We Found an Abandoned Subway Station That Isn’t on Any Map

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New customer offer for initial plan. Plan term only greater than 50 gigabytes. May slow when network is busy. See terms. Hank joined BJ's Wholesale Club the day he became a father of 30. I coach football. Now, Coach Hank saves up to 25% off grocery store prices. 30 pounds of pasta, three cases of protein bars, 75 sports drinks. And that's just pregame. He knows teamwork, and BJ's knows savings. This is your home, Coach. Home of the save. Join for just $20 at bjs.com slash mesquite and save 10 cents per gallon for six months. Open soon. Limited time offer. New members only. BJ's Home of the Save. In today's story, five urban explorers break into an abandoned subway system stretching 16 miles beneath the city. Their phones lose signal. Their compasses stop working. Then they reach a passageway that's not on the map. It slopes deeper underground. The air grows hotter with every step until they emerge onto an enormous subway platform that shouldn't be there. But before we get into it, if you enjoy scary stories like this, be sure to like and subscribe so you never miss any of our weekly uploads. My phone screen is like a blazing star in this pitch darkness. The group huddles around me as we stare at the blank map that had been fully illustrated just moments ago. Plume asks if we took a wrong turn. Crenshaw says that we can't be deep enough for the GPS to not work. Lovell gnaws on her fingers, the nails, the cuticles, whatever she can rip off. As her attention is torn apart, between my phone and Deaver. And Deaver, our fearless leader, is pacing back and forth a couple of feet away from our little huddle. Plume and Crenshaw begin to bicker again. I don't even know what they're fighting about this time and don't really care. Moving away from the group, I hold my phone up, hoping to get the signal back. Forget it. We keep moving, Deaver says. The bickering stops. Lovell pauses her cuticle murder spree. I keep searching for a signal. Asked, I said to forget it. We're not giving up and we're not going back. It took too long to set this trip up. Deaver is right. It did take us forever to plan this. Just the hacking of the city planner's office so I could get the blueprints, digitize them, and include them in the custom map I built took way longer than expected. Sixteen miles of unexplored tunnels, and as far as we know, they haven't been touched in decades. Sealed off when the new subway system was put in back, in the mid-20th century. While he may be right, Deaver is also wrong. We should go back. Yes, I have the actual blueprints in PDF form on my phone, but they won't really do us much good if we get lost. Even the compass on my phone has stopped working. We're exploring blind down here, and one wrong turn could get us lost forever. And 16 miles is a lot of tunnels worth of accidents waiting to happen. Crenshaw asks what I think, even without looking away from my. I know Deaver is glaring at me, daring me to counter him. I could, I should, but it's a coin flip in my mind. We could get ourselves into a serious pickle if we screw up. We also put so much work into this that I hate to walk away now. The lesser part of me takes control, and I nod and say, Deaver is right, we keep going. Plume sighs, and I don't know if it's a relieved or worried sigh. Crenshaw shakes his head, definitely not happy. Lovell tears a strip of skin from her pinky, and winces as she spits out the bit of flesh and sucks on her finger to stop the bleeding. Bringing up the blueprints, I study our route. We came from that way and need to go this way. I check, double check, and triple check the route. Then I put my phone in my pocket and adjust my headlamp. This way. I set off, and the others follow, with Deaver coming up to walk abreast of me. He's our de facto leader, mostly because he has the money to fund these excursions. We walked the catacombs under Portland, Oregon last year. We hiked through the forbidden salt caves in West Virginia, and we even suited up and explored the underground nuclear test sites in New Mexico, which almost got us arrested by the NSA. That was a close one. Year after year, we find somewhere deep underground that is technically off-limits. As Deaver says, if it's not off-limits, then we're not going to be able to get there. Nothing more than tourists. None of us wants to be a tourist. We're explorers. We tread where people haven't trod in decades, centuries, millennia. We've braved arrest by the authorities, persecution by locals, and even death threats from drug cartels, when one trip took us way too close to the smuggling tunnels that