I hope you're going to invite me into the house. It's devilish cold to be lingering out here.
No? Have it your own way.
Let's conclude our business as quickly as possible. Do you have it?
- Mr. Blakeney... - Oh Mr. Blakeney.
I appeal to you.
Think what you're doing.
- Have compassion, for God's sake. - Compassion's for those who can afford it.
- Then think of the man you're destroying. - Oh, I am. That's why I'm smiling.
- Sir Richard Morton is... - Is a pimp and a wastrel.
Not that dissimilar to me.
He is a philanthropist who is making a huge difference to women.
It's his money that's doing that, and you want it as much as me.
I haven't come here to argue with you, Mr. Merrick, I've come to be paid.
- If you'll do so, that'll be an end to it. - Very well.
- It seems you leave me with no choice. - Quite.
Bury him in the garden. Not too near the house.
- Stop! Stop! - What's up?
- Bones down there. - Bloody hell, what's that?
- Want some wine? - Please.
- You're not working? - Memo from Queen Street.
Don't they ever sleep?
What happened to you last night, on that subject? Another nightmare?
- I'm sorry. Did I wake you up? - No.
I haven't been myself since they dug up that thing.
- Had any press people onto you? - No.
Some woman called. If she tries to speak to you, don't.
I don't want some bloody stupid tabloid headline about skeletons in the closet.
Right.
- You know I never wanted that dog. - I know you didn't want a dog.
But it wasn't him. I was only out of the room for a few minutes.
It was piping hot. He couldn't have eaten it in that time.
Then... then who was it?
He's never done it before.
- I'm sorry. - Hey, it doesn't matter.
Er... don't...
Not tonight, er...
I've got a big day tomorrow.
- Oh, that's interesting. - What?
You were talking about our friend in the garden.
The skeleton.
The police have pulled their finger out and identified him. He has a name.
- Go on. - George James Blakeney.
- How do they know that? - It was inscribed on his watch.
George Blakeney. I know that name.
Bones date back to the 19th century. Cause of death was... sword wound in the back.
- You mean he was murdered. - I didn't say that.
- Buried in the garden - It could have been a duel.
- Stabbed in the back? - Well, it's got nothing to do with us, thank God.
Oh, they say we can have the watch back. Gold-plated gentleman's pocket watch.
- It's on our land, so it's our property. - I don't want it.
Here we are.
George Blakeney. He was a poet, 19th century.
Not well known. We put him in "Closing Lines".
- What was that? - An anthology of last works.
- What a grim idea. - Hm. It didn't sell.
His last poem was called "To A Child". Here.
"Evil can make good Let none forget
"Out of my love I see my future set
"She who is mine now gives to me Eternal hope in this, your infancy."
1882.
They actually dug him up in your garden?
- Laying pipes. - Liz? Ella?
Spring conference.
We launch with the new Christian Taylor. Ella, figures on the last one?
- We're still doing 2,000 a week. - We're also fine for cookery.
Sarah's doing a separate presentation on children's, which leaves biography. Liz?
Just gone to galleys.
- Did you come up with a new title? - No. Matthew's happy with the old one.
- What's that? - "The Other Realm".
Sounds like a bad film.
- Talk to him. - There's no point.
We could call it "200 Pages Of Crap" and it would still sell.
- I see you're as enthusiastic as ever. - You won, but doesn't mean I have to like it.
- Is there a cover? - Yes. Art department's first thoughts.
Sorry. That's for you, David...
What do you think? That's my favourite...
Please! No!
No!
Please...
Please... no!
- Daniel. - Please, no!
Daniel.
There's someone downstairs.
No, there isn't.
It's OK, Toby. On your bed. Go on.
Come on. On your bed, Toby.
Good boy.
Toby?
Jean, can I...? Sorry. Can I just get that? Thank you. Sorry.
- That dog's got to go. - I told you, it wasn't Toby.
Of course it's the bloody dog, Lizzie. What else could it be? Christ, I'll miss my train.
- When are you back? - Er... Wednesday.
- I don't really want to be here on my own. - Well, then, go to your mother's.
I don't know. You're being absurd.
Thank you.
Sir...
There's a good boy.
Good boy. Don't make a mess.
- I've finished, Mrs. Morton. - Oh. Thank you, Jean.
- Now, I won't be in next week. - That's right. Have a nice holiday.
