Lost & Found

This piece was written for round one of NYC's 1000 word contest in 2024. It placed in the top fifteen.

Prompts:

1000 words Max

Genre: Horror

Location: A Laundromat

Item: A Seed

Lost and Found

Jackson slammed the palm of his hand against yet another malfunctioning dryer. His breath suppressed less and less of his profanity with each swing. Finally, the display lights flashed. Jackson nodded to the man waiting and grumbled back to the corner he’d been cleaning.

            It irked him, the irony that people came to the laundromat to clean things, yet left trash strewn about; tags, empty detergent jugs, balls of lint, and whatever else cluttered their pockets. Jackson picked up a plastic bag full of seeds with “Z-29” printed across the packaging. Instead of throwing the strange specimen in the trash, he shrugged and stuffed it in his pocket to put in the lost and found later. All he needed was some old lady yelling at him about losing her precious seeds.

Only one more hour before he could close this dump, go home to clean the lint out of his hair and wash off the smell of mountain breeze (whatever that was supposed to be). The door chimed as Barrett walked in, carrying a heaping pile of laundry.

“I’m not staying late for you to finish that,” Jackson said.

“Don’t worry, little bro. I’ll close up shop.” His emerald eyes twinkled as he smirked.

Jackson relaxed his brow. “But it’s not your shift.”

“No, but it’s my laundry.” Barrett threw handfuls of socks into the washer. “Can you grab me the detergent behind the desk?”

Jackson sighed and picked up the bottle by the cap‒ the unfortunately unsecured cap. Viscous blue liquid splattered across Jackson’s jeans. Expletives spewed from his mouth. 

            “Planning on throwing yourself in the washer?” Barrett asked, barely concealing his laughter.

            Jackson ran to the back office, flipping off his brother on the way. The lost and found

only awarded him with a pair of women’s yoga pants. He changed and threw his jeans in with

Barrett’s clothes. “This should be enough detergent, asshole.”

            “That works.” Barrett closed the door and started the machine. “Go ahead. I’ll close up the laundromat. You’re going to be late for yoga.”

            Jackson flicked Barrett’s stupid earring and waddled out the door.

In the morning, Jackson discovered an unlocked door and lights still shining. This would be the last time he’d trust Barrett to close for him. Good thing Dad wasn’t opening this morning, or there would be hell to pay.

            “Barrett!” he called, hoping he was still around.

            No one answered. Where the hell was he?

            The door of a washer stood gaping open and empty. The display read “Wash Cycle Complete.” Pink water pooled on the floor.

            Great. Jackson would kill Barrett if he stained the jeans with his red clothes.

            The day ticked by slowly with no word from his brother. This wasn’t like him. Jackson chewed and spit a piece of his nail into the trash. At last, his shift was over. He’d swing by Barrett’s place to yell at him in person.

Jackson slung a bag of trash over his shoulder, exited behind the laundromat, and heaved the sack into the dumpster. The wind howled as it blew across the nearby empty lot. A soft moan behind him outlasted the breeze.

Jackson noticed several plants had sprouted from the foundation of the building. As he crept closer, the moaning continued. Jackson had never seen plants like this before. Giant closed buds the color of ash rested atop great stalks. The leaves were not green, but a pale grayish pink. A faint odor of rotten garbage covered in mountain breeze stabbed his nostrils.

            He poked at the largest blossom, and it unfurled, revealing an emerald eye at the center. The green iris stared at him before the eyelid closed, as if in agony. Jackson stepped back as the rest of the flowers blossomed, some bearing a nose, a mouth, pierced ears.

            The moaning intensified as Jackson fell backward. Small stems sprouted around him. They pulled at him as he realized they weren’t stems at all, but moving, bending human fingers. Jackson’s feet scrambled beneath him as the digits entangled themselves in his shirt.

The plants swayed in the breeze. Jackson’s eyes fell on the soil soaked in blood.

Moans morphed into speech. “Brother…help…me…” Barrett’s voice was

unmistakable.

            Jackson slipped on the grass as one of the buds leapt forward, blossoming as jagged teeth snapped at his face, scraping his flesh with each nip. He screamed as the teeth pierced his flesh. Jackson kicked at the plant. Somehow, he found his footing and raced inside the laundromat, locking the door behind him.

            Barrett wasn’t incompetent. Something happened to him. Something Jackson could not put words to. Shaky hands dialed his father, but he dropped the phone before an answer came.

Thick leaves and vines shot out from the open washing machine like a lizard tongue. Green tendrils coiled around Jackson’s wrists. He pulled against them with all his might. Burning flesh permeated the air as the plant’s sap seeped onto his skin.

            “Please…you’re hurting me…,” Barrett’s voice pleaded.

            The vines lost grip as Jackson tugged. His fingers merely brushed the buttons of the security system. It was enough. Alarms sounded just as vines ensnared his torso.

            Jackson and Barrett’s father, Mr. Rosenburg, arrived just after the police. The laundromat smelled of petrichor. Drops of blood dotted the floor. A washing machine door was open, but the barrel sat empty. There were no broken windows, and they found no intruders. The Police concluded there was no crime. Mr. Rosenburg insisted his sons were missing. The police politely photographed the red liquid on the floor. They left with placating smiles plastered across their faces.

            Mr. Rosenburg mopped the floor and collected coins from the machines. He called both sons but got no response. He tried not to think of the blood.

Grabbing the mop bucket, he opened the back door. A wall of vegetation blocked his path. Dozens of pallid stalks bent under the weight of gray bulbs redolent of decay.

            Mr. Rosenburg reached out and touched one.

It opened.