Mr. Sensabaugh's TunnelA Story by Michael AcciarinoSensabaugh Tunnel, greatly known for its paranormal activity. Read about the fictional background of a nonfictional tunnel located in Kingsport, Tennessee.BASED ON THE URBAN LEGEND SURROUNDING SENSABAUGH TUNNEL LOCATED IN KINGSPORT, TENNESSEE
Kingsport,
Tennessee November
2, 1950
Edward Sensabaugh lifted his glass of scotch and kept his focus on the
watery ring it made. He gulped it down, every last drop, and slammed it on the
wooden counter. Mr. Brown had been watching Ed all night, cleaning glasses with
his black handkerchief and smoking a cigarette that hung from the far corner of
his chapped lips. Brown was both worried and ecstatic. Worried for the
well-being of Edward, as he had had nearly two dozen shots of alcohol, but
ecstatic because of how much money he was making money of the alcoholic. You'd
have to be insane to stop a heavy drinker like that, especially when they're a
drinker like Ed, who never stops chugging the suckers down after ten. Brown had
even thought about pushing closing time back an hour. A terrible thought struck Brown. If Edward were to leave " whenever that may be " and get in some sort of accident when driving home, a collision perhaps, the injured driver would come back and sue Brown for everything he had. Meaning, all this dough he was racking up would be for nothing. And if it wasn't a car crash, it would be alcohol poisoning for sure. Brown could see it in the papers now: “Man Chokes On His Own Vomit When Over-Dosed At Cantina.” He might as well burn the money he'd earned while it's sitting in the cash register. Edward's finger
hovered over the counter in front of him and eventually he tapped it twice with
his bruised finger, signaling for another round. Had his buddies been with him
tonight like they usually were, he would've stopped back at five. Unfortunately,
that was not the case. “I-I think that's
enough, Mr. Sensabaugh. Head on home, sir,” Mr. Brown instructed. “What?” Edward
slurred, his body swaying in his stool until he fell on the checkerboard tiles.
Mr. Brown stuck his cigarette in a nearby ash tray. He got out from behind the
bar counter and pulled Edward up off the floor by his arm. “I think you've had
enough to drink,” he said, sternly this time. Edward's head drowsily dropped
and Brown was fully expecting him to vomit on his stainless white apron. Before
the opportunity to belch was handed to him, however, Brown dragged him over to
the exit, having to stabilize his legs twice in the five feet they walked. “Go home, Mr. Sensabaugh,” Mr. Brown said, pushing the door open and watching him fall onto the sidewalk. “And don't be driving home, ya hear?” He stomped back inside, furious that he had to cut off such good business, and the door swung shut behind him. Edward laid in the
street and, just for a second, mistook it for his soft cotton mattress back at
his house. He pushed his face off the cold ground and struggled to his feet,
tasting vomit reach the back of his throat, only for him to swallow it again. Had
he been sober, the taste on his tongue would've been enough to make him howl in
pure disgust. He couldn't quite
remember where he parked his car, or if he had one for that matter, so he began
walking in the direction of his home. He'd walked along this road plenty, and
even his drunk mind could remember the route. Edward's wife Margaret was changing their
three-month-old baby's diaper when he arrived home, drunker than ever before.
He'd tried entering his neighbor's home, and even knocked, but left after
realizing his mistake. Margaret heard the door open and clutched her half-naked
baby named Ruth against her chest. “Edward?” she called
out upon entering the living room. “Edward, what's the matter with you? You
said you'd be home by ten!” His head bobbed and he
had trouble standing still in one spot. It was like he was performing some sort
of tap dance. Margaret hated to admit, though she was worried, she found it to
be quite humorous. Edward unexpectedly
threw up the vomit he'd been holding in since the cantina. It layered the rug
in coffee-colored chunks and flashed in the light of the fireplace. “Who are you?” he
asked dizzily, continuing his jig with spit dribbling from his chin. It was
like a musical " without the singing of course. “What do you mean?
It's me, Margaret " your wife!” Margaret screamed, a little offended he'd forgotten,
even if he was severely intoxicated. Edward reached into
his jacket, revealing a pistol. Ironically, Margaret was the one who suggested
he purchase a firearm, seeing as he enjoyed long walks at night near the
cantina. Ruth began to cry,
sensing tension. “You're scaring the boy, Ed! Put the gun away, right this
instant!” Ed raised the pistol, only slightly upright. “Please, don't hurt me,” Margaret wept, pressing Ruth harder against her. Edward squeezed the trigger and his arm jerked from the kick. The bullet made contact, he was certain, but it was hard to tell who it hit. Ruth? Margaret? Both of them? He watched both of them fall to the floor, just avoiding the vomit that began to soak into the floor. His vision cleared and he could see now that the bullet had pierced both Ruth and Margaret. Edward dropped to the floor, his head smashing into his own throw up. To say Mr. Sensabaugh
woke up hungover the next morning would be an understatement. This was the
mother of all hangovers, the hangover some know as the “Sensabaugh.” Edward's head hurt, to
say the least. When he awoke, he could've sworn he was having a heart attack.
