Stealing sweater girl’s sweater was a lot easier than I expected. Early in the semester I locked myself out of the dorm room by accident and someone else on my floor showed me how to break in using nothing but a credit card. I went to her dorm during one of the popular class times when the dorms are practically empty and got into the keycarded stairway by following someone else through. Then I found her dorm room and after knocking to ensure the roommate wasn’t around, I let myself in.
It’s frankly a bit alarming how easy it is to force the lock.
(if you’re new, start here, and if you’re totally lost, this might help)
I suppose that’s what happens when the dorms haven’t been updated since they were built in the 70’s. All the rooms still have phone jacks, radiators, and the world’s weakest deadbolts.
Sweater girl’s side of the room was empty. There were no sheets on the bed. No computer. Nothing. Like she had never been here at all. I started to panic upon seeing it. Did her parents come and get all her things? Had I waited too long to make an attempt to save her and now the sweater was halfway across the country, in the hands of her worried parents?
Even if I saved her before midterms, had I ruined her life anyway?
I threw open the closet, trying not to give in to despair so soon. There, on a hanger, was the sweater. It was the only thing in the closet.
Like it was just waiting for someone to come along and claim it.
I carefully removed it from the hanger. Then I turned to go - and heard a key rattling in the lock, trying to open the already open deadbolt. I stood there dumbly, trying to think of what to do. I could always hide in the closet - but there was no telling how long I’d be stuck in there. Besides, that was incredibly creepy. I wasn’t sure I could bring myself to do that. Breaking into someone’s room was bad enough.
So I stood there, frozen in indecision as the door swung open.
I stared at the roommate. The roommate stared back at me. Nervously, I held up the sweater.
“Um,” I said. “I left this here. And the door was unlocked. I, uh, have class soon so I didn’t want to wait.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, glancing at the desk to make sure nothing of hers had been disturbed. She seemed to relax when she saw everything was untouched.
“Do I know you?” she asked tersely, clearly unhappy to find someone in her room.
“No. I knew your roommate though. Do you know where her stuff went?”
“What roommate? I got lucky and got the room to myself.”
She had a roommate. I knew she did. I was positive this was the right room. For a moment I was too surprised to say anything. I just stood there in shock and stared at her, the sweater held up in front of me in both hands.
“Previous… semester?” I finally ventured.
“Whatever. That’s not my sweater so if you say it’s yours, it’s yours. Please leave.”
I hastily obliged. Heart pounding, I hurried past her and down the hallway. This is not a big campus, but hopefully I’d get lucky and never run into her again. This has been awkward enough already.
I messaged Grayson to let him know I had everything I needed. We agreed to meet that evening and try the steam tunnels again. It was a long wait. I suppose this time I had no doubts that we’d find the laundry lady and all those fears I’d been burying came crowding in. It was hard to focus. I tried to study anyway.
We went down to the tunnels after dinner. Nothing happened on the way over. Selfish as it might sound, I was kind of hoping the steam ghost would show up and chase us off. That would be a valid reason to try this another day.
But I knew the longer I put it off, the worse I’d feel when I finally rescued her. So on we went.
Grayson stopped me before I could open the door to the tunnels. He said my name, and I turned to look at him. He had an earnest expression.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Me?” I replied, startled by the question. “I feel I should be the one asking you that.”
“All I’m doing is standing by the door. Sure, I didn’t expect a creepy laundry lady to have an… alternate world… on campus, but I’m adjusting to the idea. I’m figuring it out. You’re the one that’s actually going to go inside.”
“It’ll be fine. I have my three items. The hero always succeeds with them.”
“What if,” Grayson said softly, “you’re not the hero?”
I wrenched the door open and acted like I didn’t hear his question. He had said it very quietly, after all.
But why was I doing this? The question ate at me as we descended the stairs into the tunnels. I felt obligated, but that was something I imposed on myself. I guilted myself into this. I was the one that convinced myself that because I was the one that got stolen away, I had to also be the one that rescued her. Was it fair? Was it right? Would we fault someone that failed to run into a burning building without any training, equipment, or knowledge of what they were doing? I had some knowledge and I had my three items and my weapon, but I certainly didn’t have the training or experience to handle inhuman things.
