Post Cycle

As Ben walked into the laundry room, he saw the dryer door creak open on its own, steam wafting out like breath. He froze, heart pounding, as a freshly dried shirt slowly slid from the drum and fell to the floor with a soft thud. It twisted and writhed, the sleeves curling upward, reaching. Ben’s mouth went dry as the shirt dragged itself across the room, toward a crumpled pair of jeans lying by the hamper.

The jeans lifted as if pulled by invisible hands, legs straightening, aligning under the shirt, forming a disturbingly human shape. The outfit swayed, testing its balance, then took a slow, shuffling step forward, the empty sleeves hanging like lifeless arms. Ben backed away, stifling a scream, as the clothes turned toward him, a hollow collar stretching, almost…grinning. It lurched forward, a silent, walking puppet of fabric, reaching out as if wanting to wear him instead.