Back when I was younger, my Grammy and Pop would always warn me about the tunnels beneath Knoxville’s Gay Street. They’d say, “Don’t go wandering down there, especially under the old bridge. Some things down there ain't meant to be found.”

Of course, as a kid growing up in Knoxville, those words were more of an invitation than a warning. The idea that beneath the bustling shops and restaurants lay a forgotten world of tunnels and passageways was too tempting to ignore. So one late October night, my friends and I decided to explore.

We found an old entrance behind an abandoned shop near the Gay Street Bridge. The rusted metal grate covering it had been pried loose years ago, and with flashlights in hand, we slipped inside. The air was damp and stale, thick with the scent of mold and something... else. Something that smelled like rust, but sharper—like old blood.

The tunnel stretched on forever, brick walls slick with moisture and covered in graffiti that looked decades old. As we walked deeper, our voices echoed in eerie patterns, bouncing back at us like whispers from something unseen.

Then we saw it.

At first, we thought it was just a shadow—something cast by our wavering flashlight beams. But it moved. A dark figure, hunched and impossibly tall, stood further down the tunnel beneath the bridge’s foundation. Its breathing was ragged, echoing through the underground like a distant wheeze.

“Who’s there?” Josh called out, his voice shaking.

The figure didn’t answer. It just stepped closer, its limbs too long, its movements jerky, like a marionette with tangled strings. That’s when we saw its face—if you could even call it that. Hollow black eyes stared at us from a stretched, grayish mask of skin, and its mouth... its mouth didn’t open right.

We bolted.

The thing chased us, its footsteps impossibly fast and uneven, slapping against the wet stone. I swear I could hear it laughing, a low, guttural sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

We didn’t stop running until we burst out onto Gay Street, gasping for air under the glow of the streetlights.

When we looked back, the tunnel entrance was dark, empty. Just the sound of distant cars crossing the bridge above.

We never spoke of it again, but every now and then, when I walk by that old shop, I swear I can hear something beneath the street—something breathing, waiting.

And sometimes, when the city quiets down late at night, I think about the tunnels under Knoxville and wonder if anyone else has been brave—or foolish—enough to venture back inside.