The Blackberry Tunnel

In the fall of 1996, I was sixteen, and my best friend, Danny, lived on a dead-end gravel road called Old Mill Lane, just outside of a small town in upstate New York. The nearest neighbor was half a mile away, and beyond that, the woods stretched for acres. Danny had just gotten a portable CD player, and we were obsessed with this new industrial metal band. We’d saved up our allowance to buy the latest album, which had a song with a driving beat and a sinister synth line. We wanted to listen to it in the perfect place, somewhere that matched the vibe.

Danny knew of a spot down by the old millrace, a narrow stream that fed from the abandoned mill pond. There was a fallen oak that spanned the water, and on the far bank, a natural tunnel formed by overgrown blackberry brambles. The tunnel curved up the hill, disappearing into the pines. It was like a green corridor, dim and tangled, with only a narrow path worn through the center. We took his boombox, my new CD, and a couple of beers we’d snuck from our dads.

We set up on the log, the boombox between us, and pressed play. The music thrummed through the air, mixing with the burble of the stream. Danny stood about six feet in front of me, facing the tunnel, twirling a stick he’d picked up like a martial artist. I sat back, soaking in the atmosphere. The song was building, and I felt a chill that wasn’t from the cool air. I glanced past Danny, down the tunnel, and saw something that made my blood freeze.

At the edge of where the brambles curved into darkness, there was a figure. It was impossibly tall and thin, jet black, as if cut from the night itself. It had no features, no face, just a smooth, matte head that tilted slightly as if listening. Its arms and legs were elongated, bent at odd angles, and it moved with a creeping, fluid motion, as if it were flowing over the ground. It was watching us, I was sure of it.

I wanted to shout, to warn Danny, but my throat closed. I watched as the thing took another step, then another, its long limbs folding and unfolding. Danny, oblivious, spun his stick, laughing at something. The music kicked into a heavier riff, and the bass seemed to pulse in time with my heart. The creature paused, as if the music had startled it, and then it continued its approach, its joints bending in ways that defied anatomy.

I finally croaked out Danny’s name. He turned, his smile fading as he saw my face. ‘What?’ he said. I pointed, but when he looked, there was nothing. The tunnel was empty, just shadows and thorns. ‘You’re seeing things,’ Danny said, but his voice was shaky. He turned back to the tunnel, and we both stared. The music played on, but we didn’t hear it. We watched the darkness, waiting.

Then, from deep within the brambles, we heard a rustling. It grew louder, and the brambles began to shake along the entire length of the tunnel. It was as if something was moving through them, fast, and it was coming toward us. Danny dropped his stick, and we both scrambled back, but the log was slick, and I stumbled, nearly falling into the water. The boombox toppled, the CD skipping, and the music devolved into a stuttering loop. The shaking stopped, and a profound silence descended.

We stood there, frozen, the only sound the water and our ragged breaths. Then, a sound began to emanate from the tunnel: a low, rhythmic humming, like a giant insect, but with a human quality. It was a melody, but wrong, dissonant. It seemed to be trying to replicate the song we had been playing, but it was twisted, stretched out, mournful. The hum grew louder as the creature emerged from the brambles, but this time, it was not just a silhouette. It had texture, like matted hair, and its limbs were thin as sticks, ending in claws that twitched. It opened a mouth that was a vertical slit, and the humming became a whisper, a hiss of words we couldn’t understand.

We ran. We crashed through the underbrush, not looking back, until we burst out onto the road, gasping. We never spoke of it again, and we never returned to the millrace. But sometimes, at night, I hear that hum, faint and far away, and I know it’s still down there, waiting, trying to learn our song. And I wonder if it ever gets it right, if it ever finds a way to draw us back. I’ve moved far away since then, but the fear lingers. I can’t listen to that album anymore. It’s in a drawer, locked away, because I’m afraid that if I hear the music, I’ll hear that hum behind it, and I’ll know it’s still coming.