The Boy in the Tunnel

Fall 1997, Chapter 29: Tim

Something was in the wall. Or someone. Tim could hear it scrabbling and scratching just behind his head, like a squirrel that had lost its way. He was trying to plow through all the Whitman he needed to read for Dade's class on Monday, but he found it pretty hard to celebrate or sing anybody with this thing clawing and scraping just a few inches away, through a couple of layers of drywall and insulation.

He'd been hearing it for a few days now, since he woke up Wednesday morning and failed to recognize Neal, his roommate. He'd been convinced that there was a stranger in the room. An interloper. Something had come over him. It was that feeling he got sometimes, in that space right before waking up, where dreams and reality blurred – the feeling that he'd woken up in the wrong place. Usually that feeling went away a half-second after he opened his eyes. But that morning it lingered. He freaked out and made a fool of himself, and now Dick chortled every time he saw him, and Neal wouldn't even look him in the eye. Which was fine, because Tim was afraid if he talked to Neal he'd just say the one thing that had been on his mind since Wednesday: You're not supposed to be in here.

The awkwardness between Tim and Neal left a vacuum of sound that the thing in the wall was eager to fill. Tim first head the scratching Wednesday night, after all of Neal's friends had left, and it was just the two of them, studying at their respective desks. The first scratches were tentative, probing. Tim at first thought maybe Neal was making the noise, but when he looked over at Neal, he was absorbed in a calculus textbook. Another few scratches. Neal didn't even look up.

The scratching returned the next night, accompanied by something larger and farther away, heavy thumps and scrapes like someone moving furniture around a bare apartment. Neal didn't seem to notice that either.

Now here he was, reading Walt Whitman in bed on the first real Friday night of his first semester in college. Neal was gone, Dick was gone, and he hadn't seen Chet all week. The only girl he'd met didn't want anything to do with him. He didn't know how to get in touch with Alex, even if he wanted to. "Song of Myself," indeed. Tim was alone, as alone as he had ever been, as alone as he had been when Christy shut her front door and left him there standing by his car in the still and silent cul-de-sac.

The only thing on this earth that wanted Tim's attention waited for him behind the wall.

Tim put down his Norton Anthology, the approximate size and weight of a cinder block, and pressed his ear against the wall. The thing seemed to recognize that Tim was listening to it. It made three long, deliberate scratches. Beckoning him.

Chet and Dick kept a toolbox in the breakfast nook on the loft. They wouldn't mind if Tim borrowed their hammer.

Just before he swung the hammer into the wall above his bed, Tim thought it might be a good idea to see if the Handbook had anything to say on the subject.

Should you ever find yourself in one of the secret corridors of Wintertree Hall, the most important thing to remember is this: Never make a left turn. You'll only wind up in a dead end. Stanley Wintertree insisted on the tunnels when he built his namesake hall, but they were intended for DUH staff to gain easy access to all parts of the building, not for students to sneak around in, so they were made as confusing as possible. Every July, all DUH staff attend a week-long training program whose sole purpose is to teach them every detail about the tunnels. You, I gather, have had no such training. You're not supposed to be in the tunnels, but if you're reading this, you've probably found your way in anyway. So please just remember: no left turns.

Tunnels behind the walls. It only made sense, what with the generally insane architecture of Wintertree. Tim had heard that 79A had even been a secret chamber at one point. He looked for any information on how to enter the tunnels, but the Handbook wasn't forthcoming on that point. The hammer would have to do. Tim spun it in its hand, feeling its weight.