Bury a husband, board him up.

All day long,

You’ll get

Good luck.

 

BLOG ONE

Random fact of the day: a green wig is hanging on a hook in our office.

 

Hello! This is Mave Kitten reporting for the Litten Echo, our very own free version of the New Yorker. Over the next few months, we’ll be offering weekly broadcasts about issues that matter to you—our lovely residents of Litten Vale.

When the boss ‘asked’ me to run a blog, I almost died from shock. It had been another uneventful afternoon. I was sorting the Echo’s files and sorting the Echo’s files. Round and round in a forever loop. The office cat snored, and our Lisa was gliding, quite skilfully, on one leg.

I’m nervous of ‘she who must be obeyed’ and, at the same time, hypnotised by her idiosyncratic behaviours. Still, I had to ask. “What’re you doing, Lisa? Ice skating?”

It’s true to say we’re wary of each other. Life has taught me to be cautious. I talk too much and don’t notice hints. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. On my first day as junior reporter, I noticed and looked. Lisa reciprocated. Now, we’re trapped in a bizarre cycle of wariness and looky-looky.

In response to my question, Her Highness hurled some wipes onto the floor, placed her foot on top, and continued skating. “Cleaning the floor.”

I winced, started talking, and then couldn’t stop. “Wipes are no good for the environment. The cloth takes five hundred years to biodegrade. Haven’t we got a mop? Shall I buy one? We need cat treats too. I’ll get the pricey kind. Kitty doesn’t eat the crappy ones you get. Shall I get organic? Or how about that mice kind?”

Lisa grimaced, as if to suggest I’d twisted off her arm. “Did she tell you she doesn’t like the crappy ones?”

I shook my head. “Not exactly. But—”

A firm expression took hold of Lisa’s face. “No pricey treats. The cat can stand the cheaper brands if she knows what’s good for her. You, Ms Kitten, are about to record an interview down at Ellison. Too busy for mops! If you run, you can catch the two o’clock bus.”

Record an interview? I’d have been happier if she’d told me to join the army. “No! Interview actual people and make broadcasts? I couldn’t possibly.”

“Yes,” she’d said. “Definitely. I want a weekly blog about local urban myths.”

Dear listener, I died a death of horror and then came back to life and got on with it. Mauve Mave’s like that.

Listen to this,

Too good to miss.

Less than a day later, and the first blog’s being broadcast. My sensitive nature isn’t equipped to contradict six feet of muscle and blonde. Between you and me, I call her the ‘Lisanator'. Blonde, like the beer. Big, strong, and got a kick. Her words, not mine. Our Lisa isn’t one to argue with, but don’t snitch on me. She never listens to broadcasts or the news. If you don’t say anything, she won’t know.

A little personal info before frying the chips of journalism. I’m fifty-two years old and am a proud Littenite. I love cats, documentaries, cheese and onion flavour crisps, and the colour purple. Very important, that. Fluffy cushions and wind chimes also make me happy. Friends call me Mauve Mave, and so can you.

What don’t I enjoy? Tight spaces and flapping wings. Urgh. I know it’s a daft thing, and you can blame it on my sister, Tamara. When did it start? All I remember is a bird or butterfly flapping in my face and a lot of girlish screaming. Tam says we were in a library lift, and it broke down. When we got out, a big sea gull appeared and flapped at us. Witches Tipple beer! So horrible.

Reporting for the Echo means a lot to my girlish heart. I was made up when Lisa offered the job. Literally, crying with joy. I still don’t know why she picked me from hundreds of applicants. I don’t ask in case it was a mistake.

I’m nothing to write home about and have had too many thankless café and cleaning jobs. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! As Dad says, any work’s work. Bless him; he’s always been a pub philosopher. Just don’t get him onto fracking or craft beer. Not if you want to get to sleep that night.

Our first blog will be—hopefully—of interest to Litton folks and especially anyone from down Ellison way. By now, you’ll have guessed what I mean because everyone’s talking about it. Yeah, that’s right. The sound…

According to Lisa, it’s something of a local legend. Kids have made memes, and the neighbourhood app is abuzz. Like all good scares, the noise began during a dark and stormy Tuesday night. Right after Coronation Street, and before Holby. Some heard a buzz and others more a scratch. A few claimed to sense a vibration coming from underneath the house.

Weird, no? Irritating, certainly.

By next morning, the noise had vanished along with the good tempers of Ellison. Tired, confused, and spooked, people got on with their day and forgot about it… Until a few nights later when the same thing happened.

Now the sound is a regular occurrence, despite residents doing their best to get to the bottom of things. They’ve called the council, plumbers, electricians, and a roads expert. The area has been tapped, dug, poked, and prodded. Nothing has worked, and the noise persists.

Of course, rumours are rife. Lisa told me some old story about the canal, as eerie as spaghetti in a stew.

Get a brew on, and make sure you’ve a biscuit at hand, dear reader. Are you ready?

The story goes: On the canal bottom lies a secret, hidden door. Locked from the outside. Nobody remembers who put it there or why, but there’s a rhyme about a woman who locked her husband in and left him to die.

Nasty, no?

Before they built the canal, folks steered clear of the area because of scratching sounds. Interested yet? Scratch, scrabble, scratch. Urgh.

Listen to this,

Too good to miss.

Random coincidence. A month ago—when the noise began—I started getting headaches you wouldn’t believe. Absolute stonkers that left me trembling and weak. Freaky shot of simultaneousness? Maybe.

On with my reporting duties. The boss suggested I start by having a good look around Ellison. “You could get the bus.”

“Nah. I’ll bike.”

I haven’t got a car and never did pass my driving test. All those decisions and junctions—argh—just wasn’t me, being more decorative than functional. Give me a set of instructions, and I’ll bugger it up. After the third failed test, my slightly hysterical driving teacher shoved me out of the car and drove off as fast as a flea in a blizzard. Hasn’t answered my messages since. It wasn’t my fault red resembled green. An easy mistake anyone could’ve made.

It was nice on my bike, Bertha. Afternoon winter sun with a hint of evening. Many people hate autumn, but I’ve always loved the time of year. The way summer slips into the clouds and mists of Litton that’s mysterious and ancient. Profound, as my mum would say, bless her.

No doubt you, dear listener, will know Litton was built around the river Ellison and the canal. In years gone by, a busy network of commercial barges and boats crowded the waters.

For that reason, I decided to start with a gander along the canal path, easily wide enough to push a bike. Lots of streets and estates nestle on both sides of the water. Lisa calls it Ellison-on-Sea. It’s a quiet area with a good reputation. When I was looking at houses with a view to buy, I considered it because of the good bus services and affordability. Too late. The houses were sold long before being built. Long story short, that’s why I’m still living with my parents. Mauve Mave’s a stayer; that’s what Mum says.

Down on the canal path with birds and greenery, it felt like a holiday. The path was very pretty and scattered with comfy benches. The water peppered with boats. The area seemed safe and loved.

Quite quickly, the canal led to a series of complicated-looking locks, one higher than the rest, with water far below. If anyone fell, it’d be the end.

After, the path branched into an area closed off to walkers by red tape. It looked as if the council had visited and left behind a small cement mixer and some bricks. At the far edge was space enough to squeeze illicitly past the barriers.

Mindful of being the new girl, not wanting to disappoint our Lisa, I, however, leant my bike against a tree, and then carefully made my way beyond the red tape. Not much to see. A few yellow waistcoats and a scattering of litter, and yet, I was compelled to keep looking. A headache started. Something similar to hunger gnarled at my insides.

I crept beyond the machinery to a bricked-in tunnel. Cold and deserted. Other-worldly. Water dripped on my face. A bird flapped its wings.

Properly freaked, I crept to the edge of a circular wall and peered down into a deep, slimy hole, which smelt as horrible as the opening to hell. No, I don’t mean the Lankersby Arms on a Saturday night, ha ha.

A blast of filthy and foul air gushed out. Strong enough to make me heave. Blurgh!

