Wellington’s Mt Victoria Tunnel hums with a racket most days—car horns blaring, bouncing off the concrete like a mad band warming up. It’s been that way as long as anyone can recall, a habit as Welly as wind or a flat white from Customs. Some say it’s drivers having a laugh, others swear it’s to spook a ghost—Phyllis Symons, murdered back when the tunnel was carved out. At One Network Wellington Live, we’re digging into the yarn—how Arnold Downer built the thing, how Phyllis met her awful end, and why Jake from Newtown can’t figure out whether to beep or not as he rolls through. It’s a tale of noise, history, and a city that loves a good story.

Jake’s a Wellingtonian through and through—born in a creaky Thorndon villa, now renting a damp flat off Constable Street. He’s 28, codes apps at Catalyst IT, and drives a knackered Toyota Corolla that’s on its last legs. Every morning, he takes the Mt Vic Tunnel from Newtown to the CBD—623 metres of grey concrete linking Hataitai to town under the hill. And every morning, he’s stuck with the same question: to beep or not to beep? It’s not just a toot—it’s a Wellington ritual, tied to a tale that’s been kicking round since 1930. His mates at Sprig and Fern reckon it’s a bit of fun, but the walkers on the tunnel’s ramp glare like he’s a monster if he joins the chorus.

The tunnel’s a solid piece of work—built fast and tough by Arnold Downer, a no-nonsense engineer with a gift for big jobs. In December 1929, Downer kicked things off—chief of the Hansford and Mills crew, shouting orders as men hacked at the rock. It was Depression days—blokes in threadbare suits swapped desks for shovels, relief workers desperate for a dollar. Two teams dug from either end—Piries Street and Hataitai—meeting bang in the middle on May 31, 1930, at 2:30 p.m. Drills screamed, dust clogged the air, and 15 months later, October 1931, the tunnel opened—NZ$264,000 well spent. Downer’s name stuck—his firm, Downer New Zealand, grew into a Kiwi legend. Wellington loved it—no more trudging over the hill to town.

But there’s a dark patch in that concrete—Phyllis Symons. She was 17, a Hataitai lass with a quiet way, pregnant in 1930 when the tunnel was half-done. Her boyfriend, George Coats, 29, wasn’t keen—a widower with six kids already, shifting dirt on the tunnel’s spoil heaps as a relief worker. On a bleak July day, he lured her to the Hataitai earthworks—where the tunnel’s muck was piled. She told him about the baby, hoping for a promise. Instead, he smashed her head with a spade, buried her alive in the soil. Crowds watched as police and diggers clawed through tons of dirt—600 onlookers by Sunday, July 12, when they found her, face down, scarf round her head. Coats swung for it at Mt Crawford Jail, two months after the tunnel opened. Phyllis lies in Karori Cemetery, but her story echoes—some say her ghost does too.

That’s where the beeping starts. No one’s nailed down when it began—maybe the ‘60s, maybe sooner—but Wellingtonians toot as they drive through. Some reckon it’s a nod to Phyllis, a “sorry, love” for her rough go. Others say it’s to chase her ghost off—keep her from haunting the gloom. Jake’s heard both versions—at Moore Wilson’s, old-timers swear it’s respect; at Catalyst’s lunchroom, coders laugh it’s just the sound bouncing. The tunnel’s an echo chamber—horns go wild, a beep turning into a bellow. About 45,000 cars zip through daily—State Highway 1’s artery—and heaps join in, legal or not. Signs say “no honking,” but who’s checking?

Jake’s first tunnel run was at 17—new license, dad’s old Holden, palms sweaty on the wheel. A ute ahead blasted its horn—BEEP BEEP—and Jake grinned, hitting his own. It felt Kiwi, silly, alive. Now, 10 years later, he’s torn. Walking the tunnel’s ramp once—dodging scooters and stink—shifted his view. A truck’s air horn nearly blew his ears out, the blast pinging off the walls. “Crikey,” he muttered, head ringing. Cyclists and walkers loathe it—X posts call beepers “numpties,” reckon it’s 100 decibels, enough to wreck your ears in 10 minutes. Jake’s mate Sarah, a barista at Wellington Chocolate Factory, won’t walk it now—takes the long slog over Mt Vic instead.

