#catcombs

My breath began to escape me as I quickly realized the full extent of my situation. The claustrophobic tunnels felt like they were moving in on me, sucking out all of the oxygen in the world. The rock walls felt moist and cold, reminding me of the lack of sunlight that I had been deprived of for the past six hours. I glanced down at my Fitbit, it read to be almost midnight, however, you would never be able to tell down here. The Paris Catacombs are notorious for its eerie history and is frequently a site for tourism. Why I accepted to venture into the historical “Empire of Death” is beyond me. I am frightened by most anything, so this is most certainly a death wish, especially since the adventure would be seven hours.

I began to walk faster so I could catch up with tourists ahead of me. I glanced over to see if they were friendly enough to speak to. The tallest guy in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts was most certainly American, so I decided I would try to make a friend in this death maze.

“You’d think we’d have seen enough human remains after six hours of walking.” The American just kept walking forward, as if I hadn’t just tried to strike up a conversation with him. I cleared my throat. No response. I began to slow down so I wasn’t walking next to this guy anymore. Suddenly I fell to the solid ground screaming. I immediately realized I wasn’t in control of my body when my arms and legs began flailing violently. A sharp, piercing screech rang in my ears, causing me to vomit all over myself. I began to fight against the force placed on my entire body, burning tears beginning to invade my eyes. I tried to scream, but nothing came out, only dead air. It took everything in me to strain my eyes to see the tourists I was just with not only 5 seconds ago. My heart dropped into my stomach when I discovered they were gone. Not even a scuff on the ground was left from the large group. My throat began to tighten and suffocate me, not allowing for a breath of stale air. I began to see spots clouding my vision, and life abandon my body when suddenly I regained control.

I rolled over on my side and began to cry. I pushed myself up on shaky arms and quickly held on to the wall for balance. I wiped the tears from my eyes and grabbed at my throat, desperately trying to find air to breathe.

“Wha the hel-” I hopelessly tried to utter, but all that came out was fractured weezing. I looked around for any signs of people. I began to limp forward to search for the group previously in front of me. I gradually gained speed and saw a person turn a dark corner. I tried to scream but instead began to choke. I saw the group of men I tried to speak to and threw my body at them. Rather than smacking into solid bodies, I felt my head slam into the rock floor. My hand twitched, and my eyes slowly turned to black as I felt blood pour from my forehead.

Blinding white light burned my senses as I slowly became sentient. A violent headache turned my vision into a hellish carousel. “WhaAERE am Iii?” My mouth tasted of silver and cotton. Suddenly, a figure began to shape into view next to me. I realized that the person had been trying to communicate with me for a while now. A piercing ring still buzzed in my ear.

“Sir. Sir, it's alright. You’re okay now. You’re being taken care of.” The voice belonged to a middle-aged, dark-haired, doctor. I couldn’t speak, but let him explain to me what was going on. “You had a nasty convulsion on your tour of the catacombs, I'm sorry to say. You were found twelve hours after you passed out on the floor of the tunnels. A trip into the catacombs alone is very dangerous sir and is highly advised against. You are very lucky to be alive.”

I was perplexed. What the doctor just told me to hurt my head. Alone? Did he say I was alone because I wasn’t, I was with a group?

“I wassn’t allonne.” The sentence tumbled out in a delirium. The doctor stared hard as if mentally diagnosing me.

“Records of the catacombs are acutely calculated with each and every tourist and is updated every hour to keep track of the capacity. For the seven-hour deep catacomb excursion, the only name listed is yours. No one else.”

I began to shrink. I spoke to someone down there, I knew I did.

“However, we did recover your camera and look through the photos you took, sorry for the lack of permission, and we did find this particular image of interest.

I pulled my head down to grasp the image on the camera. The wind was knocked out of me when I realized that in the picture taken during the trip, three men appeared at the turn of a tunnel. The tallest I recognized, the Hawaiian Shirt Guy. I moaned, trying to shout that I spoke to them, that they were on the tour, that I threw my body at them, but the doctor shrugged.

“No worries sir, we’ll fix you right up in no time. The mental ward is an esteemed medical treatment wing in our facility. We’ll be glad to admit you.”

I was confused. Mental Ward? Me? Just because I saw men in the tunnels, and I have proof they appeared in the photo? But then I realized that I had been screaming bloody murder for the past couple minutes. Clawing at my throat and eyes, lashing out at the doctor.

“THEY WERE THERE. I knOWW THEy Y WHErE!!” The doctor restrained my arms as two nurses strapped them down to the bed. Blood filled my mouth as I discovered I bit my tongue. The doctor showed me the photograph once more.

“Sir, I don’t know what you’re seeing, but there are no men in this photo, only writing and blood.”

I looked at the picture again, expecting to see the men when this time seeing something truly horrific. Dark red blood carefully painted on the wall as if on a canvas. A slashed wrist exposed in the photo seemed to be the source of the blood. The writing on the wall was expressed as such, “They are here, they will avenge, they will kill.” Terrified to understand what was happening, I looked down at my left arm only to discover a long bandage vertically placed with care.

        “hello, you can suck it, bitch.”