Dirty Laundry

“They’re coming for you.”

I stared incredulously at the grungy looking man. Why had I let this lunatic into my house, exactly? For all I knew he was a serial killer. “Who? Why would anyone want to come after me? I’m the most boring person alive.”

He got up impatiently and went over to the kitchen window. His filthy jeans and stained shirt were a stark contrast to the white curtains. He shot a look at me, panic in his eyes. “Do you have a dryer?”

“What?!” Now this guy was freaking me out.

Do you have a dryer?”

“Yes, in the laundry room,” I said, pointing. He ran over and threw open the door. I followed. He stepped into the room, yanked the dryer open, and peered inside, mumbling something I didn’t understand.

He looked back at me. “You coming?” I looked at him like he was crazy. “Suit yourself.” He crawled into the dryer. When he dragged his legs in, the springs on the machine pulled the door shut. The appliance rocked on the floor for a few seconds and then fell silent.

Somehow, I knew it was empty.

View this story's 6 comments.