The Catacombs (A Psychological Suspense Horror Thriller Novel)

by Jeremy Bates

  “Drink,” he said in French. “It will make you feel better, and we have a lot to talk about.”

  Danièle didn’t want to accept the water. She didn’t want anything from Zolan, but her throat was parched, and she couldn’t resist.

  Her wrists, she realized belatedly, were no longer manacled behind her back. They were wrapped in white cotton gauze, tinged red with blood from the abrasions beneath. Smears of petroleum jelly covered the nicks and cuts on her hands. Her right arm was sore to move, the skin bruised purple along the forearm, but she no longer believed it was fractured.

  She took the glass and sipped. The water was divine! She gulped the rest back and wiped her mouth with her hand.

  “Would you like more?” Zolan asked her.

  Danièle set the glass on the desk and shook her head.

  “I want to begin with an apology,” he said. “Your friend, I’m sorry about what happened.”

  Pascal! Poor Pascal. She wanted to feel anger, but she only felt empty—empty and frightened and hopelessly confused. “He is dead,” she stated monotonously.

  “If I were here earlier, it would not have happened—”

  “Where is Will?”

  “Macaroni?”

  Tears sprung to Danièle’s eyes. Had she only recently nicknamed him that? How could their fortunes have changed so dramatically in such a short amount of time? “Yes…him,” she managed. “Where is he? Is he alive—?”

  “He is fine. He is resting.”

  Relief washed through her. “And Rob?”

  “Roast Beef, yes. He is resting also.”

  “You keep saying ‘resting.’” She frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

  “They are breathing fine.”

  “But they are unconscious?”

  “Yes.”

  “They need medical attention.”

  “They’ll come around.”

  “You are not a doctor!”

  “I know you’re upset… What’s your name—your real name?”

  Danièle considered not telling Zolan, but that would accomplish nothing. Her best chance of getting out of here alive, getting Will and Rob out alive too, was through cooperation, throwing herself at his mercy.

  “Danièle,” she muttered. “My name is Danièle.” Hearing her voice so weak, so subservient, plunged her into despair. Her entire body began shaking.

  “It’s okay,” Zolan told her. “You’re okay now. Your friends are okay—”

  “Pascal is dead!” she said shrilly, and buried her face in her hands. She squeezed her eyes shut and succumbed to wracking sobs.

  Gradually, however, the tightness in her chest lessened, and she got her breathing under control. She rubbed the tears from her cheek and saw that Zolan had lit a cigarette. Smoke swirled around his head in a bluish membrane. He was studying her in a way she didn’t like.

  “Are you German?” she asked him.

  “I am a French citizen,” he said.

  “You spoke German to those…”

  “My parents were German,” he said, nodding. “They taught the language to me. It is the only language my brothers and sisters understand.”

  It took a moment for Danièle to clue in to his meaning. “Those things are your siblings?”

  “Some, yes. Others are nieces and nephews. Others still, grandnephews and grandnieces.”

  She shook her head and thought she might burst into sobs again. Instead she blurted, “What happened to them? Their lips and noses—did you do that?”

  “Of course I didn’t.”

  “Then who…?”

  “My father,” Zolan said, shifting his weight on the desk as if to get comfortable.

  “Your father?”

  Zolan nodded. “He was a Waffen-SS Sturmbannführer in World War Two. He served as a senior intelligence officer in Paris, helped that lunatic Alois Brunner ship one hundred forty thousand Jews to the gas chambers, and had a hand in the execution of thirty SAS prisoners of war captured during Operation…Bulbasket, I believe they called it.” He tapped ash from the cigarette into the silver ashtray next to him. “Needless to say, after the Allied Forces liberated Paris, he had a high price on his head. Instead of trying to flee the city, as many SS personnel did, he and a handful of others went underground—literally. They gathered their families and whatever supplies they could carry, and they fled into the catacombs. The men surfaced every few nights to pilfer more supplies. Back then there were hundreds of different ways to enter—and exit—the catacombs. They could pop up in any part of the city they wanted and be gone again before anyone knew they were there.”

  Zolan took a final drag of the cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. “Initially they planned to remain hidden for a few months,” he said. “By then, they thought, the Allies would be out of France, people would begin rebuilding their lives and the city, and fugitive Germans would be all but forgotten about. This, of course, was not the case, and by the time the Nuremberg Trials finished, they had been underground for roughly two years. Everyone but my father wanted to take a chance on escaping to Syria, or South America. When he realized he couldn’t convince the others to stay, he slit their throats while they slept, my mother’s too, sparing only the children, who he raised alongside myself. It was a precautionary measure. He had feared they would be captured and give up the location of the hideout.”

  Danièle was listening to all this with a mixture of rapt attention and relief—the latter because the fact Zolan was sharing such information with her meant he likely wasn’t going to kill her. What was the point in educating only to execute?

