Samwise Gangee stood there, staring down at the small, golden ring he’d just pulled from the pocket of a plain white shirt. His first reaction was disbelief, a shocked laugh that caught in his throat. This couldn’t be, he thought. That’s just a story… right? But there it was in his hand, as real as the lint he usually pulled from these pockets.

A thousand scenarios flashed through his mind. But his smile faded as the weight of the ring settled in his palm, cold and ominous. He began to wonder if the ring was even real. If it was, then maybe other things from the story were too. Perhaps there really were dark forces still lurking somewhere, Sauron’s descendants, or something worse, waiting for the ring to fall into the wrong hands.

Just as his thoughts turned to dread, the door chimed, and the white-haired stranger stepped back inside. Sam looked up, frozen, the ring still clutched in his fingers. The stranger’s piercing gaze fell on the ring, then lifted to meet Sam’s eyes.

In a voice both apologetic and firm, the stranger said, “I need the ring back. I was just informed… you are not the person I thought you were… Mr. Samwise Gangee. With an N.”

For a moment, Sam’s mind spun, caught between disbelief, embarrassment, and a faint sense of relief. He extended the ring, almost glad to be rid of it, and muttered, “Aye, with an N. I’ll leave the heroics to the other one, if it’s all the same.”

It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon at White Glove Cleaners, the dry-cleaning shop where Eli had worked for nearly six years. He spent most of his days tagging clothes, carefully removing stains, and handling heavy-duty steamers. The routine was predictable, comforting even, but today something felt… off.

Eli had been sorting through a batch of freshly dropped-off suits, pressing them and checking the pockets before cleaning. Every once in a while, he’d find the occasional loose change, forgotten gum wrapper, or stray business card. Once, he even found a hundred-dollar bill tucked away, though he returned it promptly to the customer, as was shop policy.

But today, as he checked the inside pocket of a heavy, dark overcoat, his fingers brushed something cold, metal, and oddly shaped. Curiosity got the better of him, and he slowly pulled it out.

It was a small key, about the size of a locker key, tarnished and slightly rusty. Eli held it up to the light, noting its peculiar shape and the faint marking on its side—a symbol that looked like a coiled serpent. He frowned. Something about it felt… wrong.

As he was about to tuck the key back into the pocket, his finger brushed against something else—a piece of crumpled paper wedged into a different pocket inside the coat. Unfolding it carefully, he found a short, scrawled message in jagged, hurried handwriting:

“If you find this, turn back. It’s too late for me.”

Eli’s stomach tightened. He glanced around the shop, suddenly feeling exposed. He was alone; his boss had left early, and the evening sun was beginning to cast long shadows across the linoleum floor. The silence felt dense, like it was pressing in on him.

He turned the note over, hoping for more clues, but found nothing. The chill crept up his spine, and he tucked the note and key back into the coat, intending to call the customer, an older man who’d seemed polite but distant when he’d dropped off his order.

Curiosity, however, gnawed at him, and Eli found himself dialing the man’s number on the phone. It rang… and rang… and rang. No answer. Not even a voicemail greeting.

Later that night, after he locked up, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling. He wondered if he should take the key to the police. Yet, something about the cryptic message told him they might just dismiss him.

The following day, the man still hadn’t shown up to pick up his coat, and now Eli was feeling a tinge of genuine worry. Against his better judgment, he slipped the key into his own pocket and headed to work, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious.

It wasn’t until that evening, as he was closing up, that he noticed something else strange. As he turned the shop’s sign to “Closed,” he saw a shadowed figure standing just beyond the reach of the streetlight across the road. The figure stood perfectly still, watching. Heart hammering, Eli took a step back, then another, until he could close the door and lock it.

But as he turned to retreat into the shop, a faint scraping sound echoed through the back room—the unmistakable sound of something metallic being dragged across concrete. It was coming from the back door, the one leading into the alleyway.

He wanted to call someone, anyone, but he remembered his phone was out front by the register. Swallowing hard, he grabbed a heavy metal hanger from the rack and crept slowly to the back.

With a shaky hand, he pulled open the door.

Nothing. Only the sound of a faint wind rustling through the alley. He closed the door, bolting it tightly, and resolved to take the key and note to the police first thing in the morning.

But that night, as he lay in bed, he couldn’t shake the image of the symbol—the coiled serpent. In his dreams, it twisted, slithered, until it formed a doorway leading into darkness.

