Estella, our maid, was screaming her head off in the laundry room. She was a slight waif of a black lady, and usually very soft-spoken and calm.

So when I heard her screeching “WHAT. . .THE. . .FUUUUUUUUUCK?!”, naturally, I tore ass down the hall to see if she was okay. I flung the heavy double doors open, to find her backed against the shelves of detergent and floor degreaser, staring at a pile of linnens, panting, clenching and unclenching her fists.

I walked over, and began poking carefully at the sheets and pillowcases, unsure of what I’d find. I noticed two of the pillowcases had holes in them.

And were triangular.

. . .

Once linnens are piled into the maid’s rolling basket, there’s no way to tell what room they came from. And so there was no way for me to return the two Klan hoods that had gotten mixed in with the laundry to their rightful owners.

As you’d probably guess, no one came forward to ask about them, either.

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