  “So you are telling me,” she said, with gathering composure, “that these people who attacked us, who killed Pascal, they are the descendants of Nazi war criminals?”

  Zolan nodded.

  “But surely your father could have left with the children at some point?”

  “I agree. If he had wanted to.”

  “Why wouldn’t he want to?”

  “Because he had already begun to lose his mind. He didn’t tell me this, naturally. I was still a child then. But he kept a daily journal, which I have read many times. After the massacre, his entries devolved into a stream of consciousness. He would switch from topic to topic erratically, chronicle his day in one paragraph, go on a religious or political rant in the next. Soon the entries were nothing but illegible scribbles. Living underground in constant fear of discovery, isolated from society, lacking intellectual companionship, never seeing the sun…” Zolan shrugged. “I am not surprised he went crazy. I’m not surprised any of them went crazy.”

  “Except you.”

  “Except me.”

  “Why?”

  “Where did you grow up, Danièle?”

  She blinked. “Me? Halle. In Saxony-Anhalt, Germany.”

  “Did you have a good childhood?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  “I did too,” he said. “Are you surprised by that? Life in the catacombs, you see, was the only life the other children and myself knew. We had none of the baggage my father had. No friends or family to miss. No memories of the atrocities he had committed. No fears of capture and execution. In contrast we played games. We explored the tunnels. We had the weekly Franco-Belgium magazines like Spirou and Tintin that my father brought back from his supply runs.

  “For a child, it was acceptable. But the mind grows; the world becomes smaller. Despite being indoctrinated to the dangers of leaving the safety of the catacombs, my siblings and I—or my adopted siblings, I should say—began talking in secret about visiting the streets above us. Nevertheless, before we acted on this, I lost my nerve and confessed our plans to my father. He beat my two brothers and two sisters to within inches of their lives. Then, in our former playroom, what we began to refer to as the Dungeon, he installed four chains, one in each corner—”

  “The same chains…?” she said.

  “Yes—the same ones that held you and your friends. My brothers and sisters remained impriso
ned there for what might have been months. I took care of them the best I could, though my oldest brother, Albert, became sick and passed away. This convinced my father to release them, though to make sure they never tried to escape again, he performed his fait accompli.”

  “He cut off their noses and lips.”

  “Turning them into monsters that would never be accepted by society.” Zolan shook his head. “They had no medicine for the pain. They couldn’t eat or drink properly. They moaned all day and all night. They were regressing before my eyes, losing their humanity. The guilt born from the fact that I had caused this had been too much to bear—it had all been too much—and I had to leave or I would go crazy myself. So that’s what I did. I left.”

  “And…?” she said.

  “And what?”

  “What happened next?”

  He shrugged. “Life happened.”

  Chapter 50

  ZOLAN

  It had taken Zolan several days to find a way out of the catacombs on his own, but he eventually discovered a drainage culvert that led to a blinding white light. He had never forgotten taking those first steps into that light and being overwhelmed with unfamiliar sensations: the breeze on his face, the heat of the afternoon summer sun on his pale skin, the smell of grasses and wildflowers, the sound of birds and crickets chirping. He must have stared at the sky, the sun, the drifting clouds, for a full hour without moving.

  And then there was the city of Paris itself! He had seen pictures of it in the weekly magazines, but they couldn’t compare to the real thing. The people, the restaurants, the churches, the traffic, the size of the city, the speed of it.

  Zolan didn’t have to worry about revealing his German heritage, because nobody wanted anything to do with a barefoot, wild-eyed gypsy wandering the streets in cartographic anarchy.

  For the first week he survived by rooting through garbage bins for scraps of food and sleeping in parks at nighttime. Then early one morning he was apprehended by a shopkeeper when he attempted to steal a freshly baked baguette. When he refused to answer any of the shopkeeper’s questions, the man summoned the police. Because he still refused to speak, and he possessed no identification, he was sent to a Catholic orphanage run by a congregation of women known as the Grey Sisters.

  Zolan didn’t know how old he was then—his father had never celebrated any of his or his siblings’ birthdays—but based on the fact he had been born sometime around the end of the war, he guessed he was twelve or thirteen. The other boys at the orphanage were always complaining that there was never enough food, or there was no hot water, but he was in luxury. He had a soft bed of his own (where he hid any extra food he scavenged during the days), he had donated clothes (who cared if they didn’t fit), and he had a small wooden bowl in which to “do his duties” (which was a lot easier than digging a hole). Everyone believed he was deaf and dumb and left him alone. He was fine with that. He quietly learned French and English, he devoured whatever books he could get ahold of, and he made friends with a dog that came by every now and then. He was happy.