Tuesday, March 18, 2025, Jake’s running late—coding dragged on, a glitch driving him up the wall. He’s knackered, Corolla rattling as he swings onto Ruahine Street, tunnel looming. It’s 7 p.m., headlights cutting the dusk—Wellington’s autumn nip settling in. He’s got Kārearea Rum in the boot—a mate’s birthday gift—and the radio’s on, RNZ droning about leaky pipes. The tunnel’s ahead—grey jaws, sodium lights flickering. A van in front beeps—short, snappy—and Jake’s hand hovers over the horn. To beep or not? He thinks of Downer—bloke built a wonder, didn’t sign up for this din. Then Phyllis—poor kid, buried in the dirt he drives over every day.

He’s halfway—300 metres in—when a memory strikes. Last Christmas, his niece, Mia, 6, rode shotgun. “Why’s everyone beeping, Uncle Jake?” she’d piped up, eyes big. He’d shrugged—“Old tale, love, about a girl who died here.” Mia’d frowned—“That’s sad. Shouldn’t we be quiet for her?” Jake’d paused—kid had a point. Now, in the tunnel’s clang, he hears her—soft, clear. A Prius behind him toots—BEEP BEEP BEEP—and he jolts. Ahead, a walker on the ramp—hoodie, headphones—glares through the murk. Jake’s hand drops. No beep tonight.

History’s thick in these walls. Downer’s tunnel was a godsend—slashed hours off trips to the CBD, gave jobs when pockets were bare. Papers roared—“Wellington’s Future!”—when it opened. Phyllis’s death tarnished it—Evening Post splashed her tragedy, crowds gawping at the spoil heap like it was a show. Coats was a tunnel grunt—shovelled the muck that became her tomb. Some reckon her spirit’s stuck—Wellington Paranormal spun a daft yarn about it, horns waking a ghost cop. Jake’s seen it—chuckled—but tonight, it’s not a laugh. The beeping feels weighty.

He’s out—Piries Street, city lights winking. The Corolla chugs past CentrePort, harbour shimmering. Jake’s mind’s on Phyllis—17, younger than him when she copped it. He’s no spook-chaser—James Gilberd from Strange Occurrences says there’s no proof she lingers—but the story clings. Mt Vic Historical Society reckons she’s why they beep, though it’s hazy. Jake pulls into Newtown, parks by Planet Spice—curry drifting out. His flat’s cold, damp as Kelburn, but he’s home. Over a beer, he scrolls X—posts about rates hikes, one catching him: “Quit beeping in Mt Vic—Phyllis deserves rest.”

Wednesday’s calmer—Jake’s early, tunnel run at 8 a.m. Traffic’s light—20,000 cars by noon, they say—but the beeps still ring. A truck ahead blasts—HOOOOONK—and Jake winces. He thinks of Downer—engineer’d be fuming at this noise. The tunnel’s a beaut—5 metres high, 623 long, concrete solid since ‘31. But Phyllis—her end was no beaut. Buried alive, spade to the head—Jake shivers. He’s past the ramp—sees a cyclist wobble, cursing a tooting SUV. His horn stays quiet. Mia’s right—silence fits.

At work, Catalyst’s humming—mates natter about weekend plans. “You beep in Mt Vic?” he asks Sarah over coffee from Customs. She snorts—“Nah, mate, walked it once—never again. Fumes are bad enough without horns.” Jake nods—45,000 cars spew exhaust daily, a smoggy nightmare for walkers. He’s leaning off beeping—feels like poking a ghost when she’s down. Phyllis didn’t ask for this—nor did Downer’s tunnel.

Thursday, he’s bold—ditches the Corolla, walks the ramp. It’s rough—scooters clutter the path, air’s heavy with diesel. A ute beeps—BEEEEEP—and Jake’s ears throb—100 decibels, no doubt. He gets it—acoustics are tops, a toot’s a bellow—but it’s harsh up close. Halfway, he stops—pictures 1930, Coats swinging that spade, Phyllis dropping. No wonder folks beep—respect or fear, it’s her patch. He’s out by 8:20, Hataitai air cleaner. Back home, he digs online—Downer’s legacy, Phyllis’s tale. Mt Vic Historical Society says no firm link to tooting, but Wellington loves a myth.

Friday, March 21, Jake’s driving again—deadline’s tight, no time to stroll. Tunnel’s packed—rush hour, horns alive. A van ahead—BEEP BEEP—then a truck—HOOOOONK. Jake’s hand twitches—he’s tempted, that old Kiwi itch. But he sees her—Phyllis, in his mind—17, scared, dirt piling on. Downer built a lifeline; Coats made it a grave. Jake’s out, no beep—first week silent. At Sprig and Fern, mates ask—“Ditched the tooting?” He shrugs—“Reckon Phyllis’d rather we pipe down, eh.” They laugh, but he’s set—Welly’s habit can change. One less horn, one more nod to a girl lost in the dark.