Saturday Night Frights
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The strangest things often happen when we least expect. I was a broke college student doing my laundry late one October night in my building’s laundromat, earbuds in and deaf to the world. The peeling linoleum floors beneath my worn-out slippers made the most peculiar schwick, schwick sound whenever you walked on them, and half the machines looked as though they belonged in the dark recesses of the local city dump. The walls were a dingy greyish colour, though I always imagined that if I focused hard enough, I could see the faintest hue of blue still clinging to its past vibrancy. An old boxed TV perched high up in the corner of the room, never on. One who lived in the building as long as I had known that the TV was a silent sentinel and cutthroat snitch; the landlord, after receiving complaints about people stealing laundry, placed a security camera inside the hollowed-out remains of the TV to discourage further theft. I, however, doubt the story is actually true.
It was on this unmemorable night that I encountered the strangest fellow. My earbuds were cheap, and halfway through my second load of thrift-store finds they broke on me. I sighed, crumpled them up in my fist, and stuffed them into my pocket. Without music, the clock in the room and the hum of the two machines I had chosen was like static in my ears. As I folded my last pair of socks, I heard the door open behind me.
Heavy footsteps followed by a clicking noise and heavily breathing filled my ears. I shuddered and tried to mind my own business as the newcomer shambled past me, still breathing heavy and clicking as he went. Confusion fogged my brain as I wondered why he was breathing so heavily… almost like a dog. I snuck a glance at him, only to immediately do a double-take.
There, at one of the older looking machines, was a giant furry man. Not a man in a fursuit, either; it appeared to be a giant wolfhound, standing on its back legs. I gawped, as a large clawed hand started to put much smaller articles of clothing into the machine. It was then that I had the ice-cold realization: this man is a werewolf, he’s doing laundry of all things, and I just caught him in his other form. My mind raced as I scrambled about what to do. Do I tell him that he’s changed? No, he might attack me. Do I just mind my business? How does one even do that when they’ve just seen a werewolf for the first time in their too-young-to-die life?
My choice was made up for me when I looked back up only to bite back a scream as he suddenly was right in front of me. I looked into his golden eyes and was surprised to see coherence, along with tiredness. In a very gruff voice, he asked very politely, “May I borrow some of your washing powder? I forgot mine upstairs.”
Jules Licari
An aspiring horror writer who hopes to one day become a ghostwriter. She loves her cats, her ever-growing makeup collection, and her friends and family.