crisscrossed the border. Doing what we're doing isn't new to any of us, and it's not the first time the GPS has shit the bed. But there is something different about this trip. There's a vibe, I guess you'd call it, down here that doesn't sit right in my belly. And the way Deaver has been pushing and pushing for this trip, I have to wonder if I'm missing something. So, why let Deaver get his way if my instincts and doubts are telling me to turn our group around and head back to the surface? Dollar, dollar bills, y'all. What the others don't know is that Deaver pays me to put all this together. And that payout is my primary source of income at the moment, now that I'm laid off from my job. So, if I want to keep paying my mortgage, car payment, and utilities, then Deaver gets the fun excursion that Deaver wants. Even with the shadows and the reflections of our headlamps off the moisture-slick walls of the tunnel, I can tell that Deaver is smirking. He knows he owns me. Maybe that's the sick feeling in my belly, the implicit understanding that Deaver has me by the balls. Except, as we walk farther and farther into this forgotten bit of city, the city infrastructure, I know that's not it. There is something here, a feeling, that vibe again, that has the hair on the back of my neck standing up. And I know I'm not the only one who notices it. I've seen Lovell nervous before, but this is a whole new level. Could be that she and Deaver have finally had it out, and he's told her that they have no future. It's a letdown that's been coming for a while now. We could all see he was playing with her, toying with her emotions, using her when he needed her, tossing her aside when he didn't. Also, that picture of him with that model on Insta sure didn't help. Money can buy you a lot of things, but tact and empathy are apparently too expensive for Deaver to look into. We come to the first turn, and I take us in the correct direction. The goal is to reach the Grand Atrium. It was a hub that would have connected all the many tunnels the steam engines would use. But modernity and politics, of course, shut it all down almost as soon as the speed of light base was completed. The Grand Atrium was never used. There is supposedly tilework and fixtures designed by seriously famous 20th century artists and craftspeople that the public never got to see. Deaver wants pics so bad so that he can be credited with bringing the first glimpses of these long-lost artifacts to the world. Or that's what he keeps saying. At first, he talked about possibly liberating a few items, as he calls it. He'd donate them to museums, but only after he toured the items around the country in a very special exhibit that Lovell helped design, of course. But Lovell couldn't come through, and the rest of us argued that liberating meant stealing, and none of us wanted to go to prison. The risks of just being down here were enough. To his credit, Deaver didn't argue much, which satisfied the others. Me? I think he gave up too easily, too quickly. He's got an ace up his sleeve, because to Deaver, all of this isn't much more than a game. We get to the next intersection of tunnels, and I start to turn right, but something doesn't track. I take out my phone and check the blueprints. Lost already? Deaver whispers, keeping his voice low so the others can't hear. No. I snap. We aren't lost, because all we have to do is turn back around. But this turn, this tunnel, doesn't seem to be on the blueprints. I make the mistake of not closing it, closing my phone fast enough before Deaver can get a peek over my shoulder. I shove my phone into my pocket as Deaver smirks at me. "We should check it out." I take a deep breath and sigh. Bloom and Crenshaw both ask if everything is okay. Lovell just keeps nipping at her fingers. I tell them all that we're on track, and everything is okay. Nothing to worry about. When I turn to go the opposite way, Deaver clamps a hand on my shoulder, holding me in place. Not a word comes out of his mouth, but his eyes. tell me everything, as much as he wants to get to me. to the grand atrium. An unexpected discovery is his Achilles heel. The man can't help himself if he thinks he's going to be the first at something. Plume watches us closely. Crenshaw takes a couple of steps back, as if he wants to just leave. Lovell spits out a fingernail. I try to shake Deaver off, but he holds on like a bulldog. His grip tightens. It's almost painful, but not quite. Just like our financial arrangement. And because of that financial arrangement, I relent. My body relaxes, I give in. We walk down the tunnel that's not on the blueprints. Plume and Crenshaw are no longer bickering, which is great, but Lovell