- Oh, thanks. - Thank you.
OK, bye.
- Hello. - Hello.
I must say, I was... I was a little surprised to get your call.
- Come in. - No, why don't we go for a walk round?
- You needed my help, but not with the book. - No. The book's fine.
I saw the artwork. "Britain's most talked-about medium".
- Was that your line? - Marketing.
You know what they actually say?
They say I'm full of shit.
- Is that what you think? - No.
- We've never really talked about my work. - That's not true.
You make suggestions, changes. I like working with you. But you don't believe a word of it.
- Why do you think I asked you here? - Because...
This is where they found it.
Yes.
Why don't you tell me what you want me to do?
It began when the skeleton was unearthed. George Blakeney.
Since then, I...
Oh, I can't explain it, really.
I... I've been having nightmares. I haven't had nightmares since I was a little girl.
And...
there have been noises.
Like a... like a woman crying.
And scratching sounds.
- Coming from where? - Upstairs. And there's more.
Things have been... disappearing from the kitchen.
And last night the fridge emptied itself onto the floor.
Daniel is convinced it was Toby.
Our dog.
But... that's not possible. I'd have heard him.
- How long have you lived here? - Two years.
It was in Daniel's family generations ago.
Are you sure the voice you heard was... was a woman?
- The skeleton was male. - Yes. I'm sure.
Show me where the noises came from.
It seems so unlikely. The haunted bathroom.
It probably wasn't a bathroom in those days.
They didn't really pipe water up to the second floor then.
I'd guess it was a... another bedroom.
Not even a window.
- Mind taking this panel off? - No. Why?
I'd just like to see what's underneath, that's all.
Oh! Don't close it, it sticks.
That's Sir Richard Morton. Daniel's ancestor.
- What do you know about him? - He was very rich.
He was a politician. He founded a hospital. St. Alba's.
So. You asked for my help.
Let's start with the obvious. You're living in a haunted house, but don't believe in ghosts.
- I never said that. - I can tell you find the idea ridiculous.
- That's not true. - It's all right. I'm used to it.
Look. Let me put this as simply as I can.
There was a murder here and the murder has left a memory.
Here, in the house. It's everywhere.
It's in the air, it's in the brickwork. I can feel it and so can you.
There's a sense of a sort of... unforgotten evil.
You said in your book that a haunted house is trying to tell you something.
Hm. So you're only getting an echo.
You have to understand what happened then to deal with it now.
So what do you think we should do?
It was his house. I suggest we start with him.
The hospital was founded in 1882, one of the first women's hospitals.
- It was founded by a Richard Morton? - He paid for it. Or at least, put in £10,000.
Which was a small fortune back then. But the founder was the first director.
A man called Charles Merrick.
After Morton disappeared, he raised the rest by public subscription.
- Disappeared? - Well, he went to France or something.
He, erm... had a political career which ended and he resigned from the hospital board.
- A ward's named after him. - The Morton Ward.
Psychiatric.
It's marvellous, Merrick. Three wards up and running.
And the laundry and dining room.
- We're painting, not distempering. - Oh, yes?
- More hygienic. - Ah.
Oh! Look here, Sir Richard. Smell these.
Ah.
Erm... Oh. Eucalyptus?
Well, they're filled with pine shavings soaked in eucalyptus oil.
- An idea we imported from the Continent. - To help the women sleep?
No, again, it is a question of hygiene.
I hope to start soon on the maternity wards. I suppose it'll mean another subscription.
I hope you're not looking at me. Are you, Merrick?
Well, if you could get us started...
Oh, yes.
One day someone will realise that health should not be left to subscription.
- Where do you find these young women? - The nurses?
They come from the training hospitals. The Nightingale schools.
- And what are you doing, my dear? - Oh!
- I'm sorry, sir, you startled me. - Allow me.
- You're a nurse here? - A probationer.
- They let me help out on the wards. - Do they indeed?
- And how old are you? - I'm 23, sir.
- I just spent a year at St. Thomas'. - Oh, yes. I know it well.
Well. There you are.
- No damage done, I hope. - No, sir.
- Er... Sir Richard? - Just a minute, Merrick.
What made you want to become a nurse?
It was my mother, sir. My late mother.
She always said that a sick body is a soul close to salvation.
She said it was God's work.
Tell me your name.
Eloise Duvall.
She was his second wife. His first wife died two years before.
