She tugged on her wellingtons, the rubber stiff from disuse, and marched outside. The downpipe, a slender, white PVC column running from the gutter to a cracked concrete splash block, looked innocent enough. But when she peered up at the gutter, she saw it: a dark, wet dam of decomposing leaves, moss, and a single, inexplicably shiny tennis ball.
The final entry was a single, chilling sentence: It is not a blockage. It is a plug. I am pulling it out. downpipe blocked
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. She tugged on her wellingtons, the rubber stiff