is lagging. There has to be more going on than just Deaver being a dick to her, but she's barely spoken since we all gathered for this trip, so I have no idea what's in her head. After about 50 yards or so, the tunnel slopes downward. I feel the question coming before Plume even asks it. You sure this is the right way? I am. Deaver smirks harder. The tunnel is not only sloping down, but the temperature is rising. The moisture on the walls is turning into mist, which casually floats a couple of inches off the floor. It's like we've walked into some old horror movie from the 60s. I almost expect to hear a smoke machine belching along when we reach the next intersection. I pause, and no one, not even Deaver, asks why we're stopping. Wayfair, every style, every home. Tammy regularly hauls stuff to her kids at college. That's why she shops at BJ's Wholesale Club, saving up to 25% off grocery store prices. Beef jerky, microwave meals, laundry pods, even they can't screw up. Have you met my kids? And with BJ's gas, she gets there for less. They call me the road warrior. This is your home, road warrior mom. Home of the save. Join for just $20 at BJ's.com slash mesquite and save 10 cents per gallon for six months. Open soon. Limited time offer, new members only. BJ's, home of the save. This intersection is all wrong. According to the blueprints, which do not show where we currently are, all the intersections should be four-way or T's. This intersection is a Y, with the two directions both sloping at an even steeper angle than the one we are currently standing on. Heat wafts up from both directions, steamy, thick, hot, like a sauna is down there, waiting for us, no matter which way we go. Left is the devil's direction, Deaver says. He goes right without another word. Plume and Crenshaw move up to me and insist I show them the blueprints. I do, and they both stare, their confusion masking the fear that I think we're all feeling. We've done a lot of these excursions, and we all know that when it feels off, we turn back. There is no question that this is off, yet we don't turn back. It's like Plume and Crenshaw defer to me for whatever reason, while I hope one of them will step up and make the call to head to the surface, which they don't do. Come on! Deaver calls out. Plume frowns at me. Crenshaw glances around. Lovell shoves us all out of the way and follows Deaver. I shake my head and jog after her. Two seconds later, I hear both Plume and Crenshaw behind me. The tunnel, or ramp, considering the steepness of the grade, takes us deeper and deeper below the city. By the time the floor levels out, the heat is sickeningly oppressive, and we're all stripping off our jackets and long-sleeved shirts, tying everything around our waists. Except for Lovell. She keeps herself buttoned up, despite the fact that her face is turning beet red, and she has sweat streaming off her forehead and dripping off her chin. Then we are here. A whole different hub than the one we'd been looking for. This is definitely some sort of second Grand Atrium. It has to be. The space goes up and up forever. My headlamp, barely able to make out the ceiling where a huge, ornate chandelier hangs. Its crystals exploding with sparkles that dance across everything. I study the ceiling, looking past the glittering chandelier and frown. Plume walks up to me and pats my arm, then points up, indicating he sees it too. The ceiling isn't made of tile. It's some sort of mud or clay, thick and crusty. The arches of the atrium aren't concrete or steel. They are smooth and cream-colored, like old ivory. And the smell is rank. My guess is that a dozen Rat Kings have met their makers down here. At least a dozen. It's all rotten meat and curdled milk. Lovell gags and hurries away from us all. We can hear her retching off in the shadows. Was this place designed by Alistair Crowley? Deaver asks with a laugh. He is so giddy with excitement at our find that I'm surprised he isn't already taking a thousand pictures. But I think even he is a bit odd at where we are. Who? Crenshaw asks. Famous occultist in the early 20th century, I reply. Occultist? Like devils and demons and ghosts and crap? Pretty much, I say and shrug. Deaver looks like a kid in a candy store as he walks around the space, which has a strange layout. Most atriums are hubs with tunnels as spokes, leading to the different train platforms. This one is a hub of a different sort. It looks like we are standing on one huge platform, with only one track on the left and one track on the right. No spokes at all. Deaver is pacing back and forth at the edge of the right track. I start to walk over to him, but Lovell comes back from being sick and hurries