The Catacombs (A Psychological Suspense Horror Thriller Novel) by Jeremy Bates

in front of her nose even though the smell had yet to
reach us and couldn’t be much worse than the stink of urine. “I
really hate that guy, you know?”
    “After you,” I said.
    “No, you must go next so I can push you in
case you get stuck.”
    I stared at her. “In case I get stuck?”
    She smiled. “You will be fine. Now go. Just
watch your hands for glass.”
    I waded through the rubbish and stood in
front of the main entrance to the catacombs, which was little more
than a crack. Cool air sighed out of it.
    Setting aside my reservations, I slipped off
my backpack, pushed it into the shaft ahead of me, and followed it
into the blackness.

Chapter 8
EXTRACT FROM THE SUNDAY TELEGRAPH , JULY
29, 2011
    Three British Men Feared Lost in Paris
Catacombs
     
    Paris police headquarters have reported that
three Britishnationals went missing in the Paris catacombs late
Monday while exploring with friends.
     
    When they didn’t return to the surface,
their friends alerted police, who have spent several days searching
for the missing men without success.
     
    Gaspard Philipe, of the police unit that
monitors the ancient quarry tunnels, said on RTL radio Friday that
anyone considering entering the tunnels should understand the
dangers.
     
    “It is not only off limits to the public, it
is dangerous. You can get lost. There are cave-ins. You don’t know
who you might run into. If you want to see the catacombs, there is
a section open to the public as a museum for a very reasonable
admission fee.”
     
    The network of tunnels beneath the capital
is said to extend more than 300 kilometers (186 miles) and reach
depths of 30 meters (100 feet), too deep for phone coverage. Some
passageways are large enough that ten men can walk abreast and not
touch the sides, while others are so small that those who enter
them must squirm forward on their bellies.

Chapter 9
    It was a tight fit, and Christ if I didn’t
have to squeeze my shoulders together so I could progress forward.
I flashed on those scenes in movies in which you see someone
struggling through a ventilation conduit, only here the passage was
unpredictable and dirty and potentially deadly.
    Then it twisted and angled downward. At
first I was able to control my descent. But the pitch dropped
suddenly and steeply, and I found myself skidding on my stomach,
the way kids hydroplane on a Slip ’n Slide. I must have gone
fifteen or twenty feet before friction slowed me. Ahead I saw light
other than mine. I dragged myself out of the small opening, my ribs
aching, spitting dust from my mouth.
    Rob pulled me to my feet. “Thanks,” I told
him, looking around. The inky-black tunnel was maybe four feet wide
and equally high. Rob stood stooped over. I had to pretty much
squat. The passage had collapsed to the left of us, leaving a
jumble of large boulders and smaller rocks, so there was only one
direction in which to go. The air smelled of mold and dampness,
making me think of waterparks. It was cooler than it had been
outside, maybe fifty-five or sixty degrees.
    “Rascal went on ahead,” Rob told me.
    “Rascal?” I said distractedly, brushing
chalky beige dirt from my clothes.
    “That’s what I’ve always called him. I never
heard of that Chess shit before tonight.”
    Danièle’s LED light winked from inside the
hole, drawing our attention. A moment later she slipped out more
gracefully than I had. I helped her into a crouch. She smiled.
“Fun, yes?”
    “A hoot,” I said.
    “Good. But I am serious when I say we must
all stay close. You must not stray. This place, it is not like a
labyrinth. It is a labyrinth.”
    “Have you told Pascal that?”
    “He will be ahead in the rest room. We
should join him.”
    “In the restroom?” I said.
    “What is wrong?”
    “Maybe he wants his privacy.”
    “Do not be silly.”
    She duck-walked ahead. Rob and I exchanged
glances and followed.
    We found Pascal fifty feet onward. I had
misinterpreted Danièle. He wasn’t in a