I feel guilty saying all this. If I didn’t go, no one would, and sweater girl would be lost forever. Part of me even resents Grayson for bringing up such doubts at such a crucial time when I couldn’t let my resolve waver.
Just as before, we planned to travel from my dorm to her’s. Grayson seemed jumpy once we were down in the narrow tunnel. He kept glancing back over his shoulder. I’d told him about the steam monster prior to our first attempt, but I guess now he actually believed that it existed. Fortunately, we reached the exit without incident. I clutched the candle in its container to my chest. The fingernail was in my pocket, the sweater was tied around my waist, and my weapon dangled from my arm in a plastic bag.
I placed one hand on the door and opened it.
A pleasant warmth washed over my face, smelling strongly of detergent. Before me stretched the laundry room. It went on for as far as I could see, an endless row of dryers. They toiled noisily and a couple doors flicked open, spitting out a pile of clothing to add to the carpet of laundry that covered the floor.
“Guess we found it,” I whispered.
“Yeah. We did.”
Grayson leaned over my shoulder, staring intently at the room before us, his hand pressed against the door just above my head.
“How long should I wait before assuming you’re lost?” he asked.
“A-an hour?” I guessed. My stomach twisted uncomfortably at the question.
“Let’s make it two. And then I’ll start making my own rescue plan, okay?”
I admit that almost broke my resolve. The thought of being trapped in that endless expanse of clean laundry for however long it took Grayson to come up with a plan - assuming he ever found the door again. I glanced down at my hands, trying to come up with something to say. Something light-hearted to reassure both of us.
Inside of its case, the candle flickered.
Like it was going to go out.
“I’m out of time,” I whispered.
I turned and stepped through the doorway. The rumbling of the dryers reverberated in my chest, drawing out the hammering of my heart. It felt like standing next to a train. I stumbled across the uneven piles of laundry, clutching the candle in its plastic box to my chest. At least the path forward was clear. There was only one direction to go. Straight. The heat filled my lungs, a dry heat that sapped the moisture from my lips. By the time the doorway was out of sight, far behind me, I was wishing I’d brought something to drink. My mouth was parched and even the nervous sweat on my palms was gone, leaving behind cracked fingers and knuckles.
Fear and uncertainty didn’t feel like such a great excuse to have left sweater girl here for so long anymore.
Up ahead I saw a plastic table. Piles of laundry were stacked around it. Neatly folded jeans and shirts, piles of socks that had been paired and laid out on top of each other. It was the only source of order I’d seen so far. A young woman was hunched over the table, folding the clothing with shaking hands.
I’d found her.
She began to tremble violently as I approached. She did not look up.
“Uh, hey,” I said awkwardly.
She glanced at me, startled to hear a human voice. Her eyes widened and she gestured at me frantically to come closer. I carefully picked my way through the stacks of laundry around her. She told me in a low voice to come stand next to her and help fold. To not look around, no matter what I heard.
“How long have I been here?” she asked, once I’d done as she’d asked. Her voice was on the verge of breaking.
“A while,” I said.
“Did… did I fail my classes?”
Ah yes. College student priorities. Totally normal.
“No, midterms are next week.”
She made a weird strangled noise which I think was somewhere between laughing and crying. I risked a sideways glance at her as I picked up a pair of jeans. She was in bad shape. There were dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks were gaunt. Her hands were worn and bleeding and now that I was closer, I could see dark stains on all the clothing she’d folded.
“Is the laundry lady keeping you here?” I asked.
“Yes. She-she said I deserved to be punished for-for what I did. And when I’d learned my lesson, she’d let me go.”
She spoke in an urgent whisper. I watched her hands as she folded. Her movements were mechanical, honed by practice, and her work was impeccable.
“I don’t sleep. I don’t eat or drink. But I’m so hungry… so thirsty… and so tired.”