For the first time, I heard the noise properly. Flapping, scratching, tapping, and shuffling. Totally hurl-worthy. Nastier than Brussels sprouts.

That was enough. I stumbled back through the barriers and managed to knock over a safety panel.

I peddled, with haste, across the bridge and into Locke Street. The noise faded. Locke is a pretty place, with gardens well maintained. Half expecting to see vampires or something unnatural, I mooched around. A passing lady told me about an offer on apples in the nearby shop. A man and a toddler went past, hand in hand, singing The Wheels on the Bus. So sweet.

I told myself what I’d experienced was only an overactive imagination. The hole was only a hole. The headache faded, and that was when I noticed a woman, wrapped in a long, green coat. She leant against a wall with elbows forward and one hand outstretched. I mistakenly thought she wore a cloak, but it couldn’t have been, could it? Not in 2022. Cloaks went out with Sherlock Bones.

The headache returned with a vengeance. A bird swooped down. Witches Tipple! My adult part knew a bird could do no harm. My inner tiny kid was terrified, stifled, and panicked. Flapping, swooping, coming to eat you!

The woman must have sensed my presence because she turned towards me. I wish she’d had the eyes of a goat or a mouth like Scream, but to be honest, she was too far away to tell.

“Get lost,” she said.

Rude. I hurried away just as the bird landed on her arm. I supposed it was a spectacular and interesting sight, but I couldn’t care less. Bertha and I rushed back onto the canal path and sank gratefully next to an old guy wrapped up in a long scarf and woollen hat.

“Afternoon. Slow down! You all right?” he asked amicably.

“Hello. I’m Mave from the Echo. Can I interview you?”

I was shaken and disappointed I’d have nothing much to report to Lisa except a big hole and an obtuse woman in green. Looking back, my introduction was abrupt, perhaps even rude. The man (who I’m going to name Bill) didn’t seem to notice. If he did, he was too polite to say. Actually, he was keen to talk and interested in the Echo. And, yes, he’d heard about the noise and claimed to know of its causes.

I soon forgot about the hole and the strange woman, although the headache didn’t fully disappear. With birds trilling and a gentle breeze, it was difficult to imagine there could be anything wrong. A constant stream of parents and buggies, joggers and cyclists, and even a chap on a unicycle careered past.

Early on, I noticed something unexpected about Bill. He held no discernible aura. Very strange. He was kind, friendly, and yet absent. As if not there. Maybe I was tired. It was probably nothing.

As I said, Bill was eager to get going and didn’t waste time with chit-chat. “What do you want to know, miss? I’d love to be in the papers.”

I got out my recorder. “This noise everyone’s talking about. Some say it’s electrical. What do you think?”

Bill’s old face lit up like a paper lantern. The pale beams against his weathered skin made it appear etched onto ancient parchment. I imagined I could see his cheek bones, but it was maybe just a trick of the light.

He began in earnest, with eyes of far away. It was clear the events he described were clear and fresh in his mind.

“Go on,” I urged.

“What people are talking about isn’t a noise at all, but a haunting. Revenge, if you will. Anger don’t die with people. It finds a place, and it waits. When times are right, it’ll tiptoe back. It’s a hungry, greedy thing.”

I was surprised and taken aback at such eloquent wording. “Anger? Revenge? A haunting?”

Bill paused and grinned cheekily. “That’s right. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, ducks, and I don’t blame you. Ghosts and ghouls—all rubbish. Mostly, I’d agree. Except, I’ve lived a long time, and by the end, you’ve seen a few things which don’t make sense except by acknowledging the things out there—call it memories or echoes—from another time and place.”

I was hooked. “I know what you mean. I’ve often thought I can catch a whiff of the past in some buildings. Schools, for instance. Community halls.”

Bill nodded as if he wasn’t surprised by what I’d said. “Yes. I can see you would, my ducks. Everything moves in circles, and nothing is new. People talk about the sound as if it’s new, but I can promise it’s been going on for hundreds of years. Long before the canal was here. When I was a kiddie, people called it ‘her little joke’.”

He uttered a rather sinister chuckle. I’m afraid an unprofessional shudder rippled across my coat.

Bill noticed and patted my arm. “Now then, miss, no need for alarm. Back then, folks knew more; if you get my meaning. Not about dolphins, or books, or medicines. No, I don’t mean those. They knew more about the ‘other’. Things you can’t see but are there just the same.

“A better question might be, why isn’t the sound louder? Because it’s about murder and death, you see. Of him and of her. They killed her. Stopped a love, and for what? Bigotry, ignorance, and hatred. Because she was poor.”

My mouth fell open with shock. “Bloody hell, Bill.”

“I’m getting away with myself, and I can see you’re scared. Sorry, and please don’t be afraid of me—I’m nought but an old man, and I mean no harm. Especially not to you.”

I must admit, I’d been expecting him to talk of his family, maybe, or the council. Certainly not murder. “No, you go on. I’m fine! You’re doing great!”

He rubbed his head. “It was long ago. When there were bargees coming and going, and this canal was a busy marketplace. Sometimes when it’s windy, you can hear the callings between folks and the laughter of kiddies. Those things live in the bricks and curves of the canal. In its curves and structures, and the very timbre. Places have memories, and this one has plenty. Expect you’ll hear, too, if you let yourself listen. This canal is in your bones, the same as it is in mine, my ducks.”

This canal is in your bones. Maybe I should have asked how he knew. Like many local people, my ancestors were bargees. I didn’t realise anyone but family members knew of it.

Bill rumbled on. “There was an Ellison town leader called Sidney Bradshaw. I forget which year. Ellison was a booming place then. Sidney had all the riches and power anyone could wish for, while others had nothing. It’s the way of things. You were either born lucky, or you weren’t. Nought to be done. The mayor’s family had three children, and the oldest was a boy named Robert. You won’t find anything about him in the museum, so don’t bother. I expect his parents are there, grinning in their Sunday best and butter wouldn’t melt.”

Frankly, the world hadn’t progressed. Inequality was still ingrained in our society. “Yeah. I wish the world was different.”

At this point, Bill took my hand. Looking back, it should have seemed more awkward. “Robert wasn’t like the other boys. Didn’t notice the same things. Maybe he didn’t care? His sweetheart wasn’t some rich girl with clean nails and silly manners. Robert was friends with a bargee called Lilly Pryce. Always together, they were, chattering and singing, laughing and mucking about. For years, they were thick as thieves, and nobody thought much of it. I expect Robert’s parents told him to make more appropriate friends. He wouldn’t have cared less.”

“Aww,” I said, always a sucker for a soft story.

“I don’t know when it happened. Does anyone? When a best friend becomes something else. Something better and more. It starts with a look, don’t it? You know what I mean.”

He grinned and nodded at me, cheeky bugger. I thought about our Lisa and blushed. “Mm. You could be right. Go on.”

“I don’t know how long they managed to keep it hidden. As long as they could, I expect. Sidney found out, and Lilly’s family was told to go. Move off. Never come back here. Be gone! So. Robert and Lilly disappeared. Run away, you see. Couldn’t stand to be parted, and why would they? Love won’t be ordered about.” His voice shook with emotion.

I was caught up by his passion and felt angry on Lilly and Robert’s behalf. “That’s sad. Why? I’ll never understand people if I live to a hundred.”

“Dogs barking and men braying. Hunted them down. Horrible. The mayor was an evil man. He wouldn’t stop at nothing to get his own way. Robert was sent off to the army. He weren’t seen round here again, so don’t you go looking. Leave the dead alone.

“Rumour has it they buried Lilly under the disused tunnel. In a watery grave. I expect you saw the access tunnel the workers disturbed last month before the noise. You did? Those workers should never have started, so they shouldn’t.”

My eyes welled up, and I fished in my pocket for a tissue. “They killed her? Poor, poor, Lilly.”

