The Boy in the Tunnel

Fall 1997, Chapter 9: Joanie

Joan Agnes McKittrick was born August 10, 1978, to Mark and Jessica McKittrick of Dublin, Georgia. She was named for her great-aunt, a colorful figure who—

Wait. You went back too far. This is isn't how you tell a story.

(snip)

She heard the creak of hinges and soft footfalls somewhere behind her. It was so dark in here, so easy to get turned around. She couldn't believe she let Audrey talk her into this. It was nonsense, total nerd shit, the kind of thing where the fun was in making up the rules, not actually playing.

But a game was a game. And Joanie didn't come to this school to lose games.

She advanced toward the interloper, as quietly as she could. It was harder than it should have been, in the ridiculous cloak made of hula skirts they forced her to wear. Audrey had left that part out of her little pitch. The grass swished with every step, broadcasting her presence throughout the tunnel.

"I can hear you," said a voice, maybe twenty feet ahead.

"I can hear you too," Joanie heard herself say. Fuck it, why not get in the spirit of things? "You're in my territory now." Something came to her, something weird that she could say. Something too weird to say, maybe. But they were here in the dark, alone. "I'm the thing you can't unsee."

"Spooky," said the voice, but it was farther away. Joanie could hear their footsteps gathering speed. She started running, no longer any need to be quiet. The grass swirled wildly around her. With her long strides, she'd be on them any second, and then she would have her Envoy to the outside world, one step closer to victory.

The strands of grass hit the wall first, like antennae, but Joanie received their message too late. Her knee slammed into a 2x4, and then her forehead, and then the darkness swallowed her up.

The player she was chasing heard the impact and stopped running. She turned around and felt her way through the dark until her foot hit Joanie's leg. She pulled her keychain out of her pocket and clicked on her little flashlight. In the weak yellow light, Joanie bent down and looked into her own face.

(snip)

The ancient gentleman turned the crystal knobs and threw open both doors with a flourish. "Miss Joanie McKittrick," he announced, and stepped to one side to await further instruction. Joanie stepped over the threshold into an office the size of her entire house. It was two stories tall, and bookshelves lined two walls, floor to ceiling. They were filled with small volumes bound in purple-dyed leather. A wheeled ladder waited on its rail. Joanie had always wanted one of those. To her left, a fire crackled in a hearth set in a wall covered in brocaded silk wallpaper in a royal purple so rich it was almost black, hung with portraits of various mustachioed gentlemen in sporting attire.

Directly across from the entrance, a massive oak desk sat in front of a bank of tall windows. The purple velvet curtains were drawn three-quarters of the way, allowing a thick shaft of light to fall on the desk and the voluminous man sitting in a brown leather chair behind it. Joanie was sure she'd been here before, but she couldn't remember the fat man's name.

"Miss McKittrick," he said, groaning as he rocked in the chair once, twice, and then heaved his body to its feet, steadying himself with a hand on the desk. He walked toward Joanie with a slight limp, the broad expanse of golden cloth that served as a waistcoat rising a bit with each step to reveal the pale flesh of his belly. In the ten steps it took to reach Joanie, a sheen rose on his forehead. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his coat and dabbed at it. He looked up at Joanie with an apologetic smile. "Is it time for the game? We were not expecting you."