A woman’s voice, thin and trembling, replied, “Mr. Duckworth. It’s not a hairball. It’s… it’s singing.”
She paid him in cash—triple rate, plus a generous tip—and offered him a biscuit. He declined, citing a sudden desire for fresh air and daylight, even if both were currently in short supply. drain unblocking swindon
Frank yanked the rod back so fast he nearly fell into the hole. A woman’s voice, thin and trembling, replied, “Mr
Bath Road, Swindon. Cause of blockage: four antique dolls, possibly haunted. Remedy: high-pressure water jet (3,000 PSI). Additional notes: invest in a longer hose. And maybe a priest. It’s… it’s singing
The rain over Swindon had been biblical for three weeks. Not the gentle, polite drizzle the town was used to, but a relentless, guttural downpour that turned the pavements into rivers and the roads into moats. And for forty-seven-year-old Frank Duckworth, owner of Duckworth’s Drains (motto: “We’ll shift your crap”), the phone had been ringing off the hook.
Frank reeled in his hose and camera. His hands were steady, but his soul was not. He stood up, wiped his brow, and gave Mrs. Albright his best professional nod.
He lowered the camera again, slower this time. The doll hadn’t moved. But the singing had stopped. Now there was only the scrape-scrape-scrape, louder and closer. Frank panned the camera left. A second doll. And a third. They were lining the walls of the chamber, all identical: porcelain faces, lace gowns, dead eyes. And in their little ceramic hands, they held clumps of hair, grease, and congealed fat—the very stuff of drain blockages.