I forced myself to ignore the desperation in her voice. I had to focus on getting her out. As I tried to think of what to say, I began to feel something strange. Like there was someone hovering just over my shoulder, watching everything I did. I raised my head to look behind me.
“No!” sweater girl hissed. “You can’t look. She doesn’t like it when you stop focusing on your task. And you need to do it just right.”
She took the shirt out of my hands and deftly folded it before setting it aside.
“She’s very picky,” sweater girl said. “She’ll get angry if you fold it wrong.”
“Did she hurt you?” I whispered.
“No, she wouldn’t even raise her voice. She’d just… tell me to do it again. And again. Until I did it right.”
“Did you try to escape?”
“Once. I walked and walked and didn’t find anything but rows of dryers. Then she came and found me and dragged me back to this table. She took everything I’d folded and threw it on the ground and said she’d do worse if I tried again. I’ve been too scared to do anything but fold since.”
“I’ve got an idea of how we can get out.”
“No. No.”
She sounded close to tears. I glanced over again and she was shaking her head back and forth in short, nervous gestures.
“We can’t,” she continued. “Look. At our feet.”
I looked down and saw under the table something sticking out from beneath a t-shirt. I kicked at it and unearthed a human skull.
For a moment I was frozen in place, my breath trapped in my chest. Sweater girl elbowed me and I hastily began to fold again. That presence felt closer now, like it was looming just behind my back. I folded furiously, taking care to line every hem up precisely despite my nerves. Slowly, the presence receded, and I was able to breathe a bit easier again.
“There’s bones under everything,” sweater girl said. “I see them every time I have to fetch more clothing.”
“And that thing that’s watching us?”
“She’ll go away eventually. She only leaves me alone when she’s confident I’m working.”
Like the fairytale, I thought. When the antagonist is punished by being forced to dance to death.
Sweater girl was condemned to fold laundry until she gave up and died.
Or until her unseen captor grew tired of her.
“She’s never going to let you go,” I hissed. “That’s not how these things work. Besides… I don’t think you have much time left… do you?”
She didn’t reply. From the way her movements slowed, though, I knew I’d guessed right. She knew it too. Her will to keep going was faltering.
“Here’s the plan,” I whispered. “I’ll cause a distraction. Then we run for the exit.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s all I got,” I said.
And I pulled my weapon out of the bag.
“Oh no,” sweater girl said with resignation as I set it down on the table.
“Yep,” I replied grimly, and I unscrewed the cap on the bottle of bleach.
Then, like a belligerent cat, I tipped it over and watched as the contents began to pour out onto the ground.
“Oh no”! I cried in mock dismay. “The clothing is going to be ruined!”
That presence swooped in on us. It shoved us aside, scattering us away from the table hard enough that I lost my balance and fell. Sweater girl managed to stay on her feet and she began to run, as I’d directed. At the table, the laundry lady was frantically setting the bottle upright and pulling out the clothing the bleach had landed on. I could see the blotches from where the bleach had done its damage. I couldn’t help but feel a moment of satisfaction for the chaos I’d brought to her domain.
Then I was scrambling to my feet.
“Go go go!” I yelled at sweater girl.
She was way ahead of me. We sprinted towards the exit, while the laundry lady shrieked and cursed behind us. I’d hoped that the bleach would cause a big enough mess that we could make it to the exit, but there was so far to go and the terrain was so difficult to run on. There was no stable footing. We were within eyeshot of the door when I felt that presence growing behind us, like a gale about to break upon our backs. Yet I didn’t panic. I knew what to do. I had my three items.
The candle was the key. The sweater and the fingernail would aid our escape. That was how this worked in the stories. All I had to do was throw it behind me.
I turned. The laundry lady was storming after us, her sleeves rolled up and fury in her eyes, the wrinkles furrowed around her lips like canyons.
“How dare you!” she shrieked. “Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked for you all!?”
“We didn’t ask for your help!” I screamed back, and I threw the fingernail at her.
It bounced off her forehead and fell to the ground. She kept coming at us like nothing had happened.
That was when I panicked.
This wasn’t like the stories, I realized with horror. It should have done something. That’s how this always worked. You threw something behind you and it became a wall of thorns or a river or anything to slow your adversary down.
