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The Tunnel

When I was seven years old, my family moved to a quiet suburb near an Air Force base where my dad worked. We moved around a lot back then, rarely staying in the same place for longer than three years at a time. New neighbors, new school, new friends. Just as soon as we were getting used to living in one place and getting comfortable, we'd have to pack it all back up and move again to another town, another base. Each time was like a renewal or a cleansing, if you will. A new home was a clean slate. It didn't matter what enemies you made or what awful things you might have done because those things didn't follow you across state lines.

But I will tell you about one thing that has followed me. It followed me from that house on Sumac Street right up into my adult life. It stayed buried in my conscious, only to come out in nightmares and recurring memories to haunt me.

I remember that old house quite vividly. A lot of my memories from childhood seem faded and pocked with cavities but I still remember that old home with striking clarity. It was a small, single-story bungalow that was built sometime during the late 50's or early 60's. The architecture had a common conservative minimalist style while the interior design still reflected the gaudy colors of the 70's. Weird details, like the lurid shade of orange in the shower and the hideous avocado green tiles in the kitchen, even the cracked paint on the metal lattice of the outdoor garage, stand out in my mind.

What I also remember is the tunnel in the basement.

Just the sheer thought of it now fills me with a kind of dread that doesn't shake away easily. It's like waking up from a bad dream, where even if you can't remember what the dream was about, the residue it left behind is still present. That tunnel scared me so bad as a cub. I think that's why I remember it so well, even twenty years later.

There was a door in the kitchen that led straight down into the basement. To get down there, you had to walk halfway down the wooden steps to turn on the light which had a little pull chain. I was always afraid to go down in there alone, because even at the halfway point of the stairs it was almost too dark to see the chain. Worse still, the circuit breaker was down there. So if anything needed to be reset, someone had to venture down into the dark to turn it back on. I rarely volunteered.

The basement itself was fairly typical, expect for a large, metal door on the farthest end from the stairs, naturally in the darkest corner of the room. It looked like one of those doors you see on bank vaults or restaurant refrigerators. It was made from heavy, reinforced steel that looked like it could withstand a powerful blast. It had a lever that you pulled down to open the door, but no lock on it.

Behind the door was another flight of steps. But these stairs were made of metal and spiraled further down into the dark. Those stairs lead to the tunnel.

My dad got it in his head that he, my brother, and I should go down there and investigate where it went. Of course, I was reluctant to go in but at the same time I didn't want to be labeled a chicken. I knew my dad and brother well enough to know that they'd never let me live it down if I didn't go, so I went. Armed with a couple of high powered flashlights, we descended down into the abyss. My knees trembled as I followed close behind them, looking everywhere at once and shining my flashlight anywhere I could.

It was dark, damp, and cold down there. The air was stale and had the pungent smell of decay, the smell of rotting vegetables in a wet cellar. Blackish green mold grew along the cracks in the ancient brick and flecks of lead paint littered the floor with puddles of stagnant water. Every little sound that was made echoed down the length of the tunnel ahead, seeming to be louder than it actually was. Then again, every sense seemed more enhanced and sharpened with fear.

The tunnel itself wasn't very long, but dear God was it creepy. I remember looking down and seeing a small collection of little paw prints in faded colors. Perhaps they were put there by the cubs of the previous occupants to brighten and decorate the corridor or maybe to leave their mark to show that they had been there. But the sight of them unnerved me. They felt unnatural in a place like that and a strong chill ran up my spine. I got the feeling that maybe we weren't supposed to be down there.

At the end of the tunnel was another heavy metal door that opened to a fallout shelter that had been built sometime in the early 60's. The door was badly rusted with age and made a frighteningly animal-like squeal as my father used all his force to yank it open. The inside was what you'd expect from a bomb shelter that had been abandoned and neglected for decades. There were still cans and boxes of generic, military-grade food on the shelves, large vats of what used to be fresh drinking water, books and board games of a bygone era, and enough sleeping cots to suit a large family.

My father and brother were both absolutely fascinated by the discovery but all I wanted was to leave and get back to the comfort and safety of my bedroom. I had no choice but to explore the shelter with them and wait until they got bored enough to head back.

My brother found a bunch of gas masks that were hanging from coat hooks. He begged my dad to let him keep one but thankfully he said no. He said we ought to leave the place as we had found it, which I honestly felt was a better idea than "Hey, let's go explore that creepy underground tunnel in the basement!" I didn't like the looks of those masks. They hung like disembodied faces in a row, their wide, vacant and somehow baleful eyes watching me. I wanted to leave really badly.

Eventually we did leave, and oh what a beautiful feeling it was to be back in the land of the living. To fill my lungs with fresh air and to be in the light of day was like being reborn. I was giddy with relief.

I tried to go on with the rest of my life and pretend that the little expedition had never happened but I couldn't stop thinking about it. I couldn't stop thinking about that tunnel or the fallout shelter. There was something deeply unsettling about knowing it was there under my house, that about a hundred feet below where I laid my peaceful head at night was a dark place where the sun never shone. A foul, stagnant place where water dripped and the eyeless holes of those gas masks gazed off into the blackness.

Days went by. Then weeks, and then months, and I still couldn't stop thinking about that damned underground place. My seven year old mind decided that I needed to go back down there again in order to conquer my fears about the place. If there was anything that the movies and television shows taught me, it was that sometimes you had to face your fears and that would somehow magically make you a braver person. It was just something I had to do.

