It wasn’t a root ball. It wasn’t grease. It was a door.
“Mrs. Holloway,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “What’s directly under this house?” drain doctor wellington
“All good,” I said, packing up my gear. “Just an old blockage. I’ll send you the invoice.” It wasn’t a root ball
I fed the camera snake down the drain first. The screen on my monitor flickered to life—a green-tinted tunnel of old terracotta pipe, cracked in places, with roots dangling like cobwebs. I pushed the camera forward. Ten feet. Twenty. Thirty. ” I said