over to me. We need to leave. I raise an eyebrow. She grabs my wrist and takes my hand. Seriously, we need to go now. What are you two conspiring about? Deaver asks. Plume and Crenshaw turn their heads. And suddenly all the attention is on us. Lovell shrinks back, but doesn't let my hand go. Deaver shakes his head. "No one is going anywhere." Lovell tries to pull me back the way we came, but as I glance over my shoulder in that direction, I gasp. Plume and Crenshaw follow my gaze, and both cry out. The tunnel we walked down is sealed now. Wet, earthen bricks stained with mold and mildew are blocking our path. Deaver laughs and snaps his fingers. Lovell lets my hand go and walks over to him. Then I feel the rumble before I hear it. Plume asks the question we are all thinking. "Is that a train?" Deaver answers yes, and wraps Lovell in his arms when she reaches him. She just stands there, stiff as a board. I'm sweating even harder as the rumble becomes the sound of wheels on a track. The steady ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk gets louder and louder, until a train's whistle calls out and a sickly yellow light illuminates the right track. A train bursts from the tunnel, moving at an alarming speed as it whizzes past us. Plume shouts and points. Even at this speed, we can see inside the train, and it is not pretty. Scenes of horror and gore fill every car. Blood drips down the old window panes. I don't know what I am looking at. The depraved acts happening inside those train cars almost short-circuit my brain. Then the smell of rotten meat and curdled milk gets worse, and I have to cover my nose with my hand until the last car has passed, and the tracks are empty once again. "What the hell was that?" Crenshaw calls out. "Wrong train," Deaver says. He shifts Lovell to his side, keeping an arm wrapped around her shoulders. Then he walks her to the other track. After a few minutes of silence, a new rumbling starts up. In minutes, a different train appears on the opposite track, but this one is slowing down, getting ready to stop at the platform. The engine, ancient and rusty, passes us and is lost inside the tunnel. But it finally stops and presents us with four passenger cars to choose from, all completely dark inside. Not that any of us are moving closer to the train. Except for Deaver and Lovell, that is. Plume and Crenshaw get up next to me so that we are almost touching. Deaver stops in front of the second car from the front and leans in and whispers in Lovell's ear. I hear her whimper something in protest, but he pulls her in closer and whispers again. After a few seconds, Lovell's entire body relaxes, but not in a relieved way. It looks like she just gave up, but what for? I don't know. Then she slowly takes her coat off, followed by two layers of long-sleeved shirts. We gasp at what's underneath. Lovell is pregnant. Very pregnant. I'll admit, I noticed the weight gain when we all first arrived, but I wasn't going to say anything. You don't comment on stuff like that, especially not to a woman. Lovell is pregnant. Very pregnant. Personally, knowing her history with Deaver, I figured she'd been stress eating, which she probably has, but for a different reason. Deaver whispers in her ear again, then leaves her by the passenger car and walks over to the three of us. "Plume, can I speak to you?" Plume looks at us and frowns. He doesn't have a chance to answer before Deaver has his arm over Plume's shoulder and is walking him over to the first track. Crenshaw begins to follow, but Deaver snaps something about talking alone, and Crenshaw backs off. I look over at Lovell and her big belly. She's standing by the passenger car, shivering despite it being hot. is a Russian bathhouse down here. I'm about to go over to her, but Plume's raised voice gets my attention. I turn back to him and Deaver and see Deaver holding his hands up like he's trying to placate Plume, but Plume is not having it. A rumble builds up again. Another train is coming down that track, and it sounds fast, like the first one. I doubt this will stop either. Plume and Deaver continue their heated discussion until it becomes a full-blown argument. Plume's arms are gesticulating wildly, and I can hear his voice rising, even though I can't make out the words. The acoustics in this space seem to suck voices up toward the ceiling, yet don't bounce them around like an atrium structure should. Crenshaw is next to me babbling about how we need to find a way out of this place, how that first train was a nightmare, how if we don't leave, we are all going to die. I can't argue with any of his points, so I stay silent. From larger-than-life yard decor and moody lighting, to