Stay Away From Your Local Late-Night Laundromat!!
I knew that going to the laundromat at 2:00 A.M. was a bad idea, but I didn’t have a choice.
In less than six hours I had to be at work, and I still hadn’t eaten dinner. The half-unpacked remains of my move lay scattered around the cramped studio apartment–
And that was how disaster struck.
In slow motion, I watched it happen:
My neatly-pressed work uniform, hanging from a chair in the kitchen.
The boiling pot of pasta and the open jar of tomato sauce beside it.
My fluffy golden cat, Waffles, gently nudging the jar toward the end of the counter with a single sadistic paw.
“Waffles, NO!” I shouted–
Too late. The jar shattered on the floor; the kitchen (and my work uniform) now looked like movie props from an 80’s slasher flick. Waffles, his eyes wide as though the chaos had been caused by some other cat, scurried off to hide under the bed. I hung my head and turned the spaghetti pot off. Everything else that had happened to me lately–and now this.
I was starting a new job and living out of suitcases on the seedy side of town because of a messy breakup with my ex-boyfriend, Nate, just three days before. I was starting over from nothing, and I really needed this job: I couldn’t afford to show up covered in tomato sauce stains on my first day! Cursing, I stuffed the crimson-splattered clothing into a laundry bag and trudged downstairs.
It had just stopped raining; the late-night streets were completely deserted. I didn’t know the neighborhood well at all, but I remembered seeing a 24-hour laundromat just two blocks up from my dingy apartment building. Sure enough, I could see the reflection of its neon sign on the rain-slicked streets ahead. I took a deep breath; maybe things would be okay after all.
Hitching the bag higher on my shoulder, I headed toward the laundromat’s glow. The cool night air felt good on my skin; change rattled cheerfully in my pocket.
So why was I so nervous?
It might have been the neighborhood, which had a reputation for danger–especially for women, and especially at night. My friends had practically staged an intervention when I’d told them where I was moving, but the truth was that I didn’t have a choice. I’d needed a place with cheap rent where the landlords didn’t ask too many questions, and this was it. By coming here, I’d put half the city between me and my ex–and at the time, that was all I’d cared about.
Was it just the sinister memories of news articles that I’d read about those seamy streets that had me so on edge? Or was it something more?
Every instinct screamed danger, but I couldn’t see its source in the lightless windows around me. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being followed, but every time I turned around the inky-black streets seemed empty.
I pushed open the door to the laundromat. Something clanged above me, bringing a scream to my throat–but when I looked up I couldn’t help but laugh.
It was just the jingle of the bell above the door.
The laundromat was bright, modern, and surprisingly clean. Industrial-strength washers and dryers lined the walls; beside the door was a row of plastic seats, an out-of-order vending machine, and a small table stacked high with outdated newspapers and magazines.
I had just inserted my coins and started the wash cycle when the bell above the door sounded for a second time. My blood ran cold. Before I could turn around, a harsh masculine voice spoke right behind me:
“Looks like you murdered someone.”
“What?” I spun, wondering how the lanky figure had crossed the room so quickly. The awareness that he stood between me and the door made my heart beat a little faster.
“Your clothes. The red stains. Who’d you kill?” His mouth twisted into a yellowed jack-o’lantern grin as he repeated his ghastly joke. He was too close, way too close; my nose was practically touching his chest. He gave off a foul odor, like rot in dark places; black dirt was caked beneath his fingernails. For some reason, that tiny observation was what terrified me most of all. What was this guy doing in a laundromat at 2:30 A.M….and why didn’t he have any clothes to wash?
“It’s spaghetti sauce,” I murmured finally, and tried to pass by him.
“Whoa! Not so fast!” the man deftly blocked my path. “Are you seriously going to act like you don’t remember me?!”
I took him in: ripped jeans, paint-splattered black t-shirt; gangly arms covered with what looked like track marks. Tangled, greasy black hair. I’d never seen him before in my life. The door of the laundromat felt hopelessly far away.
