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Hey guys, eja here. I'm
the writer and producer here at Fast Food

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Horror. If you'll notice, I
did not say the only voice here at

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Fast Food Horror. Last episode we
welcomed Holly into our family of voices,

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and this week we welcome Chris Branham. Chris is a very talented voice actor,

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as you will soon hear, and
I was over the moon excited when

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he agreed to lend his voice talents
to us here at Fast Food Horror.

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Secondly, the story you're about to
hear touches home in a very different kind

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of way. You see, back
in the nineties, I worked at rit

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I was an undercover security officer there
on campus. My duties were to walk

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the tunnels. So there is far
more to this tale than just my imagination.

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So now, without any further delay, I go, Frederick. It's

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all yours. Welcome listeners to another
episode of Fast Food Horror. In this

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episode, a young security officer encounters
something in a tunnel he was not prepared

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for. In this tale, entitled
The Tunnels by E. J. Miller

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and narrated by Christopher Branham, Rochester
is a beautiful city in central New York.

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The summers and falls are lovely.
The springs are what you might call

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temperamental, though fluctuating between dreary and
cold, the warm and sunny, with

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a smattering of whatever snow is left
over in Mother Nature's grab bag. Winter,

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well it's the north. They can
get very cold, very cold,

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with high winds and single digit temperatures
and snow. Well, let's just say

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we get our share. Keeping this
in mind, the developers of ri Rochester

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Institute of Technology built tunnels under the
campus, going from one building to another.

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Miles of protected hallways underground, keeping
the faculty and students protected from the

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illments as they traversed between campus buildings
and residence halls. Some are well lit

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and decorated with murals from students present
and past. Some of the tunnels,

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however, have long been forgotten.
There are nothing more than dark concrete basement

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ant chambers, storage rooms, between
hallways, a tangle of steam pipes and

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wires. How do I know all
this? In the nineties I was employed

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by the college as an undercover security
officer to walk the tunnels at night from

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ten pm till six am. Due
to my special skill set, which was

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I was in my early twenties and
could pass for an undergrad. The day

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before I started, I went in
for my orientation. It was done by

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a campus police sergeant Mills, a
nice sky years away from retirement, pot

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bellied and gray haired. He provided
me with a small flashlight walkie talking that

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I was instructed to keep in my
backpack at all times so it as not

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to attract attention, a map of
the tunnels so I didn't get lost,

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and a very discreet wand like instrument
that was to be scanned at different checkpoint

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chips along the tunnel so the campus
police could monitor my progress and make sure

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I wasn't secreted away in a room
taking a nap somewhere. Most nights were

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easy, just walking the tunnels,
scan the various checkpoint chips, redirect lost

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freshmen, report back to the base
any rowdy activity that may laid to an

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issue, vandalism, whatnot? What
I hadn't bargained for, What wasn't part

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of orientation? Was it? The
runner I usually got Sundays off campus was

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pretty quiet those nights anyways, but
the powers that be wanted extra security the

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weekend of Halloween. I'm not saying
college students need a reason to party,

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but it was a holiday and things
can get extra weird on campus during Halloween.

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I entered the tunnels backpack slung over
my shoulder, not far from Thekate

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Gleeson Hall, the southeast corner of
the campus, and me entered my way

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through the tunnels, checking in on
the alcove and small ant chambers unused rooms.

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I followed the progression of foot traffic
when I found it. Following the

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noise of revelers and partiers is to
see where everyone was congregating, checked the

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dark corners for anything out or out
of place. At about three in the

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morning, things got quiet, just
like every other night for the past six

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months. I could go a while
before I pumped into somebody. At this

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point, For long stretches, it
was just me and the dimly lit corridors

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under the campus. The shadows,
the dripping of pipes makes everything very eerie.

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For my sleep deprived of mind,
and here I was again for the

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first time on Sunday, near James
Booth Hall. One of the doors under

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the tunnels must have been opened.
I could hear the whistling of the wind

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from somewhere down the corridor, adding
to the RDY creepy feel, all the

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more reason to keep my pace and
get this night over. Focusing straight ahead,

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I could see the intersection of two
tunnels off in the distance, where

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one of my many checkpoints would be. I kept moving forward. Then I

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heard it. I couldn't tell where
it was coming from, but I could

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hear rapid footsteps coming from the intersection. Not sure if it was coming from

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straight ahead or from the right tunnel
or the left, but they were getting

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closer. Someone was running. The
lights illuminating the hall at the intersection began

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to flicker, like a strobe light
at a club, pulsating to some as

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yet unheard beat. The wind that
had been whistling faintly from the distance picked

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up in strength and began to push
much older air, lowering the temperature in

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the tunnel so much I could see
my breath. And then I saw it.

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I called it in because I'm not
sure if it was pam R,

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but it definitely looked human, A
dark shadow like figure jogging from left to

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right, maybe five ten thinly built. It stopped in the middle of the

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intersection, pumping its legs in rapid
succession. It looked in one direction,

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still jogging calmly in place, and
then it turned and looked right at me,

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like it was trying to figure me
out, trying to figure out why

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I was there. Did you ever
see a picture with a smug the whole

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photo in perfect focus except for that
one spot that was smeared. You could

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see what it was, but the
detail it wasn't recognizable distorted. This was

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like that. The runner's face was
blurred, but the rest of its form

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was clearly defined as much as a
shadow could be, and its eyes,

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its eyes glowing a fierce red,
looking intently, stared at me. A

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chill went running up my spine.
I could feel the goosebumps rising on my

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arms, and every voice in my
head said run. It turned its body

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towards me and stopped its jogging.
It stood stock still. I called out

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hello, my voice echoing off the
old concrete walls. It cocked its head

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slightly to the right. I could
hear a slight crackling sound as it bent

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its neck, and then it let
out a shriek, an ear piercing,

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fierce cry of pain. Then it
turned down the right tunnel and disappeared from

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my view. I raced down the
tunnel, running to the intersection, wondering

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if I saw what I saw.
I skipped to a stop at the intersection

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and looked down the right tunnel and
nothing. There was nothing but emptiness of

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the tunnel. The light wasn't flickering, the cold wind now back to its

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normal DeVault faint whistle, the temperature
returned back to where it was before before

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it and I was alone. Alone. I lost track of time. How

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long had I stood there? Seconds? Minutes, tearing down that empty tunnel,

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replaying what I had seen? Who
would believe me? Would I even

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tell? My thoughts were broken?
When I heard three footfalls, I felt

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something clamp hard over my shoulder from
behind, spun me forcefully around. I

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closed my eyes tight, not wanting
to see it, waiting to hear the

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blood curdling scream. I braced myself
and I heard a growl, well more

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like a gruff clearing of one's throat, and forced myself to open my eyes.

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It wasn't it. It was Sergeant
Mills. Before I could say anything,

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he just raised one open balm and
said, and now you've seen it

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too. No