The tinny buzzer went off, signifying the end of the wash/drying cycle and my dreary doze as I sat forward in sudden satisfaction. Attempting to regain the warm and fuzzy in between state of quasi-sleep I’d achieved through leaning against the surprisingly comfortable machines, I realized their lulling powers of cleanliness had been shut off.

The pitter patter of rain that leaked trails of mold and puddles of water damage inside the ancient building did little to comfort me and my “I walk to class” pledge to save the planet. The ever-trusting idiot I am believed the lying bastard of a forecast which predicted “sunny skies and smooth sailing.”

‘Sure save the planet Gina, great plan! Now who’s gonna save your laundry?’

It was laundry day, which for most people is a set weekday or time of month, but select others it’s when you finally realize you’ve worn the same pants for more than three days in a row and every shirt has deodorant, sweat, and food stains you fear will never be removed, and some form or another of unidentifiable goo your roommate swears is ectoplasm splattered across, at minimum, one of your favorite shirts. Today was that day.

Begrudgingly I stood up from my fetal like comfort and set to flipping the loads and folding, mixing colors with darks, and committing other horrible laundry taboos that would undoubtedly ruin my fashion life, as I sadly discovered I had too many loads and too little quarters.

Alas, a desperate search for spare change was fruitless as I was the typical broke preferred-food-to-clean-clothes college student. Once those loads were started I began the descent back into my nook of good laundry vibrations when my fellow filth wallowers of creative photography stumbled in, and the electricity stuttered out with a fantastic strike of lightning.

“Any luck with the ectoplasm? I’d really wished you let me get some samples...”

“I might’ve until you walked in with this haunted idgit; I just started another load!”

“Darn, looks like we’ll have to resort to ye olden ways of cleansing our garments. Anyone have a spare washboard?”

The ‘haunted idgit’ drawled indifferently futzing with his beard, having directed the question at some past out boozer past out on the cracked linoleum in the opposite corner as I attempted to set fire to his hair via death glares.

Jinxed Jacob, the junior who alongside my roommate, his girlfriend, Macy have made my life all but boring. Macy plans to uncover the science of ghosts through photography and science, Jacob plans to become a world famous medium or some shit like that, and me? I like horror stories as much as the next geek, but preferably when they’re in books or behind a screen. I just wanted to take pretty pictures. Instead, I got these two in the most haunted school in existence. Just my luck.