“I think you have me confused with someone else.” I tried to sidestep again, but he was just too quick.
“Seriously?” he repeated, sounding almost disappointed. “The name ‘Samuel’ doesn’t ring any bells, huh?”
“Look, I don’t know you, and you’re standing in my way!” I hated how scared and shrill my own voice sounded. “I’m leaving now, so–”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.”
Only then did I notice the knife glinting in “Samuel’s” hand.
My eyes darted to the black windows, the empty streets outside. There was no one to save me, no one to call to for help–
I shut my eyes tight. If only I hadn’t left that jar of pasta on the edge of the counter, if only I’d hung my work uniform up somewhere else! Everything could have been different. My bad decisions marched through my mind one after another like a grim parade:
Running away from my ex without a solid plan.
Moving to a dangerous neighborhood out of desperation.
Not just trying to wash out the damned stain at home.
I blinked. “Samuel” hadn’t stabbed me, grabbed me, or hurt me–yet.
“I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” my hostage-taker mused.
The only thing I was ‘wondering’ was how to either get his knife or get away from him, but I kept my mouth shut and let him talk. I’d read somewhere that it was a bad move to interrupt a psychopath’s monologue, and that certainly seemed to be the case here. “But I could ask you the same thing, couldn’t I?” Samuel rambled on, “why are YOU in a laundromat at 2:30 A.M.? And I don’t just mean the tomato sauce stains. I really want you to ask yourself: what are you doing here?”
The question caught me off guard, and my eyes drifted once again to the knife. I could imagine all too clearly the gruesome possibilities of what might happen if Samuel didn’t like my response.
“You don’t have to answer out loud if you don’t want to. Just think about it. Now, why don’t you have a seat? It’s going to be awhile before that uniform gets clean, Bee.”
I was halfway to the chairs when I realized with shock what Samuel had called me. Back in elementary school, “Bee” had been my nickname–a tribute to the first letter of my real name, and to my obsession with a certain pollinating insect–but no one had called me that in years. Who WAS this guy?!
“Don’t try anything stupid,” Samuel informed me as he took a seat between me and the exit. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
It was an odd way of phrasing things, considering he was the one with the knife. Once he’d said his piece, however, Samuel leaned back in the plastic chair, as still and silent as a corpse. With nothing better to do while my laundry spun and Samuel stared blankly into space, I ruminated on my kidnapper’s question. What was I doing here, really?
It had started with something simple, a fight over nothing. My boyfriend Nate and I had been arguing about whose turn it was to wash the dishes when he suddenly slapped me with the back of his hand. For a moment, I was stunned; I couldn’t believe what had just happened. Even harder to believe was the savage look of victory and satisfaction on his face. Nate had always been so calm and gentle; of all the people I’d dated, I’d never once imagined that he would be the one who hit me–
But I wasn’t going to stand for it.
My mother had had an abusive partner for almost a year when I was a child, and after seeing what she’d gone through, I’d sworn to myself that the moment a romantic partner lifted a hand against me, it was over. I’d started packing right away, completely deaf to my boyfriend’s apologies and pleas. He “hadn’t meant it” and he was “sorry” and it would “never happen again:” listening to him, I’d had the eerie sensation that my mom’s ex-partner was speaking through his lips, as though he were a medium channeling that awful man’s ghost.
The impact of his knuckles was still burning on my cheek when I climbed into the idling taxi. I had nothing in the world except four suitcases, a small savings account, and my cat Waffles purring in my lap. I went no-contact, blocking Nate’s number and refusing to speak to him again, even after I realized that I’d forgotten my laptop at his place. As far as I was concerned, he could have it–along with anything else I’d left behind. It was the price I paid for freedom.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I glanced at the grim figure in the seat beside me, with his hollow-eyed stare and razor-sharp hunting knife. How had my life come to this? Had I been too stubborn, too headstrong?I hadn’t wanted to ask anyone for help, not even my family and friends: I’d been too embarrassed by how badly I’d misjudged Nate. If I was honest with myself, that was the true answer to my captor’s question: my own reckless choices were what had led me to a 24-hour laundromat on a savage side of town in the early hours of the morning.
