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.
INT. COIN-OP LAUNDROMAT - NIGHT
SOUND: The lonely hum of fluorescent tubes, the rhythmic tumble of a distant dryer.
A row of industrial washing machines sits under sickly yellow light. The place is sterile, grimy, and empty, save for one man.
DENNY (30s), haunted, his face tight with desperate hope, stands before MACHINE 7. Its enamel is chipped, but the steel drum inside gleams.
His hand trembles as he pours COARSE SEA SALT from a greasy, folded takeaway bag into the detergent dispenser. Not soap. Salt.
From a wicker laundry basket, he takes a lumpy PILLOWCASE. He handles it like it's a venomous snake. He shoves it into the drum.
He slams the heavy porthole door. The CLICK echoes.
He feeds four quarters into the machine. Selects PRE-SOAK. He presses the START button.
Water fills the drum. The salt swirls into a cloudy brine. Denny watches, his knuckles white as he grips the machine's edge.
ANGLE ON a row of molded plastic chairs.
JUDY (40s) sits three chairs down. A dog-eared paperback is open in her lap, but she hasn't turned a page. Her eyes, tired but sharp, are fixed on Denny. He doesn't see her yet.
Denny slots eight more quarters into the machine. He twists the dial to HEAVY DUTY. HOT WASH. He takes a deep, shaky breath.
His eyes drift across the room and land on Judy. She doesn't look away. Her gaze is unnervingly direct.
Denny's jaw tightens. He forces himself to look back at his machine, presses START.
The drum begins to churn with a rhythmic, comforting SLOSH. For a moment, a sliver of relief on Denny's face.
LATER
The machine churns on. Denny stands watch.
Judy is now leaning against the machine next to his, folding a towel with unnerving precision.
JUDY
> Got a tough stain in there?
Denny jumps, startled.
DENNY
> (mumbling)
> You could say that. Coffee. A whole pot.
Judy nods slowly, her eyes not on him, but on the porthole of Machine 7.
CLOSE ON THE PORTHOLE
The water inside is no longer a cloudy brine. It is murky, swirling with an inky, unnatural BLACKNESS.
JUDY
> Some stains set, you know. Doesn't matter what you use. They become part of the fabric.
Her tone is casual, but the words land like ice. Denny's face pales. He knows she isn't talking about coffee.
DENNY
> I'm hopeful. It's a good machine.
JUDY
> The best.
> (a strange emphasis)
> 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, a deep VIBRATION starts.
A low THUMP... THUMP... THUMP... from inside Machine 7. It's not the sound of an unbalanced load. It's deeper. More violent.
The entire machine begins to BUCK against its floor bolts. Metal GROANS in protest. The inky water sloshes wildly, slapping the glass.
Judy drops all pretense. Her voice is low, urgent.
JUDY
> What did you put in there?
Denny stumbles back, his heart hammering his ribs.
DENNY
> It's just... it's just a box!
CRACK!
A spiderweb of fractures splinters across the thick glass of the porthole.
Through the cracks and the dark water, a faint, SICKLY LIGHT PULSATES from within the pillowcase.
SOUND: The violent THUMPING, the GROANING metal, the distant dryer-- it all begins to MUFFLE. A profound, hungry SILENCE presses in from all sides, dampening the chaos.
The thumping intensifies. The floor shakes. The other machines rattle.
The overhead fluorescent tubes FLICKER violently, plunging the room into a STROBE of yellow light and deep, dancing shadow.
Judy stares at the convulsing machine, her expression a mix of fear and grim resignation. She whispers, more to herself than to him.
JUDY
> You fool. You thought you could just wash it away?
Denny's face, a mask of pure terror, is frozen in the strobing light as the machine tears itself apart.
SOUND: The lonely hum of fluorescent tubes, the rhythmic tumble of a distant dryer.
A row of industrial washing machines sits under sickly yellow light. The place is sterile, grimy, and empty, save for one man.
DENNY (30s), haunted, his face tight with desperate hope, stands before MACHINE 7. Its enamel is chipped, but the steel drum inside gleams.
His hand trembles as he pours COARSE SEA SALT from a greasy, folded takeaway bag into the detergent dispenser. Not soap. Salt.
From a wicker laundry basket, he takes a lumpy PILLOWCASE. He handles it like it's a venomous snake. He shoves it into the drum.
He slams the heavy porthole door. The CLICK echoes.
He feeds four quarters into the machine. Selects PRE-SOAK. He presses the START button.
Water fills the drum. The salt swirls into a cloudy brine. Denny watches, his knuckles white as he grips the machine's edge.
ANGLE ON a row of molded plastic chairs.
JUDY (40s) sits three chairs down. A dog-eared paperback is open in her lap, but she hasn't turned a page. Her eyes, tired but sharp, are fixed on Denny. He doesn't see her yet.
Denny slots eight more quarters into the machine. He twists the dial to HEAVY DUTY. HOT WASH. He takes a deep, shaky breath.
His eyes drift across the room and land on Judy. She doesn't look away. Her gaze is unnervingly direct.
Denny's jaw tightens. He forces himself to look back at his machine, presses START.
The drum begins to churn with a rhythmic, comforting SLOSH. For a moment, a sliver of relief on Denny's face.
LATER
The machine churns on. Denny stands watch.
Judy is now leaning against the machine next to his, folding a towel with unnerving precision.
JUDY
> Got a tough stain in there?
Denny jumps, startled.
DENNY
> (mumbling)
> You could say that. Coffee. A whole pot.
Judy nods slowly, her eyes not on him, but on the porthole of Machine 7.
CLOSE ON THE PORTHOLE
The water inside is no longer a cloudy brine. It is murky, swirling with an inky, unnatural BLACKNESS.
JUDY
> Some stains set, you know. Doesn't matter what you use. They become part of the fabric.
Her tone is casual, but the words land like ice. Denny's face pales. He knows she isn't talking about coffee.
DENNY
> I'm hopeful. It's a good machine.
JUDY
> The best.
> (a strange emphasis)
> 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, a deep VIBRATION starts.
A low THUMP... THUMP... THUMP... from inside Machine 7. It's not the sound of an unbalanced load. It's deeper. More violent.
The entire machine begins to BUCK against its floor bolts. Metal GROANS in protest. The inky water sloshes wildly, slapping the glass.
Judy drops all pretense. Her voice is low, urgent.
JUDY
> What did you put in there?
Denny stumbles back, his heart hammering his ribs.
DENNY
> It's just... it's just a box!
CRACK!
A spiderweb of fractures splinters across the thick glass of the porthole.
Through the cracks and the dark water, a faint, SICKLY LIGHT PULSATES from within the pillowcase.
SOUND: The violent THUMPING, the GROANING metal, the distant dryer-- it all begins to MUFFLE. A profound, hungry SILENCE presses in from all sides, dampening the chaos.
The thumping intensifies. The floor shakes. The other machines rattle.
The overhead fluorescent tubes FLICKER violently, plunging the room into a STROBE of yellow light and deep, dancing shadow.
Judy stares at the convulsing machine, her expression a mix of fear and grim resignation. She whispers, more to herself than to him.
JUDY
> You fool. You thought you could just wash it away?
Denny's face, a mask of pure terror, is frozen in the strobing light as the machine tears itself apart.