He has long fingers, which he is wiggling at me enticingly. Putting my hand in his, I feel his heat against my skin. “You are as hot as a blast furnace, I swear.”
“That comes in handy. It’s always cold down here.” He leads me down the stairs and this is all feeling more and more like the start of a horror film. One where the heroine dies. Horribly.
“The bridge was built to connect Old Town to the University District.”
Our steps echo off the damp stone floor.He’s right about the cold. The chill seems to come from the stone walls, turning into wispy, crisp little breezes blowing past us.
“This bridge was considered a marvel of engineering and design in 1785.” He guides me through some odd twists and turns, corners of crumbling stone brushing me and snagging my sweater. We’re alone down here, which is a little surprising. I thought we’d run into a Ghost Tour crowd or two, but it’s just us.
His flashlight’s beam plays over some of the arches, rubble from the former inhabitants scattered over the floor, broken crockery, pieces of bent metal and heartrendingly, in one decrepit alcove, a battered little cloth doll. Torches are jammed into wall sconces, only half of them are lit. The tunnel’s ceiling dips and sags in places in a very claustrophobic way.
“At first,” he continues, “they sold space on the South Bridge to shopkeepers and business folk who set up stalls there. It was considered prime real estate to sell to the people passing over the bridge. Here’s where it gets interesting.”
I think the tour is over when we come up against a bricked-in entrance, but he makes a quick left into a dark opening I didn’t see before, stepping over a pile of stone and rubble. There’s another tunnel stretching out in front of us, as black as Satan’s jammies. No lights for the tourists here.
The beam of his flashlight plays over the walls, where dripping water carves little furrows in the rock. There are iron grates blocking several of the crumbling arches.
“They made more space by building floors and ceilings underneath the bridge, dark, airless chambers. At first, dozens of people set up business down here, too. Taverns, cobblers, smelters, and such.”
“And then?” I prompt, because this is all too historical and I want the creepy stuff.
“One of the fundamental design flaws of the bridge was that they dinnae waterproof it. We live in the dampest place on the planet and they dinnae waterproof this huge fecking bridge. Water leaked in everywhere and the businesses were forced to move out. Then, the desperately poor moved in, along with all the unsavory types.”
“Did your family start your business down here?” I smirk to make it clear that I’m joking, but his amber eyes flare.
“Cheeky. You’re going to pay for that.” Before I can ask how, exactly, he pulls me along.
“What the public dinnae know about were the tunnels dugafterall life died out under the bridge from the murders, suicide, and a ugly bout of cholera. In the 1800s, more tunnels were built for gun runners, booze, anything deemed illegal or heavily taxed. Nowthatcould have been where the MacTavish Mafia rose, at least in part.”
Brushing my fingers against the damp walls, I picture the lives of the people who lived here. The merchants, selling fancy flowers, expensive foods, and fine clothing on the bridge as the carriages rumbled by.
Then below, the taverns, the cobblers, andmetalworkers, the smaller folk trying to make a living. All their dreams evaporating, and leaving behind the dark, wet places for the poor and desperate trying to hide from those who preyed on them. Those lives, their echoes, embedded in this stone.
The tunnel’s stone floor is uneven, a haze of something gloomy hovering over our heads. Wallace’s flashlight is a little pool of light breaking through the murk like a trawler on a black sea.
I can feel it now, the sibilant hiss of something heard but unseen, shadows that stubbornly stay put, even when the light plays over them.
Some of them move with us.
“What happens now, in these secret tunnels?” I know we’ve walked away from the bridge itself, the noise from passing cars is almost gone, the silence settling over us like a blanket. The air smells dank, unused.
I shove down a scream as a spider the size of my face scuttles along the wall.
“Oh, there’s life down here,” he says, flicking the monstrous hellbeast away with a casual sweep of his hand. “A fighting ring operates in the biggest section of the tunnels, there’s a couple of taverns. More dark places to do dark deeds.”
His hand tightens on mine as it feels like we’rebeing pushed against the clammy stone wall. The air’s suddenly so cold, I can see our breath as he whispers, “The ghosts won’t harm ye.”
He’s huge, this man. Hard muscle and heat, so solid like a wall between me and the world. “No,” I whisper back. “It’s the living who want to hurt you.”
The tunnel ends at another steep set of stairs; I can see a sliver of light glowing under a door. It’s an iron one, a strong barrier between the subterranean and the surface.
Wallace pulls out an old-fashioned brass key and opens it, the door swinging out into an empty room. There’s a battered wooden door here, though there’s a new biometric lock panel set next to it, looking alien against the old rock wall. I can hear noise and laughter through the door.
“Where are we now?” I ask, looking around the room.
“This is one of the safe houses, so to speak,” he explains. “The tunnel ends here and the building’s stood for two hundred years. The crime families take turns keeping it in good shape.” He studies my face, “Are ye awright?.”
“Are you kidding?” I grin. “That was amazing! I want to do that again.”