festive accents for every room in the house, Wayfair has what you need to make Halloween feel like magic, all in one place. Because the best Halloween memories aren't made in just one night, they're made all season long. That's W-A-Y-F-A-I-R.com. Ryan Reynolds here for Mint Mobile with your summer price forecast. New customer offer for initial plan term only greater than 50 gigabytes may slow when network is busy. See terms. The rumbling train's light appears at the end of the tracks. And before you know it, it's time to go. We're going to see what's going on. Either Crenshaw or I can say or do anything. Dever pulls a knife from somewhere and slashes Plume across the throat. Crenshaw screams and falls to his knees. I can only stand here in complete shock and horror and watch as Plume tries to stop the bleeding with his hands. Just as the train reaches the platform, Dever gives Plume a shove and the man, our friend, falls in front of the train, lost from sight. Or most of them is. Blood sprays up in a bright red mist as the train roars past. Scenes, yet even worse, are taking place inside the passenger cars, and I'm too traumatized to look away. Finally, Crenshaw gets up, and he starts shouting and screaming at Dever. He takes a few rage-fueled steps toward the track, but Dever holds up his bloody knife and shakes it in a you-better-not sort of gesture. Crenshaw stops, looks at me, then runs to Lovell and starts asking her questions, pleading for her to tell him what is going on. With the knife still held up, Dever walks towards me. He has just a little blood spray on his left cheek and wipes at it with the back of one hand, but only ends up smearing it and making it worse. I don't say a word as he approaches me. Do nothing, is all he says when he pats my shoulder with his free hand as he passes me by. I follow his orders and do nothing, slowly turning to watch him move closer to Crenshaw and Lovell. Crenshaw has Lovell by both arms and is shaking her, desperate to get her to talk and explain what is happening, but Lovell only stands there, pregnant and looking like a dog that's been whipped for pissing on the carpet. She refuses to meet Crenshaw's eyes, no matter how much he tries to get his face in hers. Dever shouts for Crenshaw to stop and leave Lovell alone, which the man does, instead turning his rage and confusion in absolute terror on Dever. The two men face off, but Crenshaw makes sure to keep himself out of knife-slashing range. I can hear the man shouting at Dever, but just like with Plume, I can't make out any of the words. It's like my ears have been filled with cotton and I'm all that I hear is my own pulse throbbing, throbbing, throbbing with each beat of my panicked heart. Crenshaw's voice rises in pitch until it's almost inaudible. He is screeching to the point that only dogs will be able to hear him soon. I laugh at this. It's a funny thought. It's an inappropriate thought. But I am having a hard time grasping what is an appropriate thought at this point. I mean, Dever just killed Plume, right? And shoved the man in front of a car. That's what I'm talking about. That happened, yeah? Taking my eyes off Crenshaw and Dever, I look over my shoulder. Yep, right there on the edge of the platform is a pool of Plume's blood, and the far wall opposite the tracks has a dark spray of red, as if someone threw several water balloons at it, except the balloons were not filled with water. Crenshaw roars with rage, and my attention is back on him and Dever. I turn in time to see the two men grappling with each other. Crenshaw has both hands gripping Dever's wrist, the wrist with the knife. While Dever is punching Crenshaw over and over in the side of the head to get him to let go. Lovell is standing there, head hung low, both of her hands on her belly. Should I intervene? Should I run at the men and break this up? I should, yes, but I don't. I'm frozen with fear. And to be honest, I can't say for sure whose side I'm on. The train sits idle, dark, waiting there on the tracks like a sleeping leviathan. I focus on it instead of my friends. Another funny thought. Friends. Friends minus one. Plume, I had known since college. Crenshaw, I met through Plume not long after we graduated. Then Lovell came into our lives, and we were a foursome, all excited and addicted to urban exploration. Then in walked Dever one night. He sat down at our table at the local brewery, as if he'd known us forever. Our conversation stopped, and we stared at him, at least until Lovell introduced us. Lovell hadn't exactly had a great track record with men, but when Dever said he'd pick up the tab, plus take us all out for Chinese so he could explain an idea he had, well, he