Late Night Laundry by J.L. Goodwin

A man named Evan finishes a twelve-hour construction shift and comes home to his girlfriend Sarah, who is already asleep after back-to-back bartending shifts. It is nearly 1:00 AM. The apartment complex is a crumbling U-shaped relic from the 1960s, painted peeling flamingo pink, set on an isolated stretch of the Pacific Northwest coast. Ground fog is rolling in from a nearby estuary. Evan has laundry to do, so he grabs his basket and heads downstairs.

The laundry room is a fishbowl: bright fluorescent lights, large windows on three sides, and a layout that turns the glass into black mirrors at night. Evan can see nothing outside, but anyone outside can see him with perfect clarity. He loads the machines, steps outside for a cigarette, and finds his Zippo is out of fluid. While standing at the mouth of a narrow breezeway between the two halves of the building—a dark, fog-choked gap he has always hated—he feels a wave of irrational dread. He retreats to his truck, locks the doors, and uses the dashboard lighter. A black cat darts through the parking lot, and he laughs at himself for being spooked.