The Spin Cycle of Regrets

A man tries to wash a cursed heirloom in a 24-hour laundromat, but some stains are harder to get out than blood, especially when they have a mind of their own.

Four quarters for the pre-soak. Salt, not soap. Coarse sea salt, carried in a greasy takeaway bag. He poured it into the dispenser, his hand shaking slightly. It felt absurd. A ritual of purification conducted between a machine full of someone's delicates and a vending machine offering stale crisps. But his research had been meticulous, cross-referencing half-a-dozen forbidden texts. The Coin-Op on Elm. Machine 7. A saltwater cycle on the full moon. It was his only chance.

Inside the pillowcase in his basket was the music box. It looked innocent enough, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and tarnished silver. But when you wound it, it didn't play a tinkling melody. It played silence. A profound, hungry silence that leached the sound from a room, a silence that had followed his family for three generations, ending careers, relationships, and lives. It had taken his brother last year. Now it was starting to follow him.

He shoved the pillowcase into the drum of Number 7. The machine was old, enamel chipped at the corners, but the steel drum was unnaturally clean, gleaming under the flickering fluorescent tubes. He closed the heavy door, the click echoing in the mostly empty laundromat. He slotted eight more quarters into the machine for the main cycle. Heavy Duty. Hot wash.

He didn't notice the woman at first. She was sitting three chairs down, ostensibly reading a dog-eared paperback, but her book hadn't moved a page in the last ten minutes. She had dark hair and a tired look about her, but her eyes, when they flicked towards him, were sharp and far too observant. He felt a prickle of unease. This was supposed to be a private transaction.

Denny forced himself to look away, focusing on the machine. He pressed the start button. The drum filled with water, the salt swirling into a cloudy brine. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the cycle began. The machine began to churn, a rhythmic, comforting slosh. He allowed himself a sliver of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this ridiculous, desperate plan was going to work.

---

An hour crawled by. The woman, Judy, was still there, still 'reading'. She'd gotten up once to move her laundry from a washer to a dryer, but her movements were too precise, too quiet. She didn't belong to the usual late-night laundromat crowd. She folded her clothes with an unnerving neatness, her gaze drifting back to his machine every few seconds.

"Got a tough stain in there?" she asked, her voice making him jump.

He turned. She was standing closer now, leaning against the machine next to his. "You could say that," Denny mumbled. "Coffee. A whole pot."

She nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the porthole of Number 7. The water inside was no longer clear. It was murky, dark as ink. "Some stains set, you know. Doesn't matter what you use. They become part of the fabric." Her words were casual, but the meaning behind them was a cold blade against his skin. She was talking about the music box.

"I'm hopeful," he said, his own voice tight. "It's a good machine."

"The best," she agreed, a strange emphasis on the word. "But even the best machines have their limits. Sometimes, you put something in that's too... dirty. And you don't break the stain. The stain breaks the machine."

As if on cue, Number 7 began to shudder.

### The Agitation Cycle

It started as a low vibration, a rhythmic thumping that grew steadily in intensity. It wasn't the sound of an unbalanced load; it was deeper, more violent. The entire machine began to buck against its foundations, the metal groaning in protest. The murky water inside sloshed wildly, slapping against the glass.

"What did you put in there?" Judy asked, her voice low and urgent, all pretence of casual conversation gone.

Denny backed away, his heart pounding. "It's just... it's just a box!"

A loud crack echoed through the laundromat as a spiderweb of fractures appeared on the thick glass of the machine's door. Through the dark water, he could see a faint, pulsating light coming from the pillowcase. The hungry silence he knew so well was pressing in, dampening the sound of the struggling machine, the hum of the dryers, the frantic beat of his own blood.

The thumping intensified, shaking the floor beneath their feet. The other machines rattled in sympathy. The lights overhead flickered violently, casting the room in a strobe of sickly yellow light and shadow. Judy was no longer looking at him; her eyes were locked on the door of Number 7, her expression a mixture of fear and grim resignation.

"You fool," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "You thought you could just wash it away?"