When he arrived at work the next morning, Eli’s heart sank. The coat was gone. The rack where he’d hung it was empty, and no records showed that anyone had picked it up. The only sign it had been there at all was a single piece of fabric caught in the hook—a scrap of dark wool, barely enough to notice.

Eli felt the key in his pocket, its weight oddly heavier than before. When he took it out, he saw the serpent symbol had changed; the once-coiled body was now twisted into an open mouth, the fangs gleaming faintly, almost like a warning.

He never found out who the man was, and the coat was never seen again. But from that day forward, whenever Eli closed the shop, he always checked the shadows.

I took the coat out, and went to go hang it up when something fell out of the pocket. I quickly bent and picked it up, before noticing what it was, I was holding. I had just started my shift, after school, and didn't much of it, things fall out of pockets all the time. But then I processed what was in my hand. "EW EW EW EW AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

Jane ran over, "What's wrong? What happened? Can you hear me, Anne?"
I was disgusted, mainly, but also a little scared. "Eww, just go look on the floor by the racks."

She did, and after a little shriek came back and sat next to me. "Is that a.." "Shrunken head? Yeah, I think so." "Gross. Go wash your hands."

I did so, and afterwards the two of us stood over the head, staring at it. "What do we do?" Jane asked, looking at me. "I don't know, maybe just put it back?" "Well, I don't want to touch it." "Neither do I."

So, we drew straws. I lost. I tried to pick it up, (with gloves on this time), by the hair, but it was so brittle that it just popped right off, and the head fell for a third time. Cue more shrieking from me and Jane. "It touched my foot! Oh my God it touched my foot!"
"Shush I'm trying to pick it up!" Me and Jane were both 17 and became friends after we were both hired to work here, so both of us were squeamish and willing to pass the gross jobs to the other one.

Eventually I put the head back, stuffing to mini hair pieces in their as well, and then ran into the bathroom and vomited. You didn't see that thing; it was all red and scabby, and old looking and brittle. That grossed me out more than the fact that it was SOMEONES DECAPITATED HEAD, (although that added to my disturbance).

I found Jane outside, smoking, and she handed me a cigarette. So, we both sat and smoked and talked about the head. She had some wild theories, like what if it was a witch doctors, and he needed it to cure someone. I told her witch doctors didn't exist, and she watched to much television. Her family had been one of the firsts to acquire one in color when they were invented, around the time Jane was 4, so she watched it a lot more than I did, henceforth her saying things about witch doctors and such.

"You know, Mrs. May's going to be back soon." She was our manager, and oftentimes left the place to us while she ran errands. "Yeah? We can't tell her; she'll lose her mind. Especially when she finds out that I dropped it and lost the hair." "Oh, yeah. Well maybe whoever took it out will come pick it up." "Maybe."

We went back inside and returned to our work. It was quite easy, although we were both on edge waiting for whoever had that coat to come pick it up. Everyone who came in caught our attention, as we wondered and hoped to see the owner. After about two hours, around 5:30 PM, a woman came in hurriedly. She had wild black hair and pale skin, and she was short, with large wire frame glasses and piercing gray eyes. The most surprising thing though, was that she was young, only in her 20s or so. The coat itself was odd, it was cut in the fashion of the time, long, with buttons and warm looking, but it was a deep shade of purple, with fur on the neckline and bottom, and it matched the owners looks. And then asked for her coat, and gave us the number of the now infamous, and creatively named, The Head Coat. We both anxiously handed it to her, and she thanked us, paid, and before leaving, turned around and winked.

Strange.

