https://caspercollege.cvlcollections.org/files/original/0a51a721df7992104e7a25c4d6175f76.pdf 1ca175392570df5cd35823faba884388 PDF Text Text Chi’ Ciiuui’f Matthew Orszulak Fiction A clock is ticking in the tunnel underneath the now abandoned Louis Street. They closed the road and the tunnel beneath after seven victims were found laying in a line like a barricade. They were in various states of decay, all of them with the time 2:27 carved into them. That was seven years ago, and the ticking can still be heard in the tunnel. On the night of May seventeenth, Jeremy Mason’s friends were playing truth or dare in Morrison park, a short hike away from Louis Street. The dare Jeremy received was simple. Step into the tunnel. Wait until 2:27 melted into 2:30. Emerge on the other side. It should have been an easy task. Jacob “Jackie” Stevenson couldn’t remember much about that night. Truth was, he was already four beers in by the time Emile dared Jeremy to go in Carver’s Tunnel. He shuddered at the thought of spending even a second down there. The only experience he’d had with it was as a child on the walking path, before everyone called it Carver’s tunnel. Before the newspaper headlines and candlelit vigils, the closure of the walking path and Louis Street. Before the lack of further funding let it fade into an infamous myth. Before all of that, at eleven years old, something in his soul knew to stay the hell away from the Louis Street Tunnel. But Emile moved here two years ago when the tunnel had already cemented itself as a graffiti-filled legend. So he dared Jeremy to spend a couple minutes in the tunnel. On other nights, Jackie would have been able to talk both his friends out of such a stupid idea, but tonight, Jeremy and Emile were both so alcoholgone there was no convincing them otherwise. So they marched down the walking path and up to the road. The night was so black it felt like moving through a dense fog. 122 �The Tunnel Even with their phone flashlights, the visible path in front of them faded away a few feet in front of them. The roadblocks stood like headstones. Next to them, in the overgrown weeds and grass, stood the ‘Sentinel Hills’ sign. The promise of high-income housing built within the year had long since been spray painted over, now only displaying a crude diagram of what Oakridge teenagers found funny They hopped the blocks, sneakers echoing. Louis Street seemed unnaturally quiet compared to the rest of the town. Even in the secluded Morrison park, cars could be heard on the far off highway. But here? It was as if every other sound sat hushed, listening to the ticking. It was the tunnel’s barely audible heartbeat, but the boys could hear its echo as they picked their way down the slope. It was the slow click of a grandfather clock, patiently waiting. It was the lazy flicking of a cat’s tail as it sat next to the mouse’s hole. Jackie’s hair stood on end as they reached the entrance on one side. “Come on guys, let’s just call this off,” Jackie said, but Emile shook his head. “You promised you would, Jeremy Are you really going to wuss out now?” he laughed. Jeremy shook his head. Jackie knew the deal was sealed as soon as Emile dared him, but still. He grabbed Jeremy’s arm, staring into his eyes. “Jeremy, this is stupid. Let’s just go, please,” he begged, but Jeremy shook him off. He peeled off his varsity jacket and pressed it into Jackie’s arms. “I’ll see you guys on the other side,” he said and stepped forward. His footfalls echoed like a final goodbye, the ticking starting to swallow them up as he got further in. Jackie thought a lot about that night in the days that followed. How he should have grabbed Jeremy’s hand, yanked him back, and ignored Emile’s taunts, how they should have left that goddamned tunnel alone. But instead, he watched his friend disappear around the curve of the tunnel. There were four different clocks Jackie heard that week, in the days that came after the night of May seventeenth. The interrogation room’s clock was too fast, too impatient. It was the 123 �The Tunnel white rabbit’s pocket watch, tick, tick, ticking as if it were trying to catch up with itself. The clock in the coroner’s office was too quiet and muffled. It had a solemn politeness to it, as if it knew whose office it resided in. As if it had seen the paperwork, the photographic evidence of what they’d found lying in the middle of Louis Street. The courtroom clock was utilitarian. It seemed impartial to the goings on, the lull in the court session. This was the closest to the tunnel clock, Jackie thought, but it was still too fast. Its slow march through the hearing. Even after he was acquitted, after the jury decided there wasn’t enough evidence to rule him guilty, he couldn’t escape the sound of the ticking in the Louis Street tunnel. That was punishment enough, regardless of whether or not he was guilty. Besides, everyone on that jury knew just as well as Jackie did about that tunnel. AU they could feel for the boy at the defense table was a solemn pity and a thankfulness it wasn’t them. Every night when he closed his eyes, he remembered that night. Stumbling up the slope and over Louis Street through the thick darkness. Emerging with Emile on the other side, finding that Jeremy hadn’t made it through yet. Thinking it was all a cruel joke, the moments sUding by, and their annoyance turning into panic. He and Emile had split up, Emile going into the tunnel to look for him, and Jackie headed back to Morrison park to see if Jeremy had retraced their footsteps. Nothing. EmUe wouldn’t answer his phone when Jackie called. Jackie made the brisk walk all the way back to that stupid tunnel by himself in the sUent, anticipatory darkness. He could hear the dull thud as he stumbled over something lying in the street. Turning his flashlight on them, seeing they were laying in a perfect line like a barricade. He could stiU hear the ticking. 124 � Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Print Magazine Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. 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All rights revert back to the author/artist after publication.</div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> </div> Date Created Date of creation of the resource. 2023 Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Matthew Orszulak Language A language of the resource ENG Is Part Of A related resource in which the described resource is physically or logically included. Expression Literary and Arts Magazine, CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01 WyCaC US. Casper College Archives and Special Collections. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CCA 04.ii.c.2022.01_Exp_2023_Prose_06 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource Searchable PDF Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Casper College