“He reached the plain grey door, paint chipped from it’s base, layers of discoloured heavy paintwork showing through. The steel name plate reminding him he’d reached the laundry. He chose a key from a selection on his keyring and clicked open the modern lock. He allowed the long cord on the multi-key fob to retract and slotted it back into his pocket, pushed the door open and felt around for the light switch.

The room lit up, packed shelves of bright white linen reflected the harsh overhead strip lighting, as it flickered to life, it caused him to squint and look at his feet.

He stepped inside, each shelf had a paper label stuck on with yellowing clear tape. The ‘bunkbed sheets’ formed the largest pile, and he took one from the neatly laundered pile.

‘This’ll do,’muttering to himself under his breath.

The sound of his own voice made him suddenly nervous and he flinched, before he looked around. It was as if someone was watching him from between the sheets and pillowcases. He peered into the deep shelves, half expecting a pair of eyes to be staring back. Instead he just saw chipped painted work and old screw holes on the plaster walls.

After leaving the room as he found it, one sheet less, he walked back to the cellar door. This door was the only one on the corridor without a steel nameplate.

He pushed open the door, the owl eyes still stared at an unseen prey. He stepped into the gloom, shook out the sheet. No blood surrounded the body, it looked so peaceful, not even a drop of blood from the nose or ears like they do on TV or crime dramas. He would’ve been disappointed but it saved him the worry of cleaning up.”