I hung my head.
Far across the tile floor, the washing machine beeped, and Samuel’s filthy fingers squeezed my shoulder. I winced; his grip was cold and hard.
“Your laundry’s done, Bee.”
As I carried my damp uniform to the dryer, I wondered what time it was. Three-thirty? Four? In a few hours the sky would begin to brighten; there would be people on the streets again, and I’d finally have a chance to get away from this psycho–if I lived that long. With a shiver, I realized that Samuel had to be just as aware of the passage of time as I was. Whatever he had planned for me, it was going to happen soon–
Maybe even as soon as the dry-cycle was finished.
Yet Samuel just stared dead ahead, the knife resting readily on the thigh of his jeans, that same crooked half-smile on his gaunt face. He was as still as a cobra waiting to strike; not even his expression had changed.
We watched my clothing spin in silence.
When the machine finally beeped, the shock of it made me jump in my chair. This was it. Trying not to look at my captor or his weapon, I loaded my still-warm uniform into my laundry bag and headed for the door. If I didn’t say anything…if I acted like all this was normal…
Maybe he’d let me go.
As if in a dream, I felt the door handle in my hand and heard the jingle of the bell overhead as I pushed it. Samuel still hadn’t moved.
“Take care of yourself, Bee,” was all he said as I walked out the door.
I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to kiss the filthy, uneven sidewalk beneath my feet. The nightmare was over!
I was almost to my apartment when I heard sprinting footsteps charging toward me. Of course it had been too good to be true. I knew that I should run, but I froze instead, eyes shut tight, waiting for the inevitable blow–
It never came.
Instead, I heard a faint gasp and the dull thud of something heavy hitting the pavement. When I finally dared to turn around, I saw Nate lying in a puddle of blood. A garrotte wire was tangled in his hands; his face was twisted into an expression of mindless hate. Of Samuel, there wasn’t a trace…apart from the hunting knife buried up to the hilt in Nate’s chest.
It took me days to recover, and days more to piece together what had happened.
Although I’d changed my passwords after leaving Nate, I hadn’t considered that my phone tracking app was still open on the laptop I’d left behind. It could be used to find my phone, to find me. That part of the night, at least, made sense…but who was Samuel? Where had he come from? How had he seemed to know me so well?
Against my better judgment, I returned to the laundromat at 2:30 A.M. the next night; I couldn’t have said why. Maybe I wanted to thank Samuel, or maybe I just needed to confirm for myself that he’d even been real. The police had cleared me of any involvement in Nate’s death, but so many unanswered questions still swirled around me.
I wanted closure.
I wanted to know what had really happened that night. I hardly dared to breathe as I peered in the window of the 24-hour laundromat…only to find it empty.
I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed.
Retracing my steps, I searched for any clue about who Samuel had been.
I found what I was looking for on the table of magazines in the laundromat. Flipping through a month-old newspaper, I found a small article caught my attention:
“Another Local Youth Claimed By Drugs” read the title, followed by two photos.
One showed a cleaner, smiling Samuel–and the other sent a flood of memories coursing through me.
Sammy! The gap-toothed boy with the bowl cut who’d been my partner in crime back in third grade!
I hadn’t thought of him in years–and I would never have imagined seeing him again in a place like this, under such bizarre circumstances. Sammy was Samuel!
Addiction had clearly taken its toll on the boy I once knew, but the two photos were clearly the same person. According to the article, he’d died of a heroin overdose just a few blocks away from my new apartment–his body had been found over a month ago. But in that case, who–or what–had stabbed Nate?
I didn’t have an explanation then; I still don’t. But every time I hear the bell of my local laundromat ring, I turn around–
Hoping to see a familiar face.
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