Use the downstairs machines

"To hell with it. I need to get the laundry done," you mutter, and go around the kitchen island to pick up your laundry bag. Noticing a bottle on the floor you pick it up, grimacing as you realize it's from the delivery.

Your eyes flicker across the writing: 'Foxy Pheremones: odorless, colorless, guaranteed to eliminate men's inhibitions and increase their aggression. Warning: use in small doses. If product comes in contact with clothing wash in cold water. Warm water will set the stain.'

"Well Jacob got ripped off on that one," you smirk, seeing that there's no top on it and the bottle is empty.

Tossing it into the garbage you move to the door, your movements awkward because of the full laundry bag and your high heels. After a quick glance into the hall to verify that no neighbours are waiting you make your way as quickly as possible to the stairs, wincing at the clacking your heels make.

Shrugging your load to one arm you fumble with the basement door, at last opening it with a squeal of hinges.

"Great. Subtle," you mutter, peering down the darkened stairs. "No light? Guess I'll leave the door open."

Ever so carefully you descend the wooden steps, glancing around for a light switch or any hint of these laundry machines your neighbour spoke of.

When you reach the bottom you're relieved to see that it isn't as dark down here as you'd thought. Though you still don't see a light switch there's a row of windows that let in plenty of light from outside. It's kind of startling to see how clean they are when the rest of the place has cobwebs. The machines themselves look like they were rescued from a junk yard and would need a nuclear reactor to power them. Aside from their ancient appearance they have numerous dents and scratches and the paint is curling in hard flakes.

"As long as they clean and dry," you tell yourself, lugging your clothes over to the large machines.

Reaching into your bag you pull out your supplies and dump your clothes straight into the top of the machine, standing on your tip-toes as you do so. You wonder if you should throw in what you're wearing. If no one else knows about or uses this place it should be safe enough, right?

The contents of the bag empty into the machine. At that moment you hear an odd sound.