1056 Mitton Street; a red-brick townhouse, one of many down this block. He walks past every day on his way to work, and every day for the last two weeks, that he has noticed (lost half the time in his phone) a baby has wailed from the basement. Today he stops, and turns back towards it.
Looking down into the grating, he sees nothing but darkness, but the baby cries on. He stands there a moment, looking around and at his phone, looking for answers, wondering about making a decision that will take him out of his daily routine. The baby cries on.
He sighs and steps up to the front door of the townhouse. He knocks to no avail, waiting five minutes before really banging on the door. No answer, yet the baby cries on. No answer, so he turns the doorknob. The door opens inwards, so he calls out down an empty hall. No answer, but the crying has stopped.
He steps inside, listening, but there's nothing to hear. Smells like there'd be nothing to hear: fetid - dusty, damp and musty. No-one's lived here for ages, he thinks. And then he steps quickly to the basement door, and he's just about to open it when the wailing begins again, causing his hand to freeze. That wailing, it ain't no baby, It ain't like nothing I've ever heard before.