Handwritten note on top of page:This is who we were.

From “Journey Into the Abyss: My Escapade Under Atlantic Avenue”

New York Press, June 1, 2015

By Randy Carter

I felt safe assuming that climbing down a manhole in the middle of Atlantic Avenue at midnight would be the strangest situation I’d find myself in last week—but I was dead wrong. I never imagined that I’d be screaming for my life, struggling to hold onto my sanity like a whimpering, neurasthenic milquetoast from a Lovecraft horrorpulp.

I just wanted an on-the-job interview with the elusive Kevin Starkly, paranormal investigator and blogger of the weird, and I thought following him underground as he explored the Atlantic Avenue Tunnel, the oldest and most haunted subway tunnel in the world, left shuttered and abandoned for over 120 years, would be no big deal. Well, it seemed like a good idea at thetime.

After all, people loved exploring the Atlantic Avenue Tunnel. Thousands have shimmied down that manhole and dropped 20 feet underground since amateur historian Bob Diamond re-discovered the lost tunnel in 1980 and transformed it into one of the most bizarre tourist attractions in Brooklyn, maybe the most bizarre in all of New YorkCity.

Once a month, more than 100 intrepid explorers, equipped with nothing more exotic than sturdy shoes and tiny flashlights, descend from the noonday sun of Atlantic Avenue into the perpetual midnight of the tunnel in search of secrets. Maybe they’re looking for hidden pirate booty or the missing diary of John Wilkes Booth, or maybe they’re just looking for a good scare listening to ghost stories of old New York. The reason Kevin Starkly is here with some of his self-described Nerd Legion in tow is because apparently some of the spooks down here have gone bat-shitcrazy.

Visits to the tunnel started getting scary a month ago right after that freaky 5.8 earthquake hit New York. People start seeing floating orbs of glowing green mist and then report unexplained cold spots near the back wall. Lights would go out for no reason; even flashlights with new batteries would go stone-cold dead. And then visitors heard the unexplained sounds of footsteps and the eerie cries for help coming from somewhere in the dark. Tourists went elsewhere for safer scares, and eventually Diamond called a halt to the proceedings and invited in an old friend to help him out—ghostbuster-next-door KevinStarkly.

After climbing down the manhole in the middle of the street, I squeezed through a narrow passageway that opened up into an extraordinary barrel-vaulted brick tunnel. The air temperature dropped about 15 degrees; I could see my breath huffing out in tiny clouds. My mind raced through any number of horror story clichés, which perversely became more overwhelming as I tried to push them aside. I was dropping into the abyss, into the depths of a fungus-covered catacomb, into a cistern more ancient than humanity itself.“Carter! For the love of God, put back the slab and get out of this if you can!”

I was dropping into a trap, never to see the light of day again.“For the love of God, Montresor!”

And in the back of my head, I kept repeatingI will not scream like a little girl. I will not scream like a littlegirl.

I thought I spied Starkly and two pals setting up an infrared video camera on a tripod. He seemed shorter than I’d imagined and with a noticeable beer belly and a prematurely recedinghairline.

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