"The Ghost in the Laundry Room" (definitely not a sermon!)

There is a newly formed Grand Bay Writer’s Group, and one of the things that we do when we gather is pick a writing prompt, then each of us creates something as we sit there that we then share with each other. This week’s prompt was an interesting one:  "A negative energy has attached itself to your laundry room. It’s so bad that you stop going in there for a while, but you know this can only be temporary. So you come up with a plan to find out more about the presence and try to get rid of it. What happens next?" This is what I wrote in 20 minutes this evening, still rough and un-edited.


Each time I pass the door, my heart seems to skip a beat. My stomach drops. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I haven’t dared to open the door since the day before That Day. The silver handle on the gleaming white door seems to taunt me when I think about it. Her words, “See you this evening!” echo in my brain. I don’t know what lurks in the darkness behind that closed door.

My laundry is starting to pile up though. I’ve thought about looking for a laundromat – those still exist, don’t they? I’ve never had to know where to look for one before now.

Her hamper is there, behind the door. I don’t know what is in it. The clothes she wore for her workout the night before? Her favourite dress that she wore on date night? That night feels like yesterday, but also a million years ago. Does the smell of her perfume haunt the air behind that closed door?

“See you this evening!” she called out as she tossed her hamper in the laundry room on her way out to the garage. “Don’t forget, our reservation is at 7.”

I know that I can’t avoid it forever, but the finality of opening that last closed door feels like beyond what I am able to do. All I can do these days is put one foot in front of the other. Get up. Check which shirt is least smelly. Make coffee. Stare out the window.

Sirens scare me now. They remind me of the car that pulled into the driveway That Day, of the ringing doorbell followed by a loud knock, of the words, “We’re sorry to tell you, but…”

I’ve never been one to be scared. I was always the strong one. But my strength seems to have died when she did. When. She. Died. That feels so final.

I look at the door again. Is today going to be the day? Is today going to be the day I open that last door? Today is going to be the day.

I reach my hand out. A spark of static jumps to my hand as it makes contact with the handle. It feels like ice in my hand. I press down and push the door open.

Her smell envelopes me. A hint of the perfume she wore on date night. The smell of her shampoo from that morning. That unique smell that was her, pungent on her gym clothes.

I close my eyes and pretend, just for a moment, that she is about to walk in the door one more time.

I notice her purse lying on the floor – not the one she always took to work with her, but the special-occasion purse. She must have forgotten it that morning. She was probably going to call me mid-afternoon, in a panic, and ask me to bring it to the restaurant when we met. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Without thinking, I reach over. I pick it up. I reach in to see what might have been forgotten.

I pull out a small square box. I open it. A diamond solitaire lies inside.