- It was quite surprising. - Why?
Well, she was young enough to be his daughter, but there was also the class difference.
A probationer in the 19th century would have been lower middle-class.
- Not suitable for a baronet. - A real fairy story?
Mm. Not really. She died a short while later.
- Oh? What of? - Illness. Erm...
- Smallpox or tuberculosis. These should tell you. - Thanks. Thank you, that's great.
- Your husband is Daniel Morton, isn't he? - Yes.
- A minister? - No. He's just an adviser.
- Hm. Griffin's Pharmaceuticals. - Yes, that's his company.
He must find it hard, balancing selling products to hospitals
and advising on how they should be run.
He's, er... put his commercial interests on hold.
- Really? - Mm. Thank you. Goodbye.
Bye.
Sir Richard Morton travelled to Paris in 1882,
visiting the École Normale Supérieure and meeting Pasteur.
- Ah. - Mm.
When he returned five weeks later, his second wife Eloise was dead from typhoid.
He didn't marry again.
Eloise must have been ill already when he left.
What makes you say that?
Five weeks...
Why didn't he come back sooner?
- You're getting obsessive about all this. - Will you come back if I get ill?
- It's two nights. - I wish you weren't going.
It's important.
- Why? - 1,000 people a year go to France for treatment.
Which they can't get here.
Funny, isn't it? Your great-grandfather meeting Louis Pasteur, trying to keep up with the French,
and 120 years later you're doing the same thing.
- Are you trying to start an argument? - No.
I... just don't want to be left here alone.
- Put the alarm on. - It's not that.
You're not still going on about...
- I never thought you were so credulous. - I know what I saw.
- What? Food disappeared - It wasn't like that.
We've lived in this house for two years without anything ever...
- And I wish you hadn't had that man here. - What man?
- The... medium, or whatever. - His name is Matthew Hopkins.
- Why shouldn't I invite him? I'm his editor. - That's not why he was here.
If it gets about we had a psychic in, it might be very embarrassing.
- For who? - For me.
- Daniel. - Ah, you wait and see.
I bet he won't be slow tipping a wink to the press.
These people aren't exactly publicity-shy.
Matthew's not like that. God.
- You're not telling me you believe in him? - Why not?
You told me a hundred times his book was a pile of shit, which it is.
- Did I? - You know very well.
Well, at least he's trying to help.
There's my car.
Back on Tuesday.
Try to call.
It was her.
- Eloise Duvall? - I'm sure of it.
She looked so ill.
Typhoid. That was what killed her.
- What did Daniel say? - He doesn't know. I... I...
I called him at the Pavillon de la Reine in Paris, where he always stays, but he never checked in.
I don't know where he is.
Oh, I... I hate this house.
I hated it from the first moment I saw it, but Daniel wouldn't listen.
He... read about Tye Hall and it was going for a song.
I'm... I'm sorry, Matthew.
It's all right.
We found it with some junk in the attic. It somehow got left behind.
- Must be worth something. - A few thousand.
Daniel had it valued, but he won't sell it. It looks like him.
Think he'd mind if we took it down?
Why?
I don't know. There's something about the way it's been painted I don't understand.
That's Sir Richard Morton and that... that must be the garden of this house, as it was then.
Why isn't he standing in the middle?
- What do you want to do? - I'd like to get it X-rayed.
Just a feeling.
What you said last time, you were right.
I've always been a bit sceptical about the supernatural.
Look, do you really think I wanted to grow up as a cross between Uri Geller and Doris Stokes?
- Well, why do you do it? - 'Cause I have to.
You've read the book.
By the time I was eight years old I was having premonitions.
There was my sister's death, my mother...
I was sensitive, you know, so...
In the end, it seemed sensible to make a living out of it. At least it pays well, right?
Yes.
Listen, do you want to, erm... go in, and I'll get someone to come and strip that door?
- What else do you know about Eloise Duvall? - Eloise?
Eloise?
Catch me!
- There you are! - You're out of breath!
- Oh, so I'm too old for chasing pretty women? - Maybe you should only chase ugly ones.
- Maybe they're the ones I'm hiding from. - Maybe they're the ones who chase you.
Mm...
This is such a beautiful place. I used to dream of being mistress in a house like this.
- Ambitious. - No.
Not ambition. It was more of a dream, really. Make-believe.
