I grew up in the kind of rust belt town where the cleanest, safest place for kids to play

was the local sewer canal.

My friends Brett, Holly, Eli and I met there almost every day during summer vacation.

Overhanging trees that give a shade and hit us from the adults was like our own secret

hangout spot.

The only problem was the concrete tunnel at the end of it.

So, what about that tunnel made me think of a round, toothless stone mouth.

Freakishly oversized insects that we'd never seen before buzzed in the humid breeze that

blew out of that darkness.

And it wasn't long before we started daring each other to crawl inside.

Eli was the first to stick his head in, but he didn't dare go any further.

Holly though, did.

She snorted, called us all scaredy cats, and crawled into the tunnel until only her tiny

white shoe still hung outside of it.

And then she screamed.

The kind of hundred decibel shriek that only preteen girls were capable of.

We grabbed her leg and yanked her out.

She wouldn't stop scratching at her head.

During the holly, a spider as big as her hand had scurried through her hair.

We avoided the tunnel for a long time after that.

Until the day that I lost Eli's basket ball.

It wasn't technically Eli's.

...