Short Stories

Parisian Catacombs

Walking down the decrepit, winding. hallways I began to have an oncoming sense of dread. Shadows seem to stalk behind me and nothing seems natural. I could feel the smells, the dry yet almost moist smell that seems to cling to death, wrapping around with its dark tendrils into my nose. Water drips from an unknown source and I find myself lost in these ever twisting passages. Something is stalking me, I can feel it, maybe it's the paranoia settling into the darkest corners of my mind. 36% flashed my phone as I checked for signal for what felt like the 100th time. It was fading fast, as was my hope. Was that my fate now? To become one of the million decaying bodies down here?
I walked faster, with each step, I could feel my heartbeat speed up. " What if there's no end?" I thought, almost in tears, "No, keep going." I recalled a quote by some famous philosopher. Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness. "So much darkness," I thought.It's here, behind me, just out of sight. I'm not sure what it is yet, but, it's there. It's been there since I came down here.
I never truly knew what people meant by the smell of death, before I came down here. It's a rotting smell, it seems to be the odor equivalent of hopelessness and regret. A horrid smell. A smell that seems to tell you there is no escape.
The ceiling seems to be getting lower the deeper I go. I should turn back. Which way is back? I can't remember. "Just turn around," I think, "No, it will get me, it's right behind me," I sigh, "How paranoid must I be?" Yet, I don't turn around. I keep hoping for a light at the end of the tunnel. Light seems a stranger to me now. My flashlight is getting dimmer by the second. I approached a small sign against a wall of skulls and bones, Les morts sont beaucoup plus nombreux que les vivants, nous devons faire de notre mieux pour être gentils. I learned a little French before I came here, it said something about the dead out numbering the living and how we must be kind. The French were always so overdramatic.
1 bar. flashed my phone screen as I checked it again. I nearly cried. Hope. Maybe there was hope. 112. "112, quelle est votre urgence?" I choked.
"Hi. Yes, I'm in the catacombs, I'm lost, I'm running out of time." I said frantically, crying. The ceiling kept getting lower, the old bricks scratched my fingers as I clawed at them. The darkness kept closing in.
"Pardon? Parles vous français?" I nearly cried. I didn't nearly speak enough French to carry out a conversation like this.
"Oui, um, je suis catacombs, uh, no, that's not right."
"Pardon? Quelle est votre urgence?"
"There's no way out. No, there must be. You're not thinking straight." I tell myself. The walls, they're closing in. The dank dirt floors scratch my skin as I fall to my knees, "You're not thinking straight. I shouldn't have left the group, why did I even do that? How did I even get here." I realized I didn't remember anything that happened after I went into the catacombs up until I checked my phone at 36%, or, was it 35%? It hardly mattered now. Nothing mattered now. It was coming closer. Of course it was, it had been this whole time.
"Madam? Êtes-vous là?" My phone rasped. The battery was almost at 0% now. As it died, so did my hope. It came closer, I still didn't know what it was. I'd never know now.
"You're not thinking straight. You're not... thinking..."
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Hey, thanks for reading! If you have any prompts or want me to make any of these into full stories, let me know.