. The back row—machines 13 through 16—start rockin’ like there’s a damn rodeo inside. I remember Mrs. K’s rule, but curiosity’s a mosquito bite I gotta scratch. I pull an earbud out and hear this… slurpin’. Picture noodles bein’ sucked up by a mouth with too many teeth. My gut drops, but I tiptoe over anyway.

Through the little round window I see clothes stickin’ to the glass—only they ain’t clothes no more. They’re twistin’ like skin, drip-pin’ red that looks black under the bulb. The machine pauses, door pops open a crack, and a hand shoots out. Pale, fingers long as breadsticks, nails curved like cat claws. It grabs my wrist—ice-cold, smells like pennies left in rain. I yell somethin’ between “nope” and a prayer, yank free, and slam the lid. Washer starts up again, gentle as a lullaby, like it ain’t just tried to yank me into Nopeville.

I’m breathin’ like I ran a marathon in flip-flops. Phone’s dead, outlets spark when I try to charge it. Then I notice the lost-and-found basket. It’s overflowin’ with single shoes, hoodies, and—get this—about six phones, all cracked, all blinkin’ the same time: 3:33 a.m. I poke one screen and a video autoplays: me, standin’ right here, filmed from the corner ceiling tile that ain’t got no camera. In the vid I’m older, cheeks hollow, eyes red like I been cryin’ ketchup. Behind future-me, a tall dude in a trench coat that drips shadows steps outta machine 14. He opens his mouth way too wide, shows teeth like broken piano keys, and—static. Phone dies.

My knees bounce like they’re auditionin’ for Riverdance. I grab the mop, thinkin’ wooden stick equals vampire killer, right? Wrong. Dude shows up anyway, materializin’ from the steam like he’s part wrinkle, part nightmare. Face smooth as a mannequin, but his eyes are two red washers spinnin’ forever. He don’t walk; he glides, coat trailin’ behind like spilled ink.

“You’re early,” he says, voice soundin’ like the dryer buzz slowed down. “Usually I get the lifetimes after they’ve marinated a few months.” He sniffs. “Your fear’s fresh, though. I’ll take it to go.”

I back up till the snack machine blocks me. He smiles, lifts a finger, and the fluorescent lights drip plasma that sizzles on the tiles. My brain’s screamin’ RUN, but my feet are Netflix-binge glued. He reaches out, nails clickin’ like quarters, and I do the only thing my panicked butt can: chuck the mop at him. Handle smacks his forehead, clangs like it hit a vending machine. He blinks, actually surprised, and in that blink I see the reflection of the big front window behind me—sun’s creepin’ up, orange as cheap cheese.

See, Moonrise Laundromat faces east, and the glass is one of them old single-pane jobs. First ray pokes through, hits his shoulder, and smoke rises like bacon on Sunday. He hisses, coat flappin’ like it’s full of bats. I duck, crawl toward the window, grab the string on the blinds, and yank. Whole sheet of sunlight floods in. Dude screams—no, screeches—like a kettle losin’ its mind. He folds into himself, sleeves, skin, teeth, everythin’ shrinkin’ into a red coin that spins on the floor before clinkin’ down the drain in the moppin’ sink.

Silence. Even the change machine stops coughin’. I’m shakin’, but I stuff the drain with a rag, pour in a whole bottle of bleach, and top it off with the free vending coffee—because folklore’s fuzzy, but everybody hates cheap coffee, right?

Mrs. K shows at seven-thirty, finds me sittin’ on the folding table hugging a box of dryer sheets like they’re teddy bears. She takes one look at the scorch marks, nods, and says, “You get a raise. Night shift’s yours long as you want it.” I wanna quit, but my mouth says, “Cool,” like it ain’t my mouth.

So here I am, six months later. Sun still rises, machines still spin, and every night I feed the drain a shot of espresso and a silver coin. I keep the blinds ready, earbuds out, and the mop close. Sometimes the basket spits a new cracked phone, showin’ me another future where I fail. But hey, I’m still here, still breathin’, still foldin’ strangers’ underwear like origami against evil.

Word of advice, though: if you ever wash clothes after midnight and the door sticks, just leave ’em. Socks ain’t worth your soul, trust me. And if you hear slurpin’, count to thirty, let the spin finish, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll walk out with your reflection still yours. Me? I got college loans, a dead phone, and a part-time gig keepin’ a vampire spin cycle from hatching. But the sun’s comin’ up, the coffee’s brewin’, and tonight, like every night, I’m the only thing between this town and a very clean apocalypse. Ain’t life a bleach?