I remember standing in front of that huge metal door, trembling like an autumn leaf in the wind and asking myself if I really wanted to go through with this or not. I knew I could have gone back upstairs and watched cartoons from the comfort of the den but I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. I wanted to finally be rid of my fear of the dark, underground room and the tunnel and to know that there was nothing to be afraid of.

The door to the stairway was much easier to open than the one to the vault had been. Though it was massive and heavy, I was able to make it swing open with both paws and it seemed to glide easily on its hinges. I turned on my flashlight and looked inside. I could feel the earthy coldness escaping, chilling my fur as it drifted by like a limpid fog. It was a sweltering summer day outside but down there it felt like the coldest, dampest day in autumn.

I set a heavy can of paint in front of the door to hold it open. I also left the basement door open as well to let as much natural light in as possible. Of course, it wouldn't reach very far but to know it was there was somewhat comforting. With that done, I began my decent back down into the subterranean chamber.

I carefully descended the narrow spiral of steps, hanging tightly to the handrail with my right paw and clutching the flashlight in the other. My ears strained for every noise, mostly hearing my own shallow breathes and my timid footsteps. The trip down the stairs felt a lot longer than it did the first time, seeming to go on and on until finally I reached the bottom. I shined my light down the tunnel towards the door at the end, marked with the yellow and black fallout symbol of three triangles in a circle.

I wasn't exactly sure what I was going to do then. I didn't think I had the courage to make it that far, let alone all the way back to that haunted room at the end. I knew the whole purpose of my venture down there was to face my fears but part of me absolutely didn't want to go any further. I didn't want to see those gas masks again. Or those paw prints.

As I was making my mind up as to what my next move should be, the light grew fainter from above. It only took a moment for me to realize that the door was closing back. I heard the horrible metal groan from the door as I began dashing back up the stairs and the loud clack as it latched closed. The door had made the decision for me.

My mind was in a shrill state of panic. I scrambled up the narrow flight of stairs in the dark, barking my shins on the sharp, metal stairs and dropping my flashlight down to the concrete floor in the process. I could hear the flashlight crack as it hit the ground with enough force to break it open. I let out a shrill scream as my world was thrown into pitch-blackness. I was well done with this adventure.

I felt like I was in one of those dreams where you're trying to run but your legs feels sluggish and heavy. My feet kept slipping on those metal steps as I tried to basically sprint up the stairs and I had to keep pulling myself up by the handrail. The last thing I needed was to slip and fall all the way back down. I could have broken my neck or worse. I could have laid down there in the darkness for God knows how long and no one would have known.

I did reach the top eventually and I felt around the door for the handle. I felt only a momentary relief as I felt the cool lever in my paws and pushed it down. It didn't give. Panic started to rise again as I tried in vain to get the handle to budge. It was stuck. I was stuck.

I screamed and began beating the door with my paws. I screamed for my mother, my father, my Lord Jesus Christ Almighty to come down and open this door! I was home alone that afternoon. Mom had stepped out to get something from the store, dad was at work, and my brother was most likely at a friend's house. I lamented my foolish decision to go down there as I beat against the door in vain.

I stopped after a minute or two with my eyes brimmed with tears and my voice hoarse from screaming. My cries echoed off into the darkness, swallowed into the void.

Terrible visions of fantasy filled my mind as I hugged my knees and leaned against the door. I cried silently and prayed that someone would come find me. I didn't want to die down there. My mind could only think of the horrible fate that awaited me, starving to death while those masks watched.

I felt another icy pick of fear when I thought about those masks. I imagined them there, staring off into that void with their lifeless eyes, always watching. I wondered what it would be like if they just rose off their hooks and floated around the vault like balloons, maybe looking for a friend to join them. What if they sometimes floated through the tunnel?

I thought about them whispering to each other in hushed tones and giggling darkly. The more I thought about them, the more I imagined I could hear them. I don't know if it was my overly active imagination or the acoustics playing tricks on my ears but I thought I could hear voices whispering down the hallway. In my mind they became more and more real, voices whispering of an intruder in their midst.

Then I heard the shuffling.

I was back up on my feet and banging on the door. I knew something was down there with me. Something that wore those masks and made little paw prints on the walls of the tunnel. I could hear it coming down the tunnel, dragging its weight over the wet concrete floor. Soon it would reach the stairs. It could ascend while I pounded feverishly on the door and screamed for help. I was sure that if something touched the back of my neck just then, I would have gone insane.

I screamed louder and louder, beating and clawing at the door as my own echoes amplified to maddening levels. I could almost hear it behind me. Breathing.

The door swung open and I fell forward onto the dirty floor of the basement, right at the feet of my very confused and frightened mother. I was back in the beautiful, beautiful light. I scrambled up and clung to my mother, crying and babbling incoherently as I tried to get away from the door. My face was dirty and wet with tears and snot. My clothes were filthy and my jeans were torn and bloodied from where I'd hit them on the stairs. My throat felt hot and raw, my paws were bruised, and I'd broken a claw off on the door. But I was alive!

My mother had come home soon after I'd started my expedition and had been looking all over the house for me. If she hadn't come down to the basement at the right moment, she likely wouldn't have heard my pounding and screaming. I was very lucky. But to this day, I still don't know how that bucket could have moved from the door. Something had to have moved it to make it close all the way on me.

Needless to say, I never went back down into that basement. My family never challenged me about it, nor did they ever tease me about my over reaction. They seemed to understand by the haunted look in my face that I'd seen Hell and they were kind enough not to bring it up. We moved a year later, all the way across the United States and as far away as I could get from that vault. I started to sleep normally again and become a fully functioning person.

Though sometimes I still dream about those masks, those little paw prints, and what might have been down there with me in the dark.