- Did you live here with your wife? - Yes.
- Emily? - That was her name.
- Was she very beautiful? - Oh, yes. Until she became ill.
Died of cholera two years ago. That's how I became involved in the hospital.
You must miss her very much.
Let's not talk of her, my dear.
I miss her less when you are here.
- Is that true? - Very much so.
Merrick's here.
- What's the matter? - Nothing.
- Tell me. - I don't think Mr. Merrick likes me very much.
- Nonsense. - It's true. He wants me to leave the hospital.
Well, of course you'll leave the hospital. I have other plans for you.
So don't you worry about Mr. Merrick. He's after me money, so he'll do as I say.
Now, I have to go in.
You wait for me here.
I have a little surprise for you.
- Morning, Merrick. - Sir Richard.
Shall we get started?
- Indeed, sir. - Have you brought the plans?
Morton. Here you are. Eloise Morton. This is her death certificate.
I read she died of typhoid. Is that true?
That's what it says here. Typhoid fever. 10 October 1882.
It's signed "Charles Merrick".
He would have filled out the medical certificate as the doctor in attendance.
- What about this one? - That's the informant.
- I'm sorry? - An informant arranges the funeral.
In most cases, it would be the deceased's husband.
Not in this case. It's signed George Blakeney.
- See you later, Rose. - All right, duck.
Merrick was director of St. Alba's Hospital. What was he doing signing the death certificate?
He'd probably had medical training.
Perhaps he, er... perhaps he'd looked after Eloise when she was ill... Thank you.
- What about Blakeney as...? - Informant. I know.
That's strange, isn't it? How did he know Eloise?
Unless... they were having an affair.
They'd only been married a few weeks, you know.
She was a working-class girl marrying into wealth.
It seems a bit early to be having an affair.
When I rang you, I thought...
- You thought what? - Oh, I don't know.
Go on.
Thank you.
You'd... be able to talk to her.
You can't talk to ghosts.
Ghosts don't listen.
But you can follow them.
You can follow their energy and go where it leads you.
- And where is Eloise leading you? - She's led me to you.
- Good evening, madam. - We should order.
May I?
Ah, champagne for me and my friend.
- You're not being serious. - We're celebrating.
Sir Richard, please. Listen to me.
You can't marry this girl.
Why not?
You hardly know anything about her.
I know she is from a respectable family in Crystal Palace. Her father was a joiner.
Came to London and lived in humble but clean lodgings, and worked to become a nurse.
- Have you investigated her? - Of course!
I just worry that...
some of your... visits to London,
some of your... nocturnal outings could have made you the target for any unscrupulous...
Nocturnal outings? What are you talking about?
- Sir Richard... - Anyway, the wedding's arranged.
- When? - Two weeks.
- At the house? - Yes.
It'll be a quiet affair, followed by a small dinner party. You're invited.
Oh, for heaven's sake, man, cheer up. You'll turn the champagne sour.
Come along and meet my girl!
- I've been waiting for you. - You comfortable
As a matter of fact, I am.
It's all right for some
I've been very industrious, if you want to know. I've written a poem.
- A whole poem? Well, that'll get us far. - It's for you.
The days are long gone when you could get round me with a poem.
- You in a bad mood? - Not really.
He's asked me to marry him.
My betrothal ring. Solid gold with a big fat diamond. Used to belong to his wife.
- Why didn't you tell me? - I just did.
- He wants you to marry him? - A fortnight from now.
You... are wonderful.
This alone must be worth £100, £200... Look at the size of that!
- Hands off! You're not selling it. - Yet.
I think he'd notice if I wasn't wearing it.
What did I tell you? Morton's notorious.
Snuffling with his snout up the petticoats of Piccadilly.
Didn't work with the other two, did it?
I said it was only a matter of time before we'd hook one.
I feel sorry for him. He's just a lonely old man with a dead wife.
Lonely rich man...
with his brains in his breeches.
- When will you go to him? - On the wedding night.
He won't lay a hand on you before then.
Oh, I wouldn't say that. He's frisky as a goat.
Then you can tell him to keep his distance...
until he's seen me.
- And then? - And then...
...we take him for everything he's got.
It's dated 1882 and the style is right,
but the garden has been added later, by another hand.
- How can you tell? - From the direction of the brush strokes.
- How much later was it added? - Hard to say without pigment analysis.