“In a way. Death wasn’t the end, so don’t you fret. Lilly and Robert didn’t give up. They fought back in whatever way they could. Some say the noise is the ghost of poor Lilly, buried in that hole. Secrets deeper than graves and bones. The answer—the real one—is in your heart. But you know this already, my ducks.”

Bill’s words chilled me to the bone. Murder, young love, and ghosts!

On the ride home, all I could think about was the scratching noise and Bill’s final chuckle.

“Her little joke. Ha ha ha.”

 

BLOG TWO

Random fact of the day: my bike is named Bertha.

 

Hello! This is Mave Kitten reporting for the Litten Echo. I’m amazed so many of you tuned in to listen to my first broadcast. ‘Gasted with flab’, as Mum would say. Hundreds and hundreds. Forty, at least. Lisa keeps saying it’s down to me, but I think people are glad to hear about local news and things which affect us all. These days, our world is so fragmented. It’s nice to bring people together.

Fess up time—I’m no journalist. I did a free course as a girl is all. I’ve always loved reading the papers. We all know how cruel the media is; I won’t be though. My broadcasts will report. Nothing more. It’s down to experts and residents to decide what’s best for Ellison. Lisa agrees. I’ll get better as I go.

Anyway, thank you from the bottom of my purple heart. Like all local newspapers, the Echo is on its last legs. I’ll try my very best to keep on reporting, and hopefully, we can keep the Echo going for another year or two. Since my podcasts, Lisa’s been much chattier, and things are looking up.

I relayed Bill’s story with more than a dabble of nerves. He’d upset and unnerved me. I hadn’t expected such depth of emotion. To the outside, he’s just a nice old fella, but once he got talking, his was the spirit of a much younger and very passionate man. I forgot the time and date and could think only about the horror of the story, and of the poor girl they killed.

Listen to this,

Too good to miss.

An interesting thing. When Lisa and I started talking about Bill, my headache returned. “I can still hear it. That thing. Something has crawled inside me and is gnawing on a bone like a bone.”

“Fuck a duck,” Lisa said with her usual articulate flair. “It’s one confused story, Mave. A lot doesn’t smell right. Anyone would think Ellison was a hotspot for murder. We need to visit the museum.”

We said goodbye to the office cat-cum-security guard and locked up. Like always, I left some treats and my cardy for her to snuggle. “Don’t let anyone in, Penelope. There’s a dear.”

The museum is an old, decrepit building on the corner of Gauge Street. We wandered from room to room, looking for anything relevant. Have you visited? Lots of framed prints of men on horses and regal-looking dogs.

“Stuffed shirts and snobbery. Fuck’s sake,” Lisa said with an appreciation for art not often seen outside of le gay Paris.

Some rooms are laid out as historical reconstructions. I loved the old shop with scales and the pinafores you can try out for a laugh. We had a happy time until the volunteer told us frostily it was normally only children who partook.

“Why?” Lisa asked with a pinny tied round her head and a plastic cake in her hand. Why, indeed.

I could have spent all day playing. Her Majesty grew bored, so we entered the last room, a library of stained books of births and deaths. I had shimmied into a sad daydream about having and losing so many children when Lisa summoned me to her side.

“Mauve Mave, look!”

She’d found a list of Ellison’s mayors, their families, and children. We followed the rows until finding a Sidney Bradshaw with three children and a wife. It was weird seeing his name in black and white. Proof of what Bill had said. I shivered and began to feel a tad weak. At the far edge of my hearing, the noise started up. Shuffle, shuffle, scratch, scratch.

“Might be getting a cold,” I said.

The Lisanator gripped my shoulders suddenly and squeezed until I all but evaporated from the pressure.

“Lisa! Put me down?” I wheezed.

She became agitated and started jumping up and down. It was more than a little disconcerting, attached to her side as I was. Truthfully, I haven’t had as much action in years. Not since Aggie Turner snogged me round the back of the gym when I was fourteen.

“Do you see it?” Lisa hissed.

Right then, a woman appeared at the doorway and told us it was time to close the museum. “You can come back tomorrow. If you must. Kindly put that woman down.”

We staggered outside, laughing. Lisa dragged me round the corner of the building into a narrow alleyway, all the time checking to see if anyone was listening. Very cloak and daggers. Not like her at all. To be honest, it reminded me again of being a teenager and sneaking off maths for a crafty smoke with Aggie.

Lisa gripped me by the shoulders again and lunged. “Did you see? The answer’s right there.”

Her breath was warm and tickly. Though a surprise, the closeness wasn’t unwelcome.

But I had no idea what she was on about. “Sidney and his three children? Yeah. I’m starving. Do you want to go halves?”

My stomach gurgled like a drain. I needed soup! Butternut squash and ginger. Tomatoes and courgettes. Lisa would provide the bread. I might be shit at a lot of things, but soup wasn’t one.

“There was no Robert. Sidney had three girls,” Lisa hissed.

“Eh?” I said, still thinking of snogging round the back of the gym and of how nice Lisa’s hair smelt. Vanilla? Coconut? Mops? Soup?

“Robert Bradshaw. He was a woman. Don’t you see? It’s your answer right there. The secret they’re trying to conceal. Signed up to the army? My arse. I bet Lilly and ‘Robert’ did a runner and loved it up. Good for them! Let’s hope they slit Sidney’s neck.”

Anyone would’ve been impressed at such Sherlockian deductions. Were official records of deaths and births ever wrong? And if so, it didn’t explain why Ellison had succumbed to the scratching hounds of hell.

We hurried back to the office and then spent an enjoyable afternoon bickering. There was naught like a heated discussion, with soup, to get the brain ticking over.

By day’s end, I’d go as far as saying we’d connected. Started looking at each other full-on. True, Lisa beat me at arm wrestling.

Between you and me, I let her win.

 

BLOG THREE

Random fact of the day: Lisa loves pickles and will defend them to the death.

 

Thank you to everyone who called or sent emails! I’m blown away you want to know about Ellison and shocked you’re enjoying my broadcasts. Please clarify—you’re not my mum and aunty? LOL.

To answer the question about Bertha, the bike—I promise to include a photo in this week’s edition of the Echo’s print. My baby is yellow and sturdy. Bought with redundancy money, and she’s worth every penny. There hasn’t been a week since when I haven’t cycled out into the hills on a Sunday. Each time, something different. Shadows on leaves. Birdsong. Coughing sheep. As a gal who suffers from the stress monster, having a bike helps.

Aggie Turner—oh my god! It’s so good to hear from you. Five kids and a tarantula? Email pictures, please.

Anyway, back to gritty journalism. After our trip to the museum, things turned a shade darker. The noise took root in my head and nothing would shake it. Scratch, scratch, scratch. I’d tried ginger, vinegar, painkillers, and a swig of Mum’s rhubarb gin. It looked as if the demon underground knew about me and the Echo.

Maybe it wanted my attention? Or to spook and scare me off?

Listen to this,

Too good to miss.

According to residents who kindly called, the noise transformed overnight from a hum into a roar. Some said they couldn’t cope with it anymore and would move out unless the council took action.

Lisa remained unconvinced. “It’s a ruse. You better get back down to Ellison and interview someone else. I would come, but there’s this report to write.”

I’d always been a fair-weather cyclist. “It’s raining.”

She gave me a look that could easily have curdled lard cake. Dutifully, I fed the office cat and then cycled to Ellison.

I’d done my research and found out where the descendants of the two families Bill mentioned live—Pryce and Bradshaw. Maybe they’d shed light on Bill’s story? Explain the anomaly in the birth and death book?

I hated to leave Bertha unattended, but there was no choice. I padlocked her to the stand near the locks. Nosiness made me nip back into the area cordoned off by red tape. There was nobody about. Like last time, the pathway felt safe. Hah! It was what I thought.

Looky-looky. Behind the tape, the birds became silent, and the wind stilled. Uncanny. Unnatural. The whole place had an ecosystem all its own.

