When Alice Fredenham decided to audition for Britain’s Got Talent, she didn’t tell a soul.
Not her friends, not her parents, not even her therapist.
The decision came to her late one night, at 2:17 a.m., when she was sitting in the dark with her headphones on, listening to an old vinyl recording of My Funny Valentine. The voice that filled her ears—raw, smoky, devastatingly beautiful—wasn’t hers, but she knew every breath, every tremor by heart.
It was her mother’s.
Catherine Fredenham. Jazz singer. Darling of London’s late-night lounges in the ’80s. And the woman who vanished one winter’s night when Alice was only seven.
They’d found her mother’s car two days later, parked near the river, the driver’s door open, the interior soaked in rain. No note. No witnesses. Just absence.
Alice had spent most of her life haunted by two things: her mother’s disappearance… and that voice.
Now, standing backstage at the biggest talent show in Britain, she wasn’t sure which ghost terrified her more.
“Next up—Alice Fredenham,” called the stage manager.
The name echoed across the dark corridor, and her knees nearly gave out.
When she finally stepped onto the bright stage, the world became noise and glare. Four judges stared at her, blinking beneath the lights. The crowd stretched into shadow, thousands of unseen faces.
Simon Cowell looked bored. “What’s your name, darling?”
“Alice,” she managed. Her voice was small, fragile.
“And what do you do for a living?”
“I’m… I’m a beauty therapist.”
He smiled faintly, polite but uninterested. “And why are you here?”
Alice hesitated. “To… to find my voice.”
The audience chuckled softly, but Simon nodded. “Alright then. Let’s hear it.”
The music began—soft piano, brushed drums.
My Funny Valentine.
Of course it was. The same song her mother used to hum while brushing her hair before bed.
Alice closed her eyes. The first note trembled out—uncertain, almost whispered. Then another. The quiver steadied, found strength.
Her voice deepened, melted into velvet.
The theater fell silent.
Simon’s eyes widened slightly. Amanda Holden leaned forward, her hand over her mouth. Even the camera operators froze.
It wasn’t just good. It was uncanny.
The phrasing, the tone, the deep ache behind every word—it was Catherine Fredenham’s voice. Note for note. Breath for breath.
When the song ended, the audience erupted.
Simon’s lips parted, as if trying to speak, but no words came. Then, suddenly—he laughed. A short, disbelieving sound. “That… that was extraordinary,” he said, wiping at his eye. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
The other judges followed, showering her with praise.
But as they spoke, Alice barely heard them. She was staring at the wings of the stage.
Because for the briefest second, just before the last note faded, she had seen something.
A shadow. A figure standing in the corner.
A woman—tall, slender, dressed in black. Watching.
And smiling.
That night, Alice couldn’t sleep.
Her phone exploded with messages, her social media flooded with strangers calling her “the new Amy Winehouse,” “the voice of the century.” Her audition clip went viral before dawn.
But every time she watched the replay, she heard it—the subtle vibrato, the inflection, the phrasing that wasn’t hers.
It was her mother.
The more she replayed it, the more convinced she became.
At 3:04 a.m., her phone rang. A private number.
She almost didn’t answer.
“Hello?”
Static. Then—a low, familiar hum.
My Funny Valentine… Sweet comic Valentine…
Alice froze.
“Who is this?”
The voice stopped. A breath. Then a whisper:
“You found me, darling.”
The line went dead.
The next morning, Alice drove. She didn’t know where she was going until she realized—her hands had steered her toward the river. The same road where they’d found her mother’s car twenty years ago.
The air smelled of moss and cold metal. She parked by the crumbling bridge and stepped out, the gravel crunching under her shoes.
A figure stood ahead, by the railing. Long black coat. Dark hair streaked with silver.
“Catherine?” she whispered.
The woman turned.
Her mother’s face—older, thinner, but unmistakable. The same eyes. The same smile that used to lull Alice to sleep.
“You shouldn’t have sung that song,” the woman said softly.
Alice’s heart pounded. “It’s you. You’re alive.”
Her mother nodded once. “In a way.”
“I don’t understand—”
Catherine stepped closer, her voice calm, almost tender. “That song isn’t just music, Alice. It’s a binding. A memory given form. When you sang it on that stage, you opened the door I used to keep closed.”
“A door?” Alice repeated, trembling.
Her mother tilted her head. “Between you and me. Between what is and what was. You brought me back.”
The wind rose, whipping through the trees. Alice’s hair whipped across her face.
Catherine’s eyes glinted. “But every voice that’s borrowed must be returned.”
“What do you mean?”
Her mother smiled sadly. “You can’t keep it, darling. That voice. That gift. It’s mine. You called it home… and now I have to take it back.”
Alice stumbled backward. “No. You’re not real.”
But the air shimmered. The sound of humming—soft, warm, relentless—filled her ears.
The world blurred at the edges.
Catherine reached out, touching Alice’s throat gently with her fingertips. “Don’t fight it. You did beautifully.”
Alice gasped as something cold and electric surged through her body. The last thing she heard was her mother’s voice echoing inside her skull:
“Now rest, my funny Valentine.”
The next day, Britain’s Got Talent producers found Alice Fredenham sitting by the riverbank. Alive. Conscious.
But silent.
She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t hum. Not even a whisper.
Doctors called it “psychogenic aphonia”—voice loss caused by trauma.
Simon Cowell visited her once, bringing flowers. He told reporters it was “tragic, really—she had the voice of an angel.”
What no one noticed was the woman standing quietly behind the cameras that day, her hair tied neatly, her lips painted red.
She smiled as Simon spoke. Then she turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Later that week, a new video surfaced online—a smoky jazz club, candlelit stage.
A woman singing My Funny Valentine.
The voice?
Flawless. Haunting. Familiar.
The username? CatherineFredenhamOfficial.