But at a guess, I'd say quite a few years. You only have to look at the colours.
What about the garden? What's underneath there, d'you think?
I'll show you.
There's often more to see beneath the surface.
- It's what I thought. - This was a double portrait.
- What are those lines across the face? - A tear in the canvas.
Damn you!
It must have been deliberate. Someone's run a knife right through it.
- And then? - It's been repaired, restored and overpainted.
My guess is someone simply found it and decided to rehang it.
- But without Eloise. - Yes. I wonder why.
She's very pretty.
There you are. Looks like a wild animal's got trapped in here. Look at these marks.
- Watch out for this lock as well. - It's been like that for years.
- Hello, Lizzie? Hello? - Up here.
- What did you do to it? - Long story.
- How was Paris? And the Pavillon? - Same as ever.
You know I wasn't there.
- I called. - Ah.
So?
- Are you going to tell me? - Tell you what?
Where you were. Who you were with.
- What makes you think I was with anyone? - Come on, Daniel.
Let's be grown-up about this.
Are you seeing someone?
Yes.
- Sorry. - Are you?
Sorry it happened like this.
I was going to tell you.
I want a divorce.
- Just like that? - No, this has been going on for...
- I meant to tell you five or six times, but... - You were scared, you didn't want to hurt me.
- Why didn't you tell me, Daniel? - I wasn't sure.
- But you are now. - No.
- We're not happy together. - That's true.
- Who is it, by the way? - You really want to know?
Is it anyone I know?
- Karen. - God.
That bitch.
Queen Street.
- Well... this is very New Labour, I must say - Oh, God...
Lizzie, she works for me! It just happened!
- Where's the picture? - Is that all you're worried about?
- What I'll take - I hoped we could do this amicably.
- And quietly - Oh, Lizzie.
- Sell your house. I never wanted to live here. - I intend to.
- Really? - It's been valued at £2 million.
- I thought you loved it here. - Karen doesn't.
- She's been here?! - Once. And no, we didn't go upstairs.
- She said it had an atmosphere. - Well, she's right there.
Lizzie, look, I know you won't believe me, but I'm genuinely sorry.
I'm sorry to hurt you.
I'm sorry that our marriage...
- We're lucky we don't have children. - Does Karen mind not having a family?
- We plan to adopt. - Mm, you've been planning a lot.
- I haven't unpacked yet. I might as well go. - Where?
She has a flat.
This is my fault, not yours.
You know, I had more or less reached the same conclusion myself.
We will talk, won't we? We don't have to do this just through solicitors.
I'll be in touch.
"Evil can make good Let none forget
"Out of my love I see my future set
"She who is mine now gives to me
"Eternal hope in this... your infancy."
Of course.
- Hello? - Liz, it's me. It's Matthew.
- Look, are you alone? - Yes.
I think I may have found out what happened 120 years ago.
Once again you take us all by surprise, Richard. This all happened very quickly.
Well, at my age, you have to learn to grasp the horse by the neck.
- Er... I understand you're a poet. - I have been called that.
A friend of Lady Morton?
- Oh, I'm much more than that. - Oh?
- We're cousins. - Ah.
Toast! Ladies and gentlemen, a toast!
To my lovely young bride.
She once told me it was her dream to be mistress of a house such as this
and a man such as myself.
- Hello. - Hello.
Lady Eloise Morton.
Lady Eloise Morton!
- Could I have a word, Sir Richard? - What?
- In private. - Er... excuse me, ladies and gentlemen.
This had better be damn good.
I felt it the first time I came here.
Murder... hanging in the air. It's still part of the house.
- You said you know what happened. - Yeah.
It was the poem that gave it to me. The last poem Blakeney wrote.
"To A Child".
Look, erm... I really don't know where to start.
It's, erm...
Eloise Duvall... she was a fake.
Well... if she wasn't a nurse, then what was she?
A liar. A thief. A prostitute.
- A woman of the worst kind. - Damn you!
She only joined St. Alba's in order to meet you.
Everything else she has told you about herself and her family is a lie!
- You investigated her? - I hardly needed to.
She and her partner are notorious.
- Her partner? - George Blakeney.
He calls himself a poet, but he is a criminal, a rogue. A man of the lowest sort.
- The two of them are married. - What?
- I'm sorry. - Married?
Yes, sir.
- Well, then... then my marriage to her is... - Is invalid.
