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墨書 Inktalez
You held the gray Laundry Basket, your damp hair sticking to your forehead, droplets of water dripping from the tips of your hair. The cold, wet sensation made you instinctively shrink your shoulders. The wooden floor creaked softly beneath your feet, the sound echoing clearly in the silent corridor. You walked slowly forward, the weight of the Laundry Basket pressing against your arm, causing a slight ache, while the chill in the air seeped into every inch of your skin, as if reminding you that this journey would not be simple.
The corridor was empty, the light dim and flickering. The buzzing of the light bulb occasionally pierced through the silence. As you passed several closed doors, your gaze involuntarily darted towards them—one door had a faint flickering light seeping through the gap at the bottom, reminiscent of a television's glow. You paused, listening intently; behind the door came a series of crackling noises, akin to static when a television signal is lost—deep and persistent, as if swirling within the room.
A tingling sensation of static climbed up your skin, faint yet prickly, like invisible fingers lightly tracing over your arm. You tried to ignore the unease creeping in, but as you took another step, the noise seemed to grow louder or perhaps clearer.
The entrance to the hall was just ahead, with the Laundry Room on the other side. You quickened your pace slightly. Yet as you passed by the reception desk, your eyes couldn't help but glance over. It was empty behind the counter; she was gone—the receptionist who always wore a smile and spoke softly was nowhere to be seen. The light above the counter was on, but it shone with a darker hue than usual, as if shrouded in an unshakeable fog.
Even stranger was that the hall door stood ajar. Outside lay thick fog, within which flickered faint points of light like fireflies on a summer night. The wooden boards around the doorframe felt damp; as cold air drifted in, they trembled slightly as if waiting for someone to enter.
You halted, an indescribable discomfort rising from deep within you. **Where did she go? Why is the door open?** A flurry of questions surged in your mind but were quickly suppressed—you were exhausted and lacked the strength to pursue these thoughts.
Turning away, you lowered your head and continued toward the Laundry Room. The Laundry Basket swayed in your arms; though it was filled tightly with clothes, you felt an odd weight inside it that didn’t seem right. As you reached the doorway of the Laundry Room, it stood partially open, a faint white light seeping through the crack as if its illumination struggled against the darkness.
You stopped and gently pushed open the door; it creaked softly as it moved. Inside the Laundry Room was silent except for cold white light reflecting off smooth tiles, making every inch feel stark and empty.
Taking a deep breath, you set down the Laundry Basket. At that moment, the sound of it hitting the tiles echoed loudly, reverberating around the Laundry Room before gradually fading away. Standing up again, you felt something watching you from within the shadows. The pressure of unseen eyes bore down on you; it felt as though every wall in the Laundry Room had grown eyes—silent yet observant.
You found yourself involuntarily recalling phrases from that rules sheet about the Laundry Room, Laundry Basket, and washing machines' warnings. But were they really that frightening? It was just laundry after all. You told yourself this but couldn’t suppress the cold sweat forming in your palms.
You crouched down and picked up a crumpled piece of paper. It was damp; its corners soaked through with water and exuding a musty odor. As you unfolded it, you noticed that the handwriting was crooked and uneven as if written under immense pressure. The ink varied in depth; some areas were even punctured by pen tips—so chaotic that it was nearly illegible. Staring at those words made your eyes strain as if they were more than mere text; perhaps they were something trying to convey a message—no, maybe even a warning.
"You think the Laundry Basket is just a basket? You’re wrong—terribly wrong. When I toss clothes into it while they're still wet... but when they come out the next day, they carry a certain scent—a certain... something that doesn’t belong to me."
"I noticed a thread at the cuff, its color the same as my blood. This is no longer my clothing."
"It’s not water; it’s eyes... they... they will remember you..."
"I tried not to touch them, but you know what? The basket moves; it will... it will bring the clothes back to you."
"The washing machine isn’t safe either. There’s something in the water; I saw them watching me. They recognize me; they will remember me."
"Don’t wash, don’t touch, don’t come in here."
The last line was written with such force that it pierced through the paper, the broken strokes resembling a desperate scream.
You held the damp crumpled paper, your fingers tracing the punctured marks on its surface. Your gaze lingered on the crooked letters for a moment, a chill creeping into your heart. Those sentences were so desperate, so insane, as if left behind by someone driven to the brink of collapse by some nameless terror. But you quickly shook your head and tossed the paper aside.
"It’s just laundry," you told yourself, your voice barely a whisper. These rules, these mad ramblings on paper, were merely an amplification of people’s unease with loneliness and space. You looked down at the gray Laundry Basket, its contents exuding a mingled scent of dampness and sweat, the wrinkled fabric piled together as if mocking your hesitation.
"These can’t be worn again," you murmured to yourself, a self-deprecating smile creeping onto your lips. "Am I a gentleman or an elegant lady? Either way, how could I be dirty?"
You bent down and tossed the clothes from the basket into the drum of the washing machine all at once. The wet fabric thudded against the drum's interior with a muffled sound, like some strange echo that made you frown slightly. But you quickly shook off that unease, lifted the cap of the detergent bottle, and poured the thick blue liquid into the compartment before pressing the start button.
The washing machine emitted a low rumble as the drum began to rotate slowly, water mixing with detergent to gradually form bubbles. You straightened up and turned to scan the Laundry Room, only then noticing that other washing machines were also in operation.
One after another, at least three washing machines were simultaneously emitting a buzzing vibration. They were lined up on the other side of the Laundry Room, the cold white light shining on the glass windows of the drums, making the bubbles inside appear thick and viscous. What was inside those machines? Clothes, or something else? You instinctively took a step forward, trying to see clearly, but the swirling water seemed to have a hypnotic effect, causing you to blink and pull your gaze away.
You took a slight breath and forced a smile at yourself. "Other people have to do laundry too; it means there are other guests here." This thought brought a flicker of comfort, at least proving that this hotel wasn't completely silent.
However, alongside the rumbling of the washing machines, it felt as if something else lingered in the air. It wasn't the scent of laundry detergent or the sound of the drums spinning; rather, it was an indescribable presence, like a pair of invisible eyes hiding in the shadows of the Laundry Room, quietly watching you through the swirling water.
You suddenly turned around to look at the crumpled paper you had dropped earlier. It still lay quietly on the floor, damp with moisture, its words faintly visible. Those frantic warnings flashed in your mind: "They will remember you... The basket is not a basket... It's not water; it's eyes..."
You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to look away and turn towards your washing machine. The drum was steadily spinning, the clothes inside rotating as foam overflowed with a faint glow from behind the glass window. Everything seemed normal. You told yourself it was just your imagination playing tricks. It was just laundry; what could possibly go wrong?
But the rumbling seemed to grow louder, as if something inside the washing machine was banging against the drum, accompanied by a deep buzzing sound that echoed in the space, reaching deep into your eardrums.
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