Sealed with a Hiss: Kitten and Blonde, #1

Part One

Her Little Joke

Chapter One

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 Litten’s 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. 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, Lisa 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 hiss. 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 legend about a woman called Annie who locked her husband in and left him to die hundreds of years ago. Local kids sing a nursery rhyme about her:

Bury a husband, board him up.

All day long,

You’ll get

Good luck.

Nasty, no?

Before they built the canal, folks steered clear of the area because of scratching and hissing sounds and because of Annie’s legend. 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, leaned 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 smelled 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 leaned 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