The tunnel was dark with a suggestion of light entering from its distant end. I had walked from my apartment in Richard Meier’s sparkling glass edifice, across to the library, along Grand Army Plaza and into Brooklyn’s Prospect Park. I had woven around joggers, baby carriages, and cyclists to the path past the barricaded roadway. The path led downhill and around to the left and there was the portal to the tunnel leading to Long Meadow. It was early evening on a sultry August day and I was looking forward to combining a bit of exercise with the sweet smell of the foliage. I approached the tunnel with a sense of something being amiss. I really couldn’t define the feeling, just a foreboding without a name.
Stopping short of the entrance, I felt quite silly. Clearly hundreds of moms, nannies, and babies took this pathway to and from the meadow and there was no danger there. Yet I had a reluctance to enter. The tunnel was not only shrouded in darkness, but a stale odor faintly said, Beware. Music that emanated from within the tunnel added to the eerie sensation. It was a saxophone from within but out of sight. The music seemed an ancient and sombre melody. I could not see the musician but only hear the echo of his tune.
Steeling myself and feeling totally silly, I approached the entranceway. I did think it odd that no one else seemed to be either entering or exiting the...
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