Instead, it had done nothing. The rule of three didn’t apply here. None of my preparations mattered.
In desperation, I grabbed at my feet for some clothing. I’d throw it at her face, I thought, and maybe it’d blind her for a moment. As I grasped the shirt and tugged, there was a ripping sound, and the sleeve came off, still trapped by the heavy weight of the clothing it was tangled in. The laundry lady shrieked with dismay.
I let go and kept running. I glanced behind me. She was stopping to gather up the shirt I’d left behind. This was it, I realized. No magical items. No tricks. Just good old fashioned destruction.
“Grab some clothing!” I yelled at sweater girl, “and fuck it up!”
She did as I instructed. Grabbed a leather jacket and ripped the buttons off before tossing it behind her. I tore a hole in a nightgown and threw it over my shoulder. We stumbled and tripped our way to the exit in this manner, snatching up clothing and destroying it in any way possible, all to buy ourselves a few more seconds.
Grayson was just ahead. He stood with his shoulder against the door, desperately holding out a hand to us. Sweater girl reached him first. He pulled her forward, towards the steam tunnel, towards safety.
And then a hand closed the sweater around my waist. It began to drag me back. Sweater girl reached out her hand to me, her other hand clasped around Grayson’s arm, who still held the door open. I fumbled at the knot holding the sweater on, it came loose, and then we were all falling backwards, out of the laundry room, and into the damp heat of the tunnels.
Grayson slammed the door shut behind us. There was a heavy impact on the other side, an enraged wail, and then silence.
None of us spoke much on the way up to sweater girl’s dorm room. I didn’t tell her her roommate had forgotten her. I wanted to see what would happen, honestly. I figured it was because of the rain that she didn’t remember, like how it was likely brainwashing security. Or perhaps it was self-preservation, as was the case with the cafe manager. I wasn’t really expecting what we found. Her room was filled with her things again. Her closet was full of her clothing. Her laptop was on her desk. And her roommate greeted her as if she’d never left and when sweater girl introduced us as her friends, she didn’t seem to have any recollection of who I was.
Should I really be surprised? We’re dealing with inhuman things - no - an inhuman place. This whole college is tainted. Reality twists itself about to be what it needs to be rather than what it is. At the time, I was too worn out from our escape to spend much time questioning it. I was just grateful that sweater girl’s reintroduction was going to be easier than I expected.
All she had to do was make up for all those missed classes. Simple, right?
Meanwhile, I had to figure out what to do with the candle. I certainly didn’t want to keep it around anymore. So I went searching for the devil. And I found him, just as I’d found him the first time.
“Oh no,” he said, smiling broadly enough that I could see his very white teeth. “That was a gift. You don’t give gifts back.”
So instead I gave it to sweater girl. I told her what it was. She stared at me in horror, holding the container at arm’s length with both hands.
“And I… have to keep this safe my whole life?” she squeaked.
“Just don’t get it wet,” I said, desperately trying to make the situation better. “Get one of those waterproof lockboxes or something.”
She continued to stare at me with a mixture of horror and disbelief. Then, very evenly, she said one last thing.
“I wish I’d never met you.”
It was said without anger or malice. She didn’t even say it like it was my fault. She was just a very tired and very scared person who was now coping with the aftermath of her life being upended.
It still hurt.
I guess I was expecting her to be grateful. Maybe that’s selfish of me. Maybe I’m asking too much. Maybe I just wanted to be the hero too badly.
I thought I’d feel better after rescuing her. But I don’t. I feel… like I set one weight down and picked up another. Because I’ve realized a couple things.
First, things here don’t follow established patterns. The rule of three didn’t work. I don’t think it’s a case of not having used them correctly, either. That’s how it goes in the stories, I did it exactly as I was supposed to.
These creatures I’m dealing with don’t follow the rules. They have their own… or perhaps none at all.
And the second thing is that I can no longer use the laundry room in case the laundry lady comes after me again. I have to start using a laundromat off campus. And I don’t know anyone with a car yet.[x]