Rushing pains ran up and down his entire body, and it was unclear when they
would cease. He stood up, his back to the chaos that had taken place the night
before, and stared into the flames under the chimney. His head hurt with every
pump and he felt oddly tense. He put his fingers to his lips, rubbing off a
mysterious, dried up glob. His hair felt cold and wet, too, like a pale of
water had been dumped on him and he hadn't noticed. What on earth happened last night? he thought, turning around towards the front door. Edward was not sure
where to look first, holding back tears. The gun on the floor, or the vomit?
His pale, dead wife, or his dead newborn baby? It was like all hell had broke
loose " behind his back, no less. If that was the case, Edward was the devil
and he had wrecked havoc without meaning to. What was he to do? If anybody were
to see this, they'd surely think this of him. He looked at the
clock: 6:12. It was still early. He'd be able to move the bodies or possibly
even stage a suicide. The tunnel down the block " of course! He thought. It was heartbreaking to think this “family man” had his head full of thoughts such as, “where to hide the bodies?” and not “I miss my family.” Well, after all, it was Edward who caused this horror. He picked his pistol
off the ground and stuffed it in his pocket. That was odd. The killer used his
pistol. He did not want to connect the puzzle pieces " not yet, anyway. He
placed Ruth in his stroller lined with bunny rabbits and threw Margaret over
his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The heavy-lifting he did on the farm sure
paid off in instances like this. That's not to say it's everyday you carry your
dead family down the street. He opened the front door with his one free hand and slowly shut it behind him. No one on the block was up this early, but if someone had seen Edward, they'd probably mistake him for a loving father and husband who's just taking his wife and child for a stroll, gleefully carrying his wife on his broad shoulder. As filled with happiness as that scenario is, it was far from the case. Edward's head still
hurt, but it wasn't enough to stop his mind from racing. He could remember
going to the cantina, and that was about it, but any grade schooler could
connect the dots and come up with an accurate explanation as to what happened. He reached the tunnel
and, when inside, set Margaret down on the pavement. There was just enough
light from one side of the tunnel " the side he entered from " to see clearly.
He looked down at his wife and baby, beginning to sob. He was starting to miss
them. Well, there's a start, Mr. Sensabaugh. Edward's moment of
memorial soon ended when he grabbed Margaret by her stockings and dragged her
into the stream that ran through the tunnel. He picked Ruth up out of his seat
and set him down on Margaret's chest. He angrily watched them floating there.
He was angry at himself, mostly, which was profound as he tended to blame
others for his problems. Especially Margaret. This was different, though; he
and he alone did this, and he wasn't even sober to hear his wife's last words. Remembering his
pistol, he pulled it out of his jacket and pointed it at his head, trembling.
Edward fired the gun, ending his life. Kingsport, Tennessee March 6, 2013
Sensabaugh Tunnel, greatly known for its intense paranormal activity.
Dwight Krude, a senior in high school, couldn't stop thinking about it for the better
half of of his life. An urban legend that had been twisted and turned too many
times to count, Dwight was prepared to put the rumors to rest. “Hi, I'm Dwight
Krude,” he said to his portable video camera. “I'm going to be heading into
Sensabaugh Tunnel at any minute, a paranormal location that's said to be
haunted by Sensabaugh himself. Sorry for the lighting. I thought I'd have
better luck at night. Let's hope so, huh?” He drove up to the
tunnel's entrance and pointed the camera at it, showing off the colorful
graffiti sprayed onto the tunnel itself and all around the opening. He kept his
left hand on the wheel and the camera was held in his right hand as he drove
in. Darkness quickly engulfed his car and it was difficult to see the tunnel's
end, even with his car's headlights. He high beamed a path but that didn't seem
to work either. He let it go and focused on his task. “I'm gonna cut the ignition and see what I hear,” Dwight said to the camera lens. He entered complete silence and didn't move a muscle, hoping to hear something. Holding his breath, he
could hear something faint, and he was certain this wasn't either his ears
playing tricks on him or the water from the creek of the tunnel splashing
against the concrete. It took him a moment to put his finger on what he was
hearing, but when he did, it was, very clearly too, the sound of a baby crying. “Do you hear that?”
Dwight whispered. He set the camera down and tried to start the engine back up
to drive further in, but it wouldn't run. He could hear the echo of footsteps
bouncing off the tunnel walls while he did so. In his peripheral vision,
something moved in his rear view mirror. He forgot about the engine for a
second and could see a man approaching his vehicle. Dwight desperately tried to
start the engine and drive away, but with no luck, he stepped out of his car "
without his camera " and started to run into the darkness that was Sensabaugh
Tunnel. The tunnel seemed
endless. Dwight felt like he'd been running forever when he stopped to catch
his breath. He bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.
Something tugged at the back of his right pant leg, making him jump. He turned
to find nothing. “Please, don't hurt
me,” a woman cried from behind him, sending a chill down Dwight's spine. It was when something " or someone " lightly brushed the back of Dwight's neck that he sprinted towards the tunnel's exit, unsure if there even was one.
© 2014 Michael AcciarinoAuthor's Note
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1 Review Added on November 8, 2013 Last Updated on November 15, 2014 Tags: paranormal, short story Author
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