Downpipe Blocked -
The image on her screen made her sit back on her heels. It wasn't leaves. It wasn’t a tennis ball. Wedged in the bend of the pipe, glistening with slime, was a small, leather-bound notebook.
Eleanor had inherited 17 Maple Drive from her Aunt Margaret, a woman who had treated her bungalow like a ship’s captain treats a vessel. Every tile, every gutter, every whisper of the drainpipes had been accounted for. Eleanor, a graphic designer who preferred the clean logic of a screen to the messy physics of the real world, had let things slide. The autumn had been a spectacular riot of colour, and the giant sycamore tree in the front yard had surrendered every single one of its copper-coloured leaves directly onto the roof. downpipe blocked
Her first thought was vandalism . Her second was evidence . Her third, as she wrestled the pipe apart with a wrench, was a rising tide of irrational dread. The image on her screen made her sit back on her heels
Eleanor laughed, a sharp, hollow sound. It was a prank. Some neighbourhood kid. But the paper was old. The ink had the sepia tinge of time. She turned the page. Wedged in the bend of the pipe, glistening
The image on her screen made her sit back on her heels. It wasn't leaves. It wasn’t a tennis ball. Wedged in the bend of the pipe, glistening with slime, was a small, leather-bound notebook.
Eleanor had inherited 17 Maple Drive from her Aunt Margaret, a woman who had treated her bungalow like a ship’s captain treats a vessel. Every tile, every gutter, every whisper of the drainpipes had been accounted for. Eleanor, a graphic designer who preferred the clean logic of a screen to the messy physics of the real world, had let things slide. The autumn had been a spectacular riot of colour, and the giant sycamore tree in the front yard had surrendered every single one of its copper-coloured leaves directly onto the roof.
Her first thought was vandalism . Her second was evidence . Her third, as she wrestled the pipe apart with a wrench, was a rising tide of irrational dread.
Eleanor laughed, a sharp, hollow sound. It was a prank. Some neighbourhood kid. But the paper was old. The ink had the sepia tinge of time. She turned the page.