After about a hundred feet, the square tunnel widens out and the concrete gives way to a rounded archway of brick and stone. It’d be kind of pretty, if it wasn’t so smelly.
“This is the older part of the sewer,” Jareth explains. “It’s going to split off in a bit and we’re going to take the right fork. It should be a little easier going from there. Or dryer, at the very least.”
“Sounds good to me.” I pick up the pace and soon come to the split he mentioned and take a right. The good news? Not only is it dryer, but the ceiling is higher, allowing me a chance to straighten up and give my aching back a break. The bad news? The absence of rushing water allows my ears to pick up not-so-distant squeaking noises. I try to push them out of my mind and press onward through a twisty tunnel that dead-ends at a wooden barricade. Jareth pulls out the crowbar again and rips the wooden planks away, revealing an entrance into what appears to be a subway tunnel.
I step through the gap, peering up and down the tracks. “Um, we’re not going to get run over by a train, are we?”
Jareth chuckles. “Don’t worry,” he assures me, tapping on one of the rails with his crowbar. “These particular tracks are no longer used.” And sure enough, upon closer examination, I can see heavy rust caked on the rails. No train has been through here in years. Okay, well, that’s something at least.
Less comforting? The wooden log ceiling that shakes violently every time a car drives by on the surface roads above. As we head down the tunnel, I shine my light on the extremely rotted-out support beams with growing concern. I mean, is that really all that’s keeping the heavy New York City traffic from crashing down into this underground world? I try to remind myself that these tunnels have been here for more than a hundred years—no need to think they’d pick today of all days to suddenly give way and collapse. But the thought isn’t as reassuring as it should be, especially after another car drives by and crumbling dirt rains down on my head.
We walk in silence, our journey sound tracked by an occasional dripping sound and a host of squeaking in the distance that I do my best to ignore. But though the tunnel is mostly dead empty, there are some strange signs of life poking out here and there. At one point we even pass a little bricked-in room just off the tracks, with a table and chairs and a couple of cobwebbed milk crates serving as furniture and a pile of ratty blankets made up as a bed. Fascinated, I abandon the tracks for a closer look, finding a notepad wedged between two stones. Someone’s diary? I try to imagine what it would be like to live down here in the darkness day in and day out, with only the rats to keep me company. The thought makes me sad, as does the diary entry I randomly flip to.
“I sink beneath the skin of the street with each step, walking closer and closer to my final death…”
“Put it down,” Jareth instructs, popping his head into the room. “We need to keep moving.”
Reluctantly, I set down the diary and follow Jareth farther down the subway tunnel, trying to imagine the person who would write such lyrical lines while trying to survive underneath the “skin” of the world. How did they get here? Why did they stay? Are they still living down here, somewhere? Are they happy or scared or a combination of both? I get so caught up in this fanciful idea of my homeless poet, I scarcely notice at first when we emerge from the dark tunnel into a large, arched underground subway station, the end of the line.
Like the rest of this secret world below, it’s crumbling and abandoned, but at the same time, it’s gorgeous beyond belief. A work of art, painted with colorful tiles, delicate stonework, and breathtaking sloping arches. Of course now the tiles are spray-painted with graffiti and dirty needles lie scattered by the stone benches on the platform. But I try my best to block out the modern ugliness and imagine the station as it once was—bustling with busy New York businessmen and fine ladies in fur coats and smart hats.
Jareth hops up onto the platform, then leans back down, hand outstretched, in order to give me a boost. I take his hand and scramble up, rubbing my aching thighs. We’ve been walking half the morning and after that bad night’s sleep and lack of blood, I’m worn out. Collapsing onto a nearby bench, I let out a contended sigh. Across the platform, my eyes catch sight of a large graffiti sign.
In December 1995, the forgotten men of the tunnel
received city housing. They’ve just begun to move.
“There used to be whole communities of people who lived down here in these abandoned tunnels,” Jareth explains. “But with new construction in the last twenty years, most of them were kicked out and their little makeshift shacks were destroyed.”
So my poet is probably gone for good. Leaving his or her journal behind. The thought makes me oddly sad.
“But not the vampires?” I query, remembering our mission.
“They’re a little harder to exterminate,” Jareth says with a wry grin, sitting down beside me. He consults his map for a moment, then nods. “I think our entry point may be up ahead,” he says. “Stay here and rest a moment. I’ll go check it out.”
“Um, you sure you don’t want company?” I ask, torn over the proposition. I mean, I’m thrilled to be able to rest for a minute or two, but I don’t relish the idea of hanging out with the squeaky creatures that live down here and might be thinking of vampire for lunch.
“Rayne, are you still seriously scared over a few little rats?” Jareth clucks. “What kind of vampire slayer are you anyway?”