became our fifth. And it went great for years, especially the Dever picking up the tab on all of it part. He comes from old money, like generations of New England wealth. I don't think a single one of us had a moral qualm about taking Dever's money for our excursions. I sure didn't. Which created the slippery slope I slid down as my financial troubles began to grow. And Dever kept offering to bankroll me if I worked for him full-time on our trips, especially this trip. The trip where I just watched my old friend get butchered and shoved in front of a train. My focus shifts from the idle train to the two fighting men as Crenshaw's shout is cut off mid-curse. I swallow hard as I watch the man stagger about the platform, his hands on his belly, just like Lovell. But instead of caressing a bump, he's holding the hilt of the knife that Dever just plunged into his guts. Dever watches with casual indifference as Crenshaw stumbles across the platform, headed straight for me. Help me! He grunts when he's a foot away from me. Then he collapses into my arms, and I hold him there, my shoulders straining as his weight becomes deader, deader, then all the way dead. I let his body collapse onto the platform as Dever walks with such a swagger that I almost grab for the knife in Crenshaw's belly and attack the smug bastard with it. Instead, I just stare as Dever reaches Crenshaw's body, grabs him by the leg, and drags his body over next to Lovell and the idle train. He squats, pulls the knife out, which makes a squelching noise that I'll never forget, and begins to cut Crenshaw's clothes away. Lovell is now crying, and Dever snaps at her to shut up. She sniffles and stops, but her body shakes with her internal sobs. When Dever has Crenshaw completely naked, he carves several symbols into the man's skin, then hoists the body up over his shoulder, and kicks it off. She sniffles and carries it to the train. He gets to the second car from the front, and knocks loudly on one of the doors. It opens up, and Dever tosses Crenshaw's body inside. Lights all up and down the idle train's cars come on, revealing nothing but faces upon faces upon faces. Old, young, scarred, flayed, bloated, gray faces, each pressed to the glass, milky eye staring out blankly. With Crenshaw inside the car, Dever moves to grab Lovell, but she yanks her arm away, shaking her head back and forth so fast that I fear she'll grow dizzy and collapse. Dever barks something harsh, and she stops shaking. Then she looks up, and we lock eyes. All I see is hate in those eyes. I don't know if the hate is for me, for Dever, or for herself, but her eyes smolder with it. Then she looks away as Dever grips Lovell's elbows and steers her into the same car where he discarded Crenshaw's body. Dever lets go before he can cross the threshold of the train's door. Lovell gives me one last chance to get out of here, a last look over her shoulder, then moves deeper into the car, shuffling down the aisle until she finds an open seat and a window beside it, one she presses her face against. There's a loud whistle, and steam explodes throughout the atrium as the idle train stops being idle. The passenger car's door closes. Dever takes several steps back from the tracks, and the train lurches as it starts to move and leave the platform. Lovell's eyes are wide with fear, and just as the car is about to be lost in sight, I see all the dead-eyed passengers turn their attention on her. Her mouth opens, but she is gone before I can see or hear her scream. Dever moves up next to me, and we both watch the train chug along, picking up speed until it is finally lost from sight and the track is empty once again. "Time to go," Dever says, clapping me on the shoulder. "You can get us out of here, right?" I have to blink a few times to clear my head and understand what he's asking. "What? No, It's blocked, is it? my eyes fall on the tunnel we came in through the brick wall is gone we are free to leave swallowing around the huge lump in my throat i nod yeah i can get us out of here good he steers me toward the tunnel and the ramp up and out of this hell i open my mouth to ask all the questions that i couldn't voice before but he stops me with a shake of his head don't we never talk about this understood no no it's not understood but i nod anyway i've got bills to pay want more subscribe and turn on all notifications so you never miss any of our weekly uploads kelly clarkson here with wayfair i know holiday magic starts at home and wayfair makes it easy they have everything from christmas trees and mantel decor to outdoor lighting and inflatables that i'll use year after year head to wayfair.com ♪ Wayfair, every style, every home ♪