I come in just like I would any other day. I’m only a short bike ride away from Jess’s shop, so I decide to bike the long way around. I stop by the bakery on the corner of our street to grab an apple scone to celebrate fall (I don’t really care for pumpkin), and I walked the rest of the way. Parking my bike, I wave in and see Jess already starting the morning off with a customer. I walk in, hearing a conversation between an older gentleman and Jess. “Yes, it was a lovely honeymoon. You should go sometime!”  “To Paris? No, I don’t think so.” “You must vacation sometime” “I can tell you’re not a business owner.” The two laugh and the gentleman hands off his suit, waving goodbye to Jess. “Au revoir!” he shouts wistfully as he leaves. Jess sighs.  “The small talk will always kill you if you let it. Anyways, how was your bike ride in?” “It was good, ma’am, thank you for asking. How was the morning?” “Slow, but we’re just getting started. I have a couple that need to start pre-treating. Can you get started?” I nod and go to the back, starting to work. The pre-treatment process is simple, but I won’t bore you with the details. All that you need to know is you put some powder on the major parts of the garment before you use the solvent for the actual dry cleaning. I roll up my sleeves and pretreat about two suits until a phone call comes in. I swing through the doors and pick up the phone. “Hi, yes, how quickly can you do a dry clean?” a male voice asked, not letting me say hello. “About 2-3 days.” “Damn. Can it be any faster? I’ll pay anything.” “Hey Jess,” I call over. “I think you may want to handle this one.” Jess grabs the phone and I go back to my pre-treatment. Moments later, she comes in and tells me that a man will come in about 30 minutes and that I should expedite the process if at all possible. “If he can buy a kit at Walmart and do it in his dryer, we need to show our expertise.”  Just like that, 30 minutes pass, and a gentleman comes in. While I’m in the back, I can’t make out much of what he’s saying. It was clear he wanted his suit cleaned quickly and “discreetly”. Admittedly, I don’t know much about discreetly cleaning anything, but he’s the customer of course. Jess enters. “Alright. He wants the suit done in a day, so focus on this one before you move on to the others, make sense?” “Yes ma’am.” I take the suit in and notice that it’s heavier than the rest. I try not to think anything of it and continue my work. I pat down the suit to make sure that it’s nice and flat and I notice something in one of the pockets. I remember that it’s always important to empty out all of the pockets before cleaning, so I absentmindedly graze the pocket.  It was round in shape, and stuck out like a bulb against the lining of his suit. Curious, I slid my hand into the pocket slowly. I felt the silk lining, and waited to feel the parting of the pocket. I extended my fingers into a cup shape and drifted deeper until I bumped into the object. It felt like it was made of metal, with a lever shape at the very top. Not able to contain myself, I rushed my hand down and grabbed it whole, pulling it out of the pocket. I gasped. I couldn’t believe what I was holding. “Th-this. This is a grenade.”

Why’s this? A knife Such strife Save a life Tonigjt

Allison enjoyed the job, mostly. Sure, there were times when it was slow and times when it was so busy she couldn’t think straight, but for the most part, it was easy enough. She could handle working while going to college, which was her plan all along anyway, and at least she had the smell of soap and cleaning products to keep her company. They made her feel clean.

She reached into the coat pocket of an elderly man who had just dropped off his clothes. Well, this one item. An old leather coat, cracked, with buttons down the sleeves. She always checked the pockets before cleaning.

Her fingers ruffled paper. Not a receipt; it was much too thick. She pulled out a folded wad, a letter of sorts, with black ink seeping through the pages.

She tossed it to the side and started cleaning. “ I can read it on my lunch break,” she thought to herself.

———

Rick stared up at the noose. The woman must not have read his letter, or didn’t care to send help.

He stepped on the stool.

I had a whole story written but it got deleted. It’s late and I need to go to bed but I want to keep my streak so… maybe I’ll have the omph to try again tomorrow. 🥲

Neil hadn’t been happy in a long time. In fact he couldn’t remember the last time that he was happy. He’d spent countless nights trying to figure out when the weight of the world had collapsed onto him, and he didn’t quite have a hold on that either. He thought it had happened about twenty years ago, back in Junior High…but he wasn’t sure.

So, he didn’t know what to think when he found the button and the note in the man’s pocket. He didn’t remember the customer, not quite, he only knew that it was a man and that was all. It had been a busy day at the dry-cleaners, and Neil rarely remembered a customer. Maybe if it was a pretty girl, but that was often forgotten by the end of his shift.

There was no name on the bag. No sign of who it belonged too, it was like it magically appeared on the front counter. There wasn’t anything peculiar about the clothes. A few undershirts, some white, some black. A few pairs of underwear, and a few pairs of jeans. And then there was the button and the note.

The button looked was on a narrow piece of plastic and it looked like a remote for a fan or maybe a small electronic device. The note was handwritten on a piece of lined paper, like the kind he used in school. It was written in pencil, and the penmanship was nice. It read:

Press To End The World

Neil scanned the empty dry-cleaners in hope that the owner would emerge from the bathroom or from behind the pole with the fire extinguisher. But he was alone. He checked the other jeans for some form of identification. Or more importantly a check in slip, and found nothing. Eventually, his focus returned to the button and the note. Pressing the button wouldn’t end the world right?