Anyways. It took a while to build the courage to walk to the edge of the hole. I kept looking behind and around, sure someone was watching. The hairs on my neck bristled worse than on a hedgehog. And the noise—I wouldn’t know how to describe it. Shuffling, and scratching, and flapping. Not loud exactly. Resonating inside my head. Was I imagining things?

One cautious step at a time, I inched closer to the maw of hell. The world stopped.

It began in my right ear. A voice. Roared and shouted and vibrated until I felt sick and weird and dizzy as a dandelion in the wind.

Listen to this,

Too good to miss.

What felt like a pair of hands suddenly shoved me from behind. I stumbled and almost went over the wall and down into the hole. My biking shoes saved my life—thank you, Bertha! One of the cleats got caught on the path.

By the time I scrambled back up and swivelled round, the track was empty and the noise gone. No footsteps. I’d imagined the whole thing.

Still, it was bloody freaky. I ran back onto the path, glad to feel wind and hear birds. Relieved not to be dead. I phoned Lisa and blabbed.

She was gratifyingly horrified and choked on a pickle. “The fuck! Someone pushed you? I’ll kill them. Get back to the office!”

I rather enjoyed the rage in her voice. It’d been a long time since anyone—especially a gorgeous, buff woman—jumped to my defence. “I imagined it. Nobody was there.”

“Mave!”

“I’m on the street now and there are loads of people about. Stop worrying.” Please don’t, I thought. Please don’t stop.

Eventually, I found the house listed as belonging to Mrs Pryce. A polite woman opened the door and asked me in. She gave me cherry cake and tea.

She hadn’t heard of the podcasts and was, indeed, a bargee. She insisted I use her proper name on the recording and gave me full permission to repeat the story she told me. (Thanks again, Mrs Pryce!)

Her aura was glowing and light. Translucent. Sunshine underneath clouds. Warmth behind laughter. I sensed kindness and honesty. Although the interview didn’t take long, she made me welcome.

“I don’t know much of the story about the buried body, but I shouldn’t think it’s anything to do with the noise,” she said. “More likely to be power grids. The workers have been poking about. It never does any good to go looking into the past.”

I wanted to put her at ease. “Just tell me your thoughts about the noise and the area. It’d be great!”

She sipped at a cup of tea. At first, she spoke haltingly, but she soon got into the swing.

“I come from a family of bargees, though I was born in this house. My dad left the barges when he was young and would only talk about it once he’d been to the pub. Not shame. Far from it. Those memories made him yearn for a life not possible these days.”

I knew exactly what she meant because some of my relatives were the same. We understood how hard it must’ve been to live on a flimsy barge. Didn’t stop us missing our roots and the community we once shared. “True. It’s a long time ago.”

“Nowadays, the kids stay in school, the way it should be. Back when my dad was a nipper, you went to work at fourteen and before, if you could get away with it. Each morning, him and his sister went to work in the town and then came back to the canal. You earned what money you could, and it kept your family in food. It’s how it was.”

She kept on flickering looks at me. I guessed she was building up to saying something important, and I tried to reassure her.

“You’re doing great! And the cake is gorgeous. What do you know about Bill? Have you heard of Robert and Lilly?”

She warmed and offered me more. “Help yourself. Bill? Never met him, though I’ve heard of Robert and Lilly. It happened long before my time. I don’t know much about them. In my opinion, you should stop wasting your time, my dear, and go and look for a different story. There’s no ghost or any such nonsense. Why do people always want more than the truth?”

Mouth filled with plump fruit, I probably would’ve agreed to anything. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

“Here. Take some cake with you. I’m sorry I haven’t got anything more. Would you like to see the ducks? There are some mandarins. Very beautiful.”

I left with a big chunk of cake. Who do you think ate it, along with more pickles? It wasn’t Penelope!

 

BLOG FOUR

Random fact of the day: Lisa bought a mop!

 

Hello, this is Mave Kitten reporting from the Echo. Once again, thank you from the bottom of my purple heart for listening in! According to our Lisa, we’ve had two hundred likes and have secured funding for another year. Two hundred people interested in what I say? Literally more people than I’ve spoken with my whole life. When I asked Lisa if two hundred was an exaggeration, she offered me a pickle. Say no more.

Listen to this,

Too good to miss.

More news. The council finally rang to say work on the tow path wasn’t going well. Expensive equipment had been stolen. They couldn’t find construction workers, and employment agencies wouldn’t help. One of the previous workers claimed he caught flu from the hole, and another insisted the noise caused genital warts.

Yes, I admit Lisa and I did have a little laugh at that one.

The council wanted to help Litten, but admitted they didn’t know what was causing the noise. They believed someone was tampering with their efforts.

Exciting, no?

Of course, after the ‘shove’ near the hole, Lisa demanded a full and vigorous health and safety discussion. It lasted all of five minutes and consisted mainly of some eying up and blushing from my end. Not sure our Lisa’s a blusher.

“Just be careful. You’re doing so well, Mauve Mave. When we did the interview, I knew you were the one,” she said.

“Aw,” I said, donut dipped in sugar.

A sizzling second commenced. She started vigorously dry mopping the floor, and I hammered random letters on the laptop. It was surprising I didn’t knock the keyboard into China.

“Why is everyone telling you to stop investigating? It’s suspicious, and I won’t have it. Never be told no,” Lisa finally said very firmly.

I enjoyed the rushy-roily sensations and tried not to melt into the cat. Penelope wouldn’t appreciate it and neither would Lisa, even though we’d bought a super mop with a rotating head.

“What do you mean?”

“Bill told you to stop poking, and so did Mrs Pryce. Even bird woman. Why? You’d think they might encourage you to get to the bottom of the noise. I can understand them not wanting the council round, but not my Mave. It’s not right.”

My Mave.

I hid the blush by crossing my eyes and humming like a bee. “Bzz. True. And it’s why I have to keep looking. Bzz. And for the extra funding.”

“We should tell the police about the shove. If not the army. Maybe the queen?” Lisa said.

I hid the blush by being horsey. “Neigh! I’ll give Her Majesty a ring, shall I? Neigh. Nobody was there. I imagined it. Stop worrying.” Really, don’t.

Lisa guffawed. “Why are you making that noise? You sound like my boiler.”

We reached a compromise whereby I’d call once I reached Ellison. Any sniff of trouble, Lisa would ring the police, or possibly the prime minister.

Once I’d stopped neighing, Lisa pretended to take notes. “Who are you interviewing today?”

“Thought I’d try Iris Bradshaw and the council workers. They’ve asked for an interview. Seems Ellison is dying to get in on the action.”

Lisa narrowed her eyes. “Sounds like shit to me. I don’t think you should go on your own. If you wait till tomorrow? I would come today, but the funders are due, and we can’t miss them.”

“What do you mean ‘it’s shit’? It’s a good thing people want us to investigate, isn’t it?”

Our Lisa wasn’t convinced. “It’s nice you think the best of people.”

It took a bit of flattery, but in the end, the boss agreed.

Bertha and I set off back to Ellison like Knight Rider without the leather, sex appeal, or hairdo. Still, with the wind behind us and the heat of one too many pickles, we were gorgeous, just the same.

Once in Ellison, I locked Bertha to the stand. I fought the urge to visit the canal path, even though council workers were there, and the towpath was crowded.

Iris Bradshaw’s house was easy to find and impressively massive, with a large garden and space for several cars. I wiped my hands clean before knocking.

She appeared suddenly, ushered me inside, and checked to see if the neighbours were watching. “I’ve been expecting you.”

I grinned like a scary doll. “Hello.”

She jumped and twitched. “You can go ahead and interview me, though I’ll not be of much use. I don’t know anything.”

I got out my recorder and hoped she’d calm down. “What are your thoughts about the noise?”

She pulled a face as sour as a lemon. “Awful. Here at the edge of the cul-de-sac, we don’t get it as bad as the other streets, but it’s started to bother us too.”

