Cops' True Stories of the Paranormal: Ghost, UFOs, and Other Shivers by Loren W. Christensen

Author:Loren W. Christensen
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781530108244
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2016-02-25T23:00:00+00:00

Battle sites, such as Civil War fighting locations

Places where disasters or mass killings have occurred

Hospitals

Jails and prisons

Houses with a history of violence and emotional strife

Graveyards

COFFEE AND CUPS

By Loren W. Christensen

It had been called skid row forever, but in the mid 1980s Portland’s politicians and developers began referring to the 12 square blocks of rundown buildings, flops houses, gin dives, and wino-populated sidewalks as Old Town. The name didn’t change the horrid place where so many down and out men and women wasted away from cheap wine and bad dope, slept in doorways every night, fought the cops and each other with fists and broken bottles, and bled out on rundown sidewalks and potholed asphalt.

Beneath this wretched part of Portland that many a beat cop called “the place forgotten by God,” lies what the historians called Underground Portland, a series of catacombs and tunnels winding about just below skid row, er, Old Town. From 1850 to the beginning of World War II, the tunnels were used during the days to deliver goods to businesses from ships in the harbor. But after the sun went down, they were used for drugs, illegal booze, prostitution, gambling, and human trafficking. Many a man’s drink was drugged, and upon losing conscious the hapless soul was dropped through a trapdoor into one of the tunnels. When he awoke, he would find himself at sea, having been sold to the highest bidder among various captains. Not all men survived; many died in the tunnels.

Bill and I had just cleared the precinct and were on our way to morning coffee when dispatch changed our plans with a burglary call “with curious circumstances” at Allan’s Café, Second and Davis Street. It’s not good to keep cops from their morning caffeine but duty called.

Allen’s was one of many new businesses springing up in Old Town, which was part of city’s renewal plan to spruce up the area and hopefully capture business from the wealthy folks that worked in the high rises in the city’s core area. We had cruised by the place a few times and had intended to stop by and introduce ourselves, but until now we hadn’t had the opportunity. The small storefront, located at one corner of the building, had been empty for as long as I could remember, its windows too dirty to see in, and its inset doorway urine splashed and strewn with litter.

“That must be the complainant,” Bill said, as I pulled us to the curb in front of Allen’s. The 30-something man was standing in the entryway, his arms crossed, hands cupping his elbows, and his weight shifting from one leg to the other. “Seems wrapped a little tight.”

I greeted him as we got out of our unit, but the man didn’t acknowledge it and continued with the elbow cupping and swaying, his eyes large and … frightened? Bill looked over at me and raised his eyebrows.

Only a few people were out and about on the sidewalks. Half way down the block a sandwich board near the curb read “Tours: Portland Shanghai Tunnels, Daily At 2 P.

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