The face in the grainy photograph had been withered with blue ink, the cheeks hollowed and a scar added, the brows darkened, the hair grown long and wild. In fact, the photo no longer looked like Sebastian Danner at all. It looked like something altogether different, something monstrous. Something from beyond the grave . . . or beyond a cellar wall.

6

Chapter Six

At a little past two in the morning, the Tunnel wasn’t nearly as busy as it had been earlier. Only a few cars remained, their drivers either those too drunk to make it home, or waiting each other out to see just how scary the Tunnel could be in the wee hours of the morn. Most were parked near the Isherwood end.

Headlights appeared in the mouth of the Tunnel and moved slowly past them. Most dismissed it as Charlie Bean on patrol again. A few noticed the yellow T-Bird, didn’t recognize it, and prepared themselves for some out-of-town trouble. But the car didn’t stop. It drove on into the blackness of the Tunnel, until it was swallowed up.

Only when it reached the far end did it cut its lights and ease itself into the brush alongside the road. The motor grumbled and went silent.

“Well, fuck me!” Fat Larry wheezed, looking around as he took another drag off the joint Doug Baugh had just passed him. “What the hell are we doing back out here?” He shivered. “I don’t like it. It’s goddamn spooky’s what it is.”

Tommy climbed out from behind the wheel and crawled atop the car’s hood, reclining against the windshield with his hands behind his head. “I don’t know, I kinda like it out here. Any reason why I shouldn’t? Huh?” In the front Doug just shrugged stupidly, drained his beer can, and crushed it against his forehead. “What about you, Fatso?”

Larry climbed out the back window and staggered threateningly around the side of the car. “Don’t call me fatso,” he warned.

“That’s right, Tommy,” Doug corrected, lighting another joint and grafting it to his lower lip. “He doesn’t like fatso. Now lard-ass, that he doesn’t mind, but fatso . . .”

“I don’t like that either.”

“Then why did you let Miller get away with it?”

“Well, I . . .” The fat kid mulled it over and kicked at the grass, then caught their questioning glares. “What, you think I’m scared of him? Bart Miller? Hell, that redheaded fart, I could feed him his ass for breakfast if I wanted to.”

“You just didn’t want to, is that it?”

Larry grated his teeth and looked as if smoke might puff from his ears. “Why don’t you get out of the goddamn car, Baugh, and I’ll show you how scared I am.”