I tried to win her over with a show of empathy. “Too bad. Have you heard the rumours about ghosts?”

“No such thing. We all know what’s caused it. Pylons, up on the hill. They built them about four years ago. I expect it’s electricity. It builds and builds and then—bam! An explosion, and it’s us who have to suffer.”

I gulped and tried to hide my disappointment. “Pylons?”

She chuckled rather wickedly. “Sorry. If I were you, my ducks, I’d go on up the hill and have a look-see. The whole area hums with the electric. I suppose it gets underground. One of the council electricians told me what we hear is an outpouring of natural power such as thunder and lightning. It’s all it is, ducks. No need to listen to any silly gossip.”

I glanced aside at the rows of framed photos lining her shelves. “But what about your uncle Sidney?”

Iris shook her head as if to indicate she couldn’t hear me. “What?”

“Uncle,” I said.

“You want to know about my uncle? Well, all right, but I’ve got things to do, and my family are nothing to do with the noise. Anyone who says so needs a thick ear. Has anyone said so? Have they? What did they say? Nothing much? Good, then. I don’t want to have to go visiting with my poison.”

To my horror, I laughed. (Unprofessional, I know.) “No, you don’t.”

“I’ve heard from my grandma, Sidney was a cold man. She and her sister were round the house a lot as kids. All they got from him was shouting. Out at work all day, then down the pub every night. Not that his wife minded! She was glad when he wasn’t around, and it’s the truth.”

I became confused and interrupted. “Grandfather? I thought Sidney was your uncle? Eh? Which was it?”

Iris ignored me. “It was a shock when it all blew up. After what happened. Well. Things carried on. Life’s just so. Things were different, yes.”

“What happened to Sidney after the murder? Did he get into trouble with the police?”

“What? Did Sidney get in trouble for what he did to Robert and Lilly? Well, no, love. No, he didn’t. That I know of, anyway. How could he? He wasn’t seen after the night Robert went missing.”

I was so shocked; I dropped the recorder. “Shit.”

Iris giggled as well as a schoolgirl. “Oh, now. I can see you’re shocked. Have I spoken out of turn? I assumed someone had already told you. They haven’t? I should’ve shut my trap. I don’t know where he went, and I don’t care. It was a long time ago. Everyone assumed he’d joined up, like Robert.” Her eyes filled with tears.

I felt terrible and wished heartily I’d never applied for the bloody job at the Echo. “Are you all right, Iris? I shouldn’t have come round here stirring things up. I’m sorry.”

She smiled kindly. “It’s not you. Go and look at the pylons, ducks. And no need to be sad for Lilly and Robert. I tell you, they’re happy. True love won’t be told no.”

She pushed me out of the door and then locked it behind me. She was super nervous, and it rubbed off on me. Her aura was skittish and changeable, and it made me say stupid things. Was she trying to get rid of me? Or to keep me from finding out more?

 

BLOG FIVE

Random fact of the day: a hedgehog named Twinkletoes visits our garden every night!

 

Hello! This is Mave Kitten reporting for the Echo. I’m bowled over by your support. Our engagement figures have more than tripled. I know we started on a low, but still. I couldn’t be more pleased. Thank you for listening in and for all the encouraging emails.

To the woman who left a voicemail singing ‘Bat out of Hell’, all I can say is thank you. You have an awesome, gravelly voice! Better than Mr Kipling. On par with Count Dracula.

After Iris, I felt awful. Still do. This journalism lark isn’t a game. Real people are involved. Sometimes, journalists forget, even fake ones. If Iris is listening, I want to apologise and thank you for teaching me this important lesson, which I won’t forget. I don’t judge what people say or what happened. There’s enough sorrow in the world without me adding to it.

Dear listener, I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, the awful noise comes back. Scratching and scrabbling. Urgh! All around and inside me. When I asked my parents if they’d heard it, they said no. What can this mean? Am I losing the plot? Has the ‘ghost’ followed me home? There’s a constant ringing in my ears.

My belief is whatever has caused this phenomenon is inviting me to get to the bottom of it. Poking, if you like. Tapping into my antennae and actively demanding I go after it.

Lisa and I threw soft darts at the Velcro board. She won. “One hundred and eighty! Tell me about it?”

“What?”

“Being an empath. It’s what they call it, don’t they?”

I possessed no special powers. Though I wouldn’t have minded! Hearing our Lisa—the most straightforward person on this planet—say that word almost caused my purple hair to fall out. I was torn between wanting to agree and being worried I’d scare her off. Like always, the conundrum left me in a chaotic place Dad calls ‘Maveland’.

“Urgh. I don’t know if it’s exactly. But. Urgh. Mm.”

She raised her eyebrows at my articulate purple self, swivelled across on the one good chair we owned, with the grace of a heron. “Calm down. You’re all right, you.”

It was the best thing anyone had ever said to me, and not least because she said it. The Lisanator. Lisa Blonde. Like the beer—big, strong, and got a kick. Her words, not mine.

“Aw. Thanks,” I said. “So are you.”

Auras were exchanged. Just as swiftly, she swivelled back to her safe place while I tapped out a furious paragraph of incoherent nonsense.

Couldn’t I have asked her on a date? Pushed things along a little? And the answer was noooooooo. If things were going to happen, they would, according to Dad’s philosophy.

After a bit, Lisa opened the pickles and the exciting-awkward-brimming atmosphere disappeared.

“What’s clear is there’s a lot of covering up at Ellison,” Lisa said. “Robert being female. Sidney Bradshaw’s disappearance. Poor Iris’s blunders. I’d hazard a guess Robert and Lilly are still alive. But none of it explains the noise.”

I rubbed my ear. “We need an unbiased view. Today, I’ll talk to the council. They’ve left two more messages. I was so worn out after Iris I went straight home. Do you hear scratching?”

Lisa rubbed at her ear. “No scratching, but I’ve got an earache.”

She came to the bike stand and watched me attach my mirrors and check the lights. When she gave Bertha a loving pat, my heart lurched.

“Aw,” I said, donut-dipped-in-sugar stupid.

“Switch your phone on. Call me regularly.”

With windy sunshine and Lisa euphoria, my head cleared, and the noise faded. Being on Bertha was invigorating. By the time we reached Ellison, I was raring to go and even thought to have a peep down the hole.

I locked up and hurried towards the red tape and two workers. One dug while the other tapped at pipes. He laughed constantly. To tell you the truth, it was a bit annoying. They saw me coming and nudged each other.

“It’s the paparazzi. I’m Julie, and this is Tony,” the woman said.

The man laughed.

“Sorry about him,” Julie said.

But they were okay. (Dear listener, I know what you’re thinking and the answer is yes. I did indeed peer into the hole.) But with Julie and Tony around, nothing happened. And yet…my stupid heart started fluttering, and the bloody scrabbling came back. Even through Tony’s braying.

Scratching, always scratching.

“Can’t you hear it?” I asked.

“Rats,” Julie said. “Go ahead. Ask whatever you want.”

I brought out my recorder and tried not to wince at Tony, who insisted on doing handstands against the well. “Tell me what you think is the problem.”

Julie slapped Tony around the head until he stopped. “You can fuck off with your stories of ghosts. We haven’t seen nothing, though it’s dismal work down here. In my opinion, it’s all rubbish made up by locals wanting this stretch of the canal listed as a place of historical importance. Hasn’t anyone mentioned it? There’s a petition and group. If successful, a big pot of funding. They’re nasty buggers too. We think it’s down to them the other workers have refused to come back.”

I’d never seen or heard of the petition and couldn’t believe the hole was historically important. “Really?”

Julie nodded vigorously. “I’m an engineer of canals and dams. Could be a blockage which forces refuse and rubbish back up into the streams which feed in here from the river. In turn, it creates a lot of trouble for the fish and other river creatures.”

I tried to concentrate on Julie rather than Tony, who crammed two chocolate bars up his nostrils. “But why would it cause a noise?”

