Beneath the City: What I Found in the Abandoned Subway Will Haunt You
I haven’t touched my camera in six months. People ask why I abandoned my photography series when I was so close to finishing it. I tell them I lost interest, got busy, moved on. Anything but the truth.
Something lives in the abandoned subway station beneath Chicago’s South Loop.
.
.
.
And it knows I saw it. It knows I escaped.
Six months ago, I was obsessed with documenting Chicago’s forgotten spaces—not the Instagram-friendly ruins, but the real places the city tried to erase. My series, “Beneath Notice,” had gained traction. I was one photo away from a gallery show, searching for a centerpiece that would make people stop and see what’s hidden under their feet.
That’s when I found the reference: South Loop Auxiliary Station, Track 7B. Not demolished, just sealed. Waiting.
After weeks of research and careful trespassing, I slipped through a rusted maintenance door one Tuesday night. The city was quiet, the shadows deep. I descended into a world of concrete and grime, my flashlight barely piercing the darkness. I moved deeper, past rusted shelves and stairwells that plunged five stories below street level. The air was cold, hostile, and wrong.
The tunnels grew older, brick giving way to ancient stonework. I followed the tracks, watched by rats that seemed less afraid of me than of something deeper in the darkness. The tunnel split, and I chose the path marked by deep, parallel scratches—claw marks, I realized, as I ran my fingers over them. Something strong, something territorial.
I pressed on, drawn by the promise of a perfect shot. The scratches grew deeper, more frantic. My camera flash caught glimpses of movement at the edge of the light—pale shapes, too quick to see clearly. The air grew colder. My flashlight flickered, the batteries fresh but the darkness growing heavier.
Finally, I found the platform. Track 7B, perfectly preserved, tiles stained but intact, art deco patterns fading beneath decades of neglect. I photographed everything, my heart racing with excitement and dread. At the far end, a stairwell promised escape, but it ended at a wall of brick. No exit. I turned back—and heard voices, a low, overlapping murmur from everywhere and nowhere.
I followed the sound to a maintenance door, behind which the voices stopped instantly. I stepped into a corridor, found a massive steel hatch, and—against every instinct—opened it. The stench was overwhelming, ancient and organic. I descended a ladder into tunnels older than Chicago itself, walls coated in a glistening, iridescent substance.
That’s when I saw them. Pale, twisted forms clinging to walls and ceilings, moving with insect-like coordination. Black void eyes, too many teeth, bodies that bent and flowed in ways no human ever could. They watched me, herded me deeper, communicating in high-pitched clicks and scratches.
And then the scraping began—something bigger, something ancient, dragging itself through the darkness. The smaller creatures parted, guiding me into a vast chamber where the true horror waited. Eight feet tall, hunched, patchy fur and taloned hands, eyes the size of tennis balls, all black. It lunged as my flashlight died.
I ran, chased through branching tunnels, battered and bleeding. My camera bag was torn away, my photos lost. I fought through pain and terror, battered by claws and hands with too many fingers. At the last moment, I found a hidden door, slammed it shut behind me, and collapsed in a corridor lit by emergency red. Urban explorers found me, patched my wounds, and led me back to the surface.
Paramedics saved my life. Doctors stitched my shoulder, puzzled by the claw marks. I lied to everyone. Said I couldn’t see what attacked me. Sold my camera gear. Abandoned my series. Moved on.
But I know what’s down there. I know what hunts in those tunnels. I see them in my dreams. I hear the trains rumble beneath the city and wonder if they’re still waiting, if the missing people in Chicago’s subway system found what I found—and never made it out.
Some secrets are better left buried. But every night, I wonder if my silence makes me complicit. If every disappearance is partly my fault for not warning anyone. That’s the real scar—the one that never heals.
If you’re reading this, stay out of the tunnels. Some darkness isn’t meant to be explored.