You may as well know that she is also expecting his child.
A child?
Then she's not a...
But why?
What does she want?
I rather think you'll want to speak to me.
Blackmail.
Blackmail, embezzlement, fraud.
Blakeney had spent two years in jail back in the 1870s.
- And when the news got out about Eloise... - Morton would have been a laughing-stock.
- He'd have had to retire from public life. - So they wanted him to pay them off.
Mm-hm. Well, that must have been the idea.
But in the end... he chose not to.
I don't know what to do.
I'll be a laughing-stock! The whole town will be laughing at me!
I'll pay 'em. Eh? All they want is money. I'll pay 'em.
Pay them now, they'll come back for more.
Bitch. She lied to me. Everything she said was a lie!
She stinks of the sewers, of Rotten Row!
If you hadn't visited those places, this might never have happened.
How dare you?
You can't pay them. Maybe you could silence them.
- How? - There is a way.
Well, tell me. Please, Merrick, I don't know what to do!
- You have to trust me. - Of course I trust you! What do you plan?
Merrick.
Sir Richard, there are people I know. People I've met through the hospital.
- What are you suggesting? - You were planning a visit to Paris.
She was going to come with me.
Go alone.
You're going to...?
No.
No, you're a doctor. The hospital, everything you do is... is to save life.
The hospital is all I care about.
All I care about.
The new subscription, the new wing that's still to be built...
A scandal like this could add years to the time it takes to complete.
But... would you?
Could you seriously... kill them?
Sometimes surgery has to be cruel.
- They killed Blakeney? - Yes.
I suppose they lured him here for a meeting.
I haven't come here to argue, I've come to be paid.
It seems you leave me with no choice.
No!
No... no!
No!
Damn you!
- What did they do? - Eloise had to be killed too.
But in such a way that nobody would know it had happened. Blakeney could just disappear.
But whatever else she was,
Eloise was, to the world, Sir Richard Morton's wife.
- So it wasn't typhoid. - No.
No... no!
Please, no! No!
No... no!
No!
No! Sir!
Sir! Let me out! Please!
Typhoid, starvation...
The end result would have looked much the same if anyone had examined her.
There'd have been no suspicion. Merrick signed the death certificate.
- What about Blakeney's signature? - It could have been anyone. A friend of Merrick.
All the things that happened... it was always food.
The biscuits, lamb... The fridge.
God, it must have been horrible.
Locked away, dying like that.
Horrible, yeah. And painful.
How... how did you find out about her and Blakeney?
- How did you know it was his child? - It was the poem.
The poem you gave me.
Look.
"Evil can make good". That was his sort of acknowledgement that they were criminals.
"Out of my love I see my future set". His wife was giving him a child.
It's an acrostic. If you read the first letter of each line, it spells out her name.
Eloise.
- How are you? - I'm all right.
- You don't mind meeting here? - I'd rather not have.
- It seemed like neutral territory. - I think it's anything but.
No, the house is sold.
I can see that.
- Who is it? - A Saudi Arabian.
- It's an investment. Not even moving in. - That's good.
You see? Told you I wouldn't muck you around.
You did that when you married me. You didn't have to get me here for this.
- I wanted to see you. - Why?
Erm... the... the papers. Couple of things you left behind.
- Things haven't worked out with Karen. - Oh?
- I'm not asking anything... - I'm seeing someone.
Oh?
Matthew. You remember? I published his book.
- The psychic? - Look, I... I'm...
- I don't want to talk about this. - Don't go...
Can't offer you a drink. There's no electricity, no water.
- I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry. - But I'm not, Daniel.
I'm really not.
I'm going to be out of London for a month.
- Can I call you when I get back? - No. You can't.
- How was it? - Fine.
He wanted to prove to himself he wasn't a complete shit.
- Did he? - Not to me.
I hate this house.
- Shall we go? - Yeah.
Sir?
Hello?
Anyone there?
Jesus! Who is that?
Let me out!
Who is in there?
Let me out of here!
Please, whoever it is, let me out!
This isn't a joke!
All right. Whoever's out there, it's not funny any more. Now let me out of here!
Lizzie? Lizzie? Is that you?
Who's there?
Jesus! Will you let me out of here?
For God's sake!
Let me out of here!
Help!
Help.!
Anyone there?
Let me out!
Is anyone there?
Help!