Julie handed me a map of the pipes and systems beneath the canal. “Why? Well, it could do. If, say, the underground pipes are blocked and interfering with the electricity. I’ve seen stranger things. This area hasn’t been excavated for hundreds of years.”

I was genuinely fascinated by the map and leaned across to look. “Wow.”

Julie pointed at lines and grids. “Can you see how the sewage and piping lead into a bowl? Looks like an amphitheatre, doesn’t it? It’s quite possible the noise comes from the fermenting effect. Bubbles and fizzes. Who knows? Maybe it’s what causes the noise. Imagine if you increased the volume of a glass of freshly poured lemonade. How loud would it be?”

I thought of volcanoes. “I don’t know. I was crap at science. I failed my exams three times.”

Julie pulled a face at Tony, who laughed at my admission. “It’ll be something technical, for sure. Intensive work, and the canal path will have to be closed off for months. The cost would be astronomical. It’s why locals want us gone.”

I thrust the recorder forward, ready for my killer question. “And you’ve no doubts?”

“None whatsoever. I’ve heard the rumours and stories. Ghosts and dungeons. Nothing new. You’d be surprised how many spooky tales we hear doing this job. People are territorial. In my opinion and experience, there’s nothing amiss in Ellison except some forceful residents. If I were you, I’d fuck off home and forget about it, love. Ghosts, my arse.”

At this point, the scrabbling and earache got so bad, I had to take painkillers.

 

BLOG SIX

Random fact of the day: the Echo senior is a cat called Penelope Sardine. She’s a semi-stray, and our Lisa’s scared of her.

 

Hello! This is Mave Kitten reporting for the Litten Echo. Thank you forever for the support. I’ve never been one of the in-crowd. So honestly, I’m bowled over.

To the man who sent a recording of The Four Seasons using nothing but a saucepan and wooden spoon, thank you. Talent such as yours makes our species the colourful thing it is. And yes, you should certainly try for The X Factor.

And to the lady who can make shadow vampires from her toes—so cool! Lisa and I have had a go, but yours are way better.

I’m in a quandary. After the last trip to the canal, I don’t know what to think. Am I and the residents of Ellison experiencing a group hallucination? Can the noise be explained away by engineering theories?

Lisa gazed longingly at her comfy chair, currently occupied by Penelope Sardine. “Totally to both.”

Her sureness was irritating, and I wasn’t going to stand for it. “There’s more to it. Like the bird woman and the contradictory warnings. Why would people try to scare me off unless they’re hiding something?”

Technology couldn’t be responsible for the dread which seized my heart every time I was near the hole. There was more to life than bricks and facts—fact. I tapped into things not visible, even when I didn’t want to. Some people drained me. My blood dripped away until only skin and bone were left. Why? My theory was they carried so much sadness it stole my own light.

I could sense from an email when the sender wasn’t bothered. How? I was born so. Intuition, or empath, or whatever.

Something horrible and sinister happened at the hole, and the repercussions or aftershocks were still being felt. While I’d been messing around with interviews and visits, an entity was creeping up and getting closer and closer. A presence from the darkness.

Why didn’t I say this to Lisa?

Because, dear listener, of the oldest reason in the book. I didn’t want her to think I was an oddball, or to stop her from looking at me in that way. Words such as ‘entity’ weren’t heard in Litten. She’d think me a drill bit.

Her Highness leapt suddenly and landed heavily on her swivel seat, which Penelope Sardine had vacated. “We’ll find out soon enough. Julie said they were close to the bottom of the hole. Who’s left to interview?”

I took a gulp before answering. “The bird woman.”

Lisa laughed and threw an aeroplane bird made from paper. “Sheryl Crow. Right. I’ll come with you. I could do with some exercise.”

“But yours is a motorbike. Hardly exercise,” I pointed out.

Lisa donned her leather trousers.

I’ll repeat it, shall I?

Lisa donned her leather trousers.

I dissolved into little, thrilled pieces.

Before we set off, Penelope Sardine stalked to the door and stood on guard. Wouldn’t let us leave. When Lisa tried to sneak past, our kitty let out a howl that could’ve woken the dead.

Listen to this,

Too good to miss.

It wasn’t typical Penelope behaviour. What she loved best was to bully Lisa off her chair and then snooze, with frequent snacks. She climbed in and out of the broken window at will, and didn’t take much notice of either of us.

I bent down and tried to stroke her. “What is it, puss? What are you trying to say? Are we in danger?”

“She’s an ungrateful beastie. Offer the pricey treats. Sack under the window,” Lisa said.

My eyebrows shot up into my purple hair and traversed my head. “The pricey ones? A whole sack? But you said?”

Lisa shrugged sheepishly and offered—threw—Penelope some treats. “No, I didn’t. You imagined it.”

When the cat grudgingly moved, we bolted through the door like the hounds of hell were after us.

“Bit odd,” I said.

Lisa argued the walk to the bike stand could be counted as exercise. I wasn’t about to argue. Not with those leather trousers.

“You set off. I’ll follow,” she said.

Once on Bertha, I put on a bit of a spurt. Showing off to the leathered hottie riding behind. Who wouldn’t?

Once at Ellison, we locked Bertha to Lisa’s motorbike.

“Aw,” I said, donut-sugar.

I led the boss down to the canal, feeling absurdly as though it belonged to me. With pride, I pointed out the landmarks. “And here’s where I interviewed Bill.”

We played around, saying which duck we most resembled. She chose a mallard and I, the mandarin. She tickled me under the chin with a branch, and I giggled like a kid’s toy. The sun came out, and some joggers said hello. We sat on a bench. Close to her, I was ten years younger than before. At least, it was how it seemed.

Sadly, the fun didn’t last. My headache soon started up, and the noise grew louder. Scratch, scratch, scratch. I leant against Lisa’s reassuringly sturdy shoulders and wished she’d put an arm around me. “Do you hear it? It’s louder down here. I wish I knew what it was.”

“Not a thing. Just a vague headache.”

From the corner of my eye, something green moved and then disappeared into the bushes lining the canal. I shaded my eyes with a hand. “Did you see her? It’s the woman and the bird.”

“Where?”

We rushed down the towpath in the direction of the hole, looking from left to right. Dense trees and bushes line the patch of canal, so it’s possible she could’ve slipped behind the foliage.

The woman was near the locks, on the other side of the water. With the sun behind, her green coat lit up like a lantern.

Mindful of the bird, I kept close to Lisa’s side. “Excuse me! Can we have a word!”

“Who’re you shouting at?” Lisa asked.

By the time we arrived at the barriers and crossed the bridge, the woman had vanished.

Frustrated, I kicked at the wall. “Bugger! We missed her.”

Lisa placed a hand on my forehead. “There’s nobody, Mauve Mave. You’ve a temperature. Are you coming down with something?”

Disappointed and confused, I pushed her hand away. “I saw her. Don’t you believe me?”

She didn’t answer. We trailed over to the hole, me scuffing at the pavement and Lisa bristling with concern or irritation. I was too headachy to know the difference.

Julie was packing up the barriers and placing them into crates. “You again? We’re off. Done all we can. There’s nothing here but imagination. Tomorrow, we’ll collect the last of the equipment.”

“But what about the noise? You can’t just leave,” I said.

Julie laughed. “What noise? I never heard no noise except Tony. You should get off now and investigate something real.”

Determined to show Lisa I hadn’t been making it all up, I led her over to the hole and made her look down. “Well? Don’t you feel it?”

Strangely enough, even I couldn’t sense anything. No fear or flapping, and no interviews. I suppose I should’ve been glad. The residents of Ellison certainly would be.

Lisa placed my arm firmly through hers, and we wandered back to the bikes. “It’s over. The end.”

She fiddled with my lights more than was necessary. Bike lights, not the other—more exciting—kind of lights. By then, I’d started to feel woozy. Sick, fuzzy, and misty. Not right. I lost a bit of time.

