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fritz
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It was four thirty-seven, AM. The subway train ground itself to a stop and the doors slid open to the station beyond. It was utterly empty. He stepped on to the cold, damp platform, shrugging off the disquiet screaming in his subconscious. Christopher could tell he was far down and strange, indescribable things happened deep in the tunnels. He’d seen things. The floor and walls were moist; coated in condensation and translucent brown slime. He walked slowly up old stairs, story after story interrupted by irregular landings leading to dimly lit passages, oppressive silence broken only by his foot steps.
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041113
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