The Drying Cycle

It was one of those mundane evenings that begins with small domestic irritations and ends with a mouthful of sand. My son, Leo, had his jiu-jitsu promotion test the next morning, and his gi, freshly washed by my wife, Sara, was still sitting in the washing machine like a damp ghost. I had twenty minutes to get it dried and get to his school for pickup.

Sara, ever practical, tossed the heavy white canvas into the dryer and clicked it on. I, as I always did, checked the dial. It was set to ‘Whites-Hot,’ the kind of heat that could shrink cotton to doll clothes. I left it, satisfied. Ten minutes later, Sara called from the laundry room, her voice tinged with annoyance. ‘It’s still damp, Derek. You’re going to be late.’ I sighed and stomped down the stairs, ready to be irritated.

When I saw the dial, my irritation turned to anger. The dial was now on ‘Warm,’ not ‘Hot.’ ‘Why did you change it?’ I asked, my voice sharp. Sara, just behind me, looked at the dial with wide eyes. ‘I didn’t touch it,’ she said, her voice low. ‘I only turned it on and left.’ We stood there, staring at the dial, the hum of the dryer filling the silence. A cold draft seemed to seep from the corner of the room, and I suddenly had the irrational urge to open the dryer door and check for something inside.

We were both too spooked to do much. I grabbed the gi, still damp, and threw it in the car. We drove to the school, the air in the car thick with unspoken thoughts. Leo got in, oblivious, and asked about his dinner. We had a quiet evening, and I forgot about the incident until a week later.

That following week, I was in the garage, digging through old boxes for a camping trip I was planning. I found an old Polaroid camera from my college days, the kind that spits out instant photos. I also found a stack of undeveloped film packs, long expired. On a whim, I took one and loaded it into the camera, curious. I pointed it at the darkened garage, where the water heater sat in a corner, and pressed the shutter. The camera whirred, and a blank white photo slid out. I waited for the image to develop, but it remained white—except for a single dark shape in the center, like a wet blot.

Later that night, as I tossed the blank photo in the trash, I felt a damp spot on the trash bag. I touched it, and my fingers came away wet, smelling faintly of laundry detergent. I froze. The trash was dry. I looked around the kitchen, my heart beginning to race. On the counter, a puddle of water was spreading, as if something had just dripped from a ghostly garment. I backed away, and that’s when the dryer in the laundry room, two floors down, turned on by itself. I heard its familiar rumble, and then a distinct ‘click’ as the dial was turned to ‘Hot.’

I ran down the stairs, my footsteps echoing on the wooden steps. In the laundry room, the dryer was running, the drum slowly rotating. The dial was set to ‘Whites-Hot.’ I yanked the door open, expecting to see clothes, but instead, I saw a single, wet towel, neatly folded, as if it had been placed there with care. The dampness of it seeped into the air, and I felt a cold dread wash over me.

Sara came down, hearing my shouts. ‘What is it?’ she asked, her face pale. I pointed to the towel. ‘I didn’t put that in there,’ I said. She shook her head. ‘I didn’t either.’ We stood there, the towel steaming slightly, and I had the overwhelming sensation that the room was too large, too empty, and yet too crowded.

Since then, we never use the dryer without watching it, and we never turn the dial to ‘Hot.’ But sometimes, at night, I hear the dryer start, and the dial click to ‘Whites-Hot,’ and I know it’s not us. It’s the house, or something in the house, adjusting the heat to dry its invisible clothes. And sometimes, when I walk past the laundry room, I see a faint, damp outline of a handprint on the wall, as if something is waiting for the cycle to end—and for us to open the door.