…

…

I’d never seen Lisa so worried. “Mave? Are you all right? Talk to me?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Do you want to? For a drink? Go. With me, that is. Are you well enough? Do you?” Lisa said in a rushed flurry. Blonde, like the beer—big, strong, and got a kick. Her words, not mine.

Dear listener, I did. I really, really wanted to. But my stomach was churning and my poor head was in bits.

About then, I threw up. The afternoon ended with a bottle of water and a slow pedal home, followed by Lisa on the motorbike. I got into bed, shaking and dizzy, and felt as if the flu had got me.

“Urgh. Must have been my lunch.”

I closed my eyes, and the scratching took over. Shut me in, locked up forever.

…

…

 

BLOG SEVEN

Random fact of the day: This is a live recording. Woohoo. Didn’t expect that, did you, dear listener? My head’s banging like a horse with a drum, and things are kind of fuzzy…my phone signal’s low.

 

I dunno…what’s going…it’s six o’clock, and I’m on the canal path. There’s enough light to make it to the hole. Just about.

…

Why am I here? A really good question. I got home and went to bed. Woke up again.

Had a genius idea!

How marvellous it would be to go down to Ellison and broadcast a live show.

And here I am.

Am I scared? I don’t know. I mean, it’s creepy and quiet, yeah. No different to the toilets in the King’s Arms really, ha ha.

I want to have one last look before they seal the hole. I’ll know I did everything I can. ‘Mauve Mave’s persistent’ is what nobody says.

My phone keeps going dead.

…

I’m walking along the path towards the hole. There’s no one about, which is odd. The water’s dark and still and looks solid as coal. Do fish sleep? Can you hear the owl? My signal’s in and out.

…

I’m not scared or alone. Bill’s here, just as I dreamt. Funny, that. I’d forgotten the dream until now. Standing by the oak tree. I remember now; it’s where he was in my dream.

He’s not pleased. “Whatever are you doing here? I don’t know, I’m sure. It’s not too late to go home. I’ll walk you to your lady. She’s a good one, and you’ll be safe with her.”

“Do you think so? I bought her with redundancy money. Everyone said she was a waste of money.”

“I don’t mean the bike.”

Dad said I’d never do it. Ride a bike. Not with my lack of coordination.

“Miss. You need to get home, now.”

I want to stop and talk. He’s a nice old fella even though he’s… My phone signal is low…

…

…

Dear listener, I’m at the hole. It’s quite dark. I won’t stay. A quick look, and then I’ll be gone.

I had to feel by touch. Okay, I’m at the low wall. It’s—

…

I’m going to hold my phone into the hole so you can hear what I can.

Do you hear? Scratch, scratch, scratch. So horrible! It’s loud and getting closer.

What’s at the bottom? I’m sure I’ve never seen it before. Is it a coat? I’m leaning over the wall and holding my phone inside to take a photo.

…

Argh! Help me!

…

Down.

…

It’s such a long way, and I’m fading in and out.

…

Shit! Dear listener. In the hole. I’ve gone down.

…

It’ll be all right. Be all right. I fell through a long way. To the bottom. There’s a false bottom, and I fell through. Twisted my ankle. It’s agony. I can’t… It’s so dark down here, and my phone’s almost gone. I fell through and then fell, and fell. I can’t move. I’m at the bottom, and there’s not much room. I’m squashed up into a ball, and my leg’s gone backwards.

…

The scratching. Flapping. Beating my ears; flapping, always flapping. Get away! Get away. A million of them flapping at my face. Been locked up so long, so long, and now they’re free.

…

I’m going to call Lisa if my phone…

…

There’s a door! It’s a door. I’ve kicked it backwards, and it collapsed. I think there’s a tunnel under the canal. Scratching! I can’t move, and it’s coming.

…

Argh! Get away from me, get away, get away, fuck you, get back.

…

A skeleton.

…

Help me. Help me. Help me.

…

…

Hands on my face. Kisses. She’s got ropes and a plastic thing.

“Blonde,” I say.

“Like the beer.”

…

…

 

BLOG EIGHT

Random fact of the day: fucking, fuck, fuck!

 

Lisa Blonde here, reporting for the Echo. From Mave’s chair because Penelope Sardine’s taken mine. Blonde, like the beer—big, strong, and got a kick. My words, not Mave’s.

I’ve left her in Litten Royal Hospital. She’ll be okay. A broken ankle and concussion. Poor Mave! The foulest night of my life. I never want to be so powerless again. I guess you’ve been as worried as me. I’m going to try to explain what happened, but I don’t promise to be as good as Mave. Or as gorgeous, and clever, and funny, and sweet. Nobody could.

When she called, I was already packing up my climbing equipment. Don’t ask me why. Fuck knows. My Mave needed me! I can’t explain any of it. Work it out for yourselves.

I rode the canal path on my bike faster than greased lightning. I don’t believe in ghosts, or premonitions. How can I explain a bird which kept flapping and hooting and wouldn’t let me stop? An owl. I think it was an owl. It led me to the hole, and then I called the team at Mountain Rescue, where I do voluntary work on the weekends.

Sorry. I know I’m not reporting very well.

I heard her calling my name. Not fireworks at Hyde Park or the Northern Lights. Mave Kitten calling for me. In my fifty-five years, I’ve never. What a waste.

Sorry. I’ll start again.

I didn’t wait for the rescue team, though it’s protocol. Just strapped up and climbed down. It was a long way and stank like the bowels of the earth. Of poison and death and fear. I kept going, driven by the thought Mave was alone.

I kept shouting. “I’m coming! Just wait. I’m coming!” I didn’t know if she heard or if she was alive because she’d gone silent.

Somehow, I got to the bottom. My Mave was a mess! She’d crawled into a tunnel and broken up this filthy, old board. When she said my name, every shitty thing that ever happened in life was worth it. Because it turned me into a tough bastard who’d got to her in time.

“Lisa Blonde. Like the beer—big, strong, and got a kick. Blonde and lovely,” she said.

Bless her; she was out of it. Pain, I expected. Fuck knows how we got back up the rope. I should’ve waited for the team! It took everything I’d got. Tears and sweat and desperation. Poor Mave was crying and screaming, and it broke me I couldn’t stop her pain.

“Hold on, Mave,” I kept saying. “Hold on.”

Something gave me strength. The climb should have been impossible for one person. I saw a woman in green, pushing us upwards.

By the time we reached the top, there were sirens and helpers and a stretcher. They whipped Mave off, and the police took me to the hospital. I don’t know what I told them, or if anything made sense.

Mave’s mum ushered me into a little room and made me tell her. I was too knackered to make stuff up. She listened and nodded and hugged me and said her own mum had been the same way.

“Mave’s a hearer. As was her granny.”

Heck!

 

BLOG NINE

Random fact of the day: Please donate any spare change you have to the voluntary Mountain Rescue team at Litten. Thanks!

 

Hello! This is Mave Kitten reporting for the Echo from a hospital bed. Thank you for the flowers and gifts and well wishes. I’m gobsmacked so many of you care. It makes me cry. I’m sorry I worried you. When I made the live broadcast, I honestly thought I’d be home in half an hour, and it would be the end.

I’m trying to work out all that’s happened. The council and the police are down at the canal path today, and the whole area has been cordoned off. Sorry residents, but it’s for the best. There’s a skeleton, after all. Whoever’s been in the hole all these years needs to be freed.

The doctor says I’ve got two visitors, so I’ll switch off now and do another broadcast later.

 

BLOG TEN

Random fact of the day: hospital gowns don’t cover your modesty!

 

Hello! This is Mave Kitten reporting for the Echo. I’m still in hospital and propped up with fluffy cushions and a huge, polar bear teddy. I’ve been inundated with flowers and prezzies, so thank you a million. I promise I’m getting better. Once I can get around on the crutches, it’ll be fine, and they’ll let me go home.

