The Laundry Room’s Lullaby

My sister Clara always joked that her new house had ‘character.’ The creaky floorboards, the drafty windows, the way the basement smelled like damp earth even in July. But the first time she really felt something was off was in the laundry room. It was a cramped, windowless space at the end of the hallway, with a washer and dryer that hummed like old machinery. She’d find her socks scattered across the floor, or a towel that she’d hung on the rack would be on the ground. She chalked it up to the cat, but the cat never went in there.

One night, after putting the kids to bed, Clara was folding a pile of warm laundry on top of the dryer. She turned to toss a forgotten sock into the hamper, and when she looked back, the dryer door was swinging open. The drum was still spinning, and a few clothes tumbled out. ‘Damn latch,’ she muttered, and kicked it shut with her foot. She turned back to the folded laundry, but before she could pick up another shirt, the door creaked open again. This time, she noticed the latch was fully engaged. She reached out to close it, and as her fingers brushed the cold metal, the door slammed shut with a force that made the machine shudder. A high-pitched giggle echoed in the small room, like a child’s laugh, but empty. Clara froze, her heart pounding. She backed out of the room, leaving the lights on, and didn’t go back down that hallway for the rest of the night.

Over the next few months, the events escalated. Clara would find her daughter’s toys moved to odd places – a doll sitting on the kitchen counter facing the wall, a set of blocks arranged in a perfect circle in the middle of the living room floor. Her son claimed he saw ‘a girl in a red dress’ standing at the end of his bed at night, but Clara thought it was just a nightmare. The worst was when she started hearing a faint, out-of-tune lullaby coming from the laundry room. It was the same tune her grandmother used to hum, but it was wrong – the notes were slightly off, like a broken music box. She’d open the door, and the sound would stop.

One evening, Clara’s husband, Mark, was away on a business trip, and the kids were asleep. Clara was alone, watching TV in the living room, when the lullaby began again, louder this time. It seemed to come from the hallway. She got up, her legs trembling, and followed the sound to the laundry room. The door was ajar, and the light was flickering. She pushed it open, and inside, the dryer was running, even though she hadn’t turned it on. The drum spun, and through the round glass, she could see the silhouette of a small figure. It was a girl, no more than six, with stringy black hair and a pale, gaunt face. She was pressed against the glass, her hands flat, her mouth open in a silent scream. Clara screamed and stumbled back, but the image was gone. The dryer stopped. The room was still.

Clara called me that night, her voice shaking. She told me everything, and I went over the next day. We searched the house, the basement, the attic. We found nothing. But when we returned to the laundry room, there was a single red ribbon tied in a bow on the dryer door. Clara’s hands were shaking as she showed me. She said she’d never seen it before. We decided to call a priest, a medium, anyone who could help. The medium, an old woman with milky eyes, said she could feel a presence – a child, trapped between worlds, angry and lonely. She gave Clara a small, black candle and told her to burn it in the laundry room at midnight, and the child would move on.

That night, Clara lit the candle and placed it on the dryer. The flame flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The lullaby began again, but this time it was softer, almost sad. The dryer door slowly opened, and a cold draft swept through the room. Clara saw the girl again, but now she was just a faint shimmer in the air. The girl pointed to a small, rusted locket that was lying on the floor, as if it had been there all along. Clara picked it up. Inside was a faded photograph of a young girl with the same face, and a date: October 12, 1978. Clara realized that date was the day the previous owner, an elderly man named Mr. Henderson, had moved in. And that he had a daughter who died in this house, right in this laundry room, in a tragic accident involving the dryer.

Clara buried the locket in the backyard, under an old oak tree, and said a prayer. The disturbances stopped after that. But sometimes, late at night, when the wind is just right, she says she can still hear a faint lullaby coming from the laundry room – but now it sounds peaceful, like a mother’s song. She never goes in there after dark anymore.

I’ve never been back to that house, but Clara still lives there. She says the house feels different now, lighter. But every time I visit, I avoid the laundry room. And I always make sure the dryer door is closed.