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Mrs. Holloway clutched my arm. “Is it fixed?”

The Drain Doctor still practices in Wellington. Still unclogs sinks and clears storm drains. But I’ve added a new clause to my contract: Not responsible for anything found behind sealed doors below the waterline. drain doctor wellington

“Thank God,” she whispered. “It started this morning. Just a gurgle in the laundry tub. Then… the smell.” Still unclogs sinks and clears storm drains

I nodded. I know the smells. The rotten-egg sulfur of a dry trap. The boggy stench of a blocked main. But as I followed her down the wooden steps to the basement, I caught a whiff of something else. Something old. Metallic. Like blood mixed with wet clay. “It started this morning

“When did you last have the drains inspected?” I asked, kneeling down.

I’ve been the Drain Doctor for twelve years. I’ve pulled out tree roots that looked like alien octopi, retrieved a wedding ring from a grease trap, and once found a live possum living happily in a storm drain under Courtenay Place. But something about Mrs. Holloway’s voice made me grab the heavy-duty auger—the one I call “The Exorcist”—instead of the standard snake.

“Drain Doctor Wellington,” I said, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder as I pulled a clean shirt over my head. “Leo speaking.”