To the lady who sent a knitted purple skeleton, thank you. It’s the most adorable thing ever. And to the man who posted the dog tooth necklace, I really don’t know what to say. How cute.

Dear listener, you want to know about the noise. I think I’ve worked out what’s been happening, but you’ll have to bear with me. It’s not simple.

We’re dealing with at least two stories. Linked, of course, and yet separated by hundreds of years. The first, and most recent, is of Roberta and Lilly. They’ve given me full permission to broadcast what they know and have spoken with the police.

They came to visit me yesterday. Beautiful women. Funny, wise, and kind. They’ve adopted five children and showed me the photos. Grandchildren too.

I recognised them as soon as they came into my room. Lilly and Roberta. I’m so happy they’re alive and well. After being down the hole, I couldn’t have coped if Lilly had ended her days there.

To be honest, Lilly and Roberta are both so gorgeous, I could have talked with them all night. We chatted about things close to our hearts.

When Roberta asked me to record her, I didn’t think it was a good idea. “Are you sure?”

To ensure their safety and be respectful of the investigation, we’ve changed some details.

Roberta nodded and took Lilly’s hand. “Oh, yes. It’s stuck in my memory as if it happened yesterday. Sidney, my dad, chased us onto the towpath. We were terrified. I held Lilly’s hand tight, and she held mine. No angry man was going to ever come between us, especially not that old bastard.”

She stopped to kiss Lilly, and then, they both kissed me. So lovely!

“Go on,” Lilly said.

Roberta took a deep breath. “We ran. I remember thinking if we could get as far as Banton—the next town—we could find work and a place to stay. Mum had given me all the money she had, so I knew we’d be all right. The plan was to get established and then let Mum know so she could come and bring my sisters with her.”

“You must’ve been so scared,” I said.

“We were! Scared, but also determined. Young, and in love. What’s stronger? We ran and ran. Obviously, the bargees knew me, and when they saw us, I suppose they guessed the reasons why. Maybe they saw Sidney? He was a big bleeder with a red, puffed-up face and a filthy tongue. He was no father to me or my sisters.”

I sipped some water and cuddled the polar bear teddy. “He sounds horrible.”

Roberta nodded. “Some bargees joined in the chase. All the way to the locks. Honestly, I don’t know if what happened was planned. I don’t see how it could have been. No one knew what was going to happen. If we did, we’d still have done it. It’s the truth, and you can put me in prison for it for all I care.”

As Roberta spoke, the strength she had showed all those years ago was clear. Such horrors she and Lilly had faced. Yet, they hadn’t lost their decency or glow.

“There we were. Two girls running, and Sidney coming after. A lot of shouting and swearing, and the light was fading fast. It was the time of year when it seems it’s still summer, but winter’s fast on your heels.

“I didn’t know about the well. It was hidden by bushes and scrub. When Lilly’s dad thrust aside the branches and told us to hide behind the low wall, we did as he said.”

She paused to hug Lilly.

“It happened very quickly, like they say on the crime shows. One minute, me and Lilly were crouching down and trying not to breathe. The next, Sidney scrambled over the wall. He slipped and went down into the well. We shouted, but there was no answer. One of the bargees brought ladders and rope and climbed down. Sidney was dead.”

The room became silent and cool.

“It was an accident, and nobody was sorry. If Sidney had lived, he’d have made our lives a misery. Old bastard. Gah. All I felt was relief. I remember saying thank you, thank you, over and over.”

“I’m not surprised,” I muttered.

“The bargees attached a false floor so Sidney wouldn’t be found. They made sure to nail the lid of the well too. Later on, Mum spread a rumour Sidney and I—as Robert—joined the army. Nobody questioned it. Litten protected us with a web of lies. I’ll be forever grateful.”

“They were good to us,” Lilly said. “People are so unkind about bargees, and travellers. They showed us kindness and empathy.”

The three of us shared another lasting hug.

“Lilly and I moved to Banton. We were, and are, happy. Our community covered our tracks. Expect you’ve met my aunty who works at the museum? I know you interviewed Mrs Pryce and another aunty, Iris Bradshaw. Good people, all. Litten saved us, and that’s the truth. Rich or poor. It doesn’t matter. There are good people, and there are bad. Some won’t condone hate and bigotry, even when it’s the law. Sidney was a poor husband and a worse father. He got what he deserved.”

When Lilly and Roberta left the ward, I knew I’d met new friends I’d love forever.

 

BLOG ELEVEN

Random fact of the day: Lisa’s wearing the green wig!

 

Hello! This is Mave Kitten, reporting for the Echo from home. I’m overwhelmed by the gifts and flowers. I didn’t know it was possible to fit so many into one room. Thank you so much! Please give yourselves a sticky kiss from me, and know you’ve made me very happy.

The man who sent the eighty-year-old unopened tin of cat food—thank you. It’s truly amazing. Truly. ’Mazing.

The woman who sent the crate of pickles—you rock! Seriously. I’ve never seen our Lisa so happy.

Listen to this,

Too good to miss.

The best news of all is the noise has stopped. I expect you’ve heard by now the police have finished with their investigations and have exhumed the whole area. It’s been in the media, so I guess I’m allowed to report what we know and what we can only surmise. This will never be a case with solid conclusions. Maybe it’s a good thing? What do you think?

As always, I’ll lay the facts bare, and the rest is up to you. I’m happy the sound has gone and delighted Lilly and Roberta are safe and well. They’ve invited Lisa and me round for tea next week. I’m so excited!

The ending of the noise coincided with a few key events. The completion of the work at the pylon station. Maybe the problems were down to electricity, after all? Maybe the scratching and booming had nothing to do with the hole at Ellison or the ghost of Annie?

Ellison has been a crime scene, and I expect you’re sick of the fuss. Specialist police excavated the well. They found Sidney’s skeleton. I landed on it as I fell. Urgh. They dug into the passageway, revealed when I kicked away the board. Behind lay a tunnel which led all the way under the canal into a chamber.

This is where the going gets seriously sinister. Dear listener, make sure you’ve got a cat to snuggle and a strong hand to grip. I’ve got Lisa’s.

The chamber had long ago been padlocked shut. Inside, they found the ancient remains of a man. The walls were lined with scratch marks where he’d tried to claw his way out. Double urgh. Triple eee.

They also investigated the old rhyme about Annie, but couldn’t find much. It’s been too long. Records from the time are patchy. An old man came forward and showed workers a gravestone with the inscription:

Annie,

Daughter to John and Faith, and wife to Timothy. She loved birds and always liked her little game.

Julie was right. The tunnel eventually led to a bowl-shaped area. As she said, it amplified the sounds of fermentation and water. The specialists have cleared out the tunnels and swept the pipes and sewers.

Could it be the noise was a combination of factors? Faulty pylons on the hill, along with gigantic fermentations under the canal? Or an echo of the ghostly woman in green? Angry because workers had disturbed her husband, buried for bad behaviour. Maybe it wasn’t time to let him free, and she was warning me off? Perhaps she deemed him naughty enough as to warrant a few hundred more years locked under the canal?

Scratch, scratch.

Perhaps the spookiest thing of all is the first person I interviewed—Bill—seems to have vanished without a trace. Ellison residents have phoned and written by the sackful. Not one person knows who he is, though a few claim to have often seen the ghostly woman and the bird.

Is Bill the guardian of the canal? A friendly ghost tasked with protecting Lilly and Roberta, or anyone needing help? Is he linked with the woman and the bird? He certainly led me up the garden path, as Mum would say.

We might never know. If you’re listening, Bill, thank you for keeping Lilly and Roberta safe.

To the woman and the bird, I hope you find peace. If it’s what you want. Lisa insists you helped her to climb out and rescue me.

I leave the rest to you, dear listener. Draw your own conclusions, and have a strong brew.

One last thing. Lisa says we’ve had a call from a resident down Piner way. They want to know if I’ll take a look at the myth of the ice lady.

Over and out. Until next week.

Mave Kitten and Lisa Blonde.