Now, to be clear Neil wasn’t a cynic, not entirely at least. But he had thought about what would happen if the world abruptly came to an end. He wasn’t against it…and in most cases he welcomed it with open arms. No, his life wasn’t where he wanted it to be, not by a long shot. And yes…he thought he was insane to have those thoughts, but he never took them seriously.

His eyes went from the note to the button. Admiring the penmanship, and then zoning in on the round black button surrounded by white plastic. The entire concept was absurd right? Pressing that wouldn’t destroy the world, and this was all a prank…

Right?

He pressed it. Before he had more time to think. His skin tightened around his frame as he broke into a cold sweat. Nothing happened…not yet at least. He didn’t hear any catastrophic explosions in the distance. No screams from down the street. He closed his eyes and chuckled to himself.

A prank. That’s all it was. A stupid little pr-

Marie Couvins can’t bake cookies to save her life. But I can’t tell her that, it would break her heart. So every two days when she comes into the dry cleaners place where I work, I take the burnt cookies with a smile. Today was different. Today Marie brought no cookies. Just a terrifying silence. I attempted to make any sort of communication but was met with a dry response. Okay then. Sounds good Marie. I suppose I will have no cookies today. Doesn’t hurt me. Though I typically take a bite when she is here to see her satisfied. I take the coat from Marie’s hands and bring it to the back. I hear the bell on the door ding and know that she has left. Per usual I check the pockets of the items to be sure nothing will be lost. I reach my hand in and feel two plastic bags. I pull my hand out and find two ziploc bags, one with three terribly burnt cookies, and one with three beautiful cookies.

I run out of the dry cleaners.

I see Marie down the street and call out to her. “Marie!” She turns and walks over “What are these?” I ask with a accusing tone. “Cookies.” “No, really?! I mean why have you been given me burnt cookies when you made these beautiful ones?” She looks at me confused “You were the only one who seemed to like them. So when I got good at making cookies, I saved the bad ones for you.” I walk away flabbergasted.

(Sorry, this one was kinda silly😂”

Ellen Reed worked in a simple dry cleaners, in a simple town called Willmen Peaks, and lived a simple life. The most excitement this sleepy place ever got was the missing persons case a few towns over. A boy, age 15, had been missing for a few months now. No one knew what had happened, the last place he’d been seen was his school yard. His name was Will Rasquirk, and, according to the papers, he’d been on his way to a very bright future.

Ellen paid little mind to the Rasquirk case. The way she saw it, what didn’t affect her wasn’t hers to worry about.

But anyway, nothing really happened in her sleepy little town. That was until one Saturday morning in the middle of October.

————

The quaint building rumbled as the clothing rack sound round the dry cleaners. Ellen was sittting at a desk surrounded by sewing materials, pens, and paper. She was stitching up a jacket she’d found somewhere, hoping it could be put to good use.

It wasn’t a hard task, simply stitching up the sleeve and giving it a thorough wash. Ellen’s needle rhythmically impaling the fabric, over and under, under and over. She was content, even humming a little song she’d heard on the radio earlier she didn’t know the name of. Something about letting her emotions flow though the stab of a needle calmed her.

And before she knew it, the sleeve was sewn and the jacket ready for a washing. But she felt something odd in the pocket, and found a small piece of paper tucked into it. Out of curiosity, she opened the paper and discovered it a hastily written letter in messy looking print. It read:

My name is Will Rasquirk and I was kidnapped by a man with long dark hair and a scraggly beard named Nelson Tucker. He took me to his house and told me he wanted my family to pay. Please, if you find this tell my parents it’s not their fault and my little sister that she can have my old toy duck. Tell them I love them so, so much. __

Ellen quickly took off in her car to the nearest police station a few blocks down. She gave them the jacket and letter, and their eyes widened when they realized what they held.

A few days later, Ellen saw in the paper that a man called Nelson Tucker had been arrested for kidnapping and killing a young boy named Will Rasquirk. Apparently Will’s body had been found in a shed in Tuckers backyard. The boy had been locked in there for months, and was eventually stabbed to death my Tucker when he got bored of him.

It was a sad, sad story, and Ellen was just glad Nelson Tucker had been crazy enough to believe that he’d been the one to kill Will Rasquirk.