  When Zolan was thought to be sixteen, he was considered a man and sent into the world. That was in 1960. He got a job shining shoes, he got heavy into alcohol, and he killed a man. It had been an accident. He’d only wanted the man’s wallet, but the dumb fuck had refused to hand it over and tried to run. Zolan left Paris and traveled much of France: hitchhiking, sneaking onto trains without a ticket, sometimes simply walking on foot. He stayed in Emmaüs shelters, psychiatric institutions, detox centers. Occasionally he found odd jobs as a mason or metal worker. He spent whatever money he made on booze and tranquilizers.

  Five years later his past caught up with him. He was back in Paris, and after a late night bar fight he was arrested and charged with assault. While he was in police custody awaiting arraignment, an off-duty inspector thought he fit the description of the suspect who had stabbed to death an up-an-coming politician in 1961, and sure enough his fingerprints matched those collected at the scene of the crime. He was found guilty of first-degree murder, sentenced to eighteen years in prison, and released on parole after ten. He’d been free less than two months when he killed a prostitute. He didn’t remember doing it. But housekeeping in a shitty motel found him passed out on the bed with a dead hooker. This time he was given a life sentence and released after twenty-one years. It was 1997, and he was fifty-three years old.

  Zolan found work stocking shelves at a Carrefour, kept on the right side of the law, began his love affair with the red light districts, and led a fairly uneventful life for the next two years. That’s when he began thinking about the catacombs again, and finding his way back to where he had grown up. He didn’t believe his father or siblings would be alive. But he hoped he might find out what happened to them. Get closure of some sort—the type of thing you began caring about more and more the older you get.

  So trusting a jumble of research and rumors, he made his way to a specific tunnel underground and followed it to its source: the basement of the Ministry of Telecommunications. He wedged himself between horizontal bars blocking the passage and ascended a staircase to the security office on the building’s ground floor. A logbook indicated the guards were off patrolling. He took a spare key ring and combed the building until he discovered what he had come for at the bottom of a desk drawer: maps of the ministry’s citywide network of tunnels. He stole a copy of each map, returned the key ring to the security office, and left through the ministry’s grand front door onto an empty avenue de Ségur.

  Even with the maps, however, which Zolan transcribed into one grand map (and had been improving upon ever since), it took him three years until he found his way home.

  And what was waiting for him there.

  Zolan refilled Danièle’s glass of water, which was somewhat awkward because he had the mother of all erections. It had started ten minutes before when she had been sobbing and bent over in such a way he could see down the throat of her shirt to her cleavage. He’d considered fucking her then and there—who was to stop him?—but he didn’t, and he was glad he didn’t. Because he was enjoying this interaction, this power trip, even more. She feared him, which meant she respected him. She knew he was her only hope of returning to the surface. She would do anything he wanted her to do. So why take something when he could have it given freely?

  Zolan’s erection became harder still while Danièle sipped the water and waited obediently for him to proceed.

  “After I found my way out of the catacombs as a child, I didn’t return to them for nearly half a century,” he told her, retaking his seat on the edge of the desk, adjusting himself discreetly. “And when I did, and I made my way back here…how do I explain? It was hard to comprehend what had transpired in my absence. My father was still alive. He was roughly eighty years old then, and if you saw him on the streets of Paris, you would have thought he was mad as a hatter. And he was. But he was still functioning—and providing. Over the decades he had continued to make trips to the surface to gather food and supplies for not only my brother and two sisters but for the four generations that followed through inbreeding.

  “This had become his kingdom of sorts—though he was a king of fools, because he gave up any effort to educate or civilize his children or their children or their grandchildren. He knew what would happen if he did. They would leave him for the world above. He would be alone. And being a king of fools was better than being a king of none, I suppose.”

  Danièle said, “But you said they understood German?”

  Zolan nodded. “I should qualify that. They understand words. Pronouns and verbs mostly. ‘Me want’ or ‘you go’—stuff any three or four year old picks up. That’s about as far as most of them have matured intellectually.”

  “How could they live like that?”

  “Because they didn’t know any better, Danièle. They didn’t—and still don’t—understand anything is missing from their lives.”

  “So what do they do day after day?”


  Zolan shrugged. “What our ancestors did for millions of years. They obey instinct. They eat, they shit, they fight, they sleep, and they fuck—oh, do they like to fuck. They’re like rabbits. Had they been raised in more sanitary conditions there would be twice as many of them.”

  “And they kill,” Danièle said.

  “To them, you and your friends were intruders.”

  “Why not kill us on sight then? Why chain us up and fight us?”

  “For sport,” he said simply.

  “Sport?”

  “Entertainment.”

  “But you just said they’re animals—”

  “I never said they’re animals.”

  “You said—”

  “They function on instinct. But they still have emotions, for emotions are merely the awareness of instincts. They cry, they laugh, they get bored. They have their needs and wants, just like you or I.”

  “Which include killing innocent people?”

  Zolan shrugged again. “We are all savages at heart, Danièle. We are inherently a violent species. We commit wars, genocide, murder. That is why every society is built upon the foundation of law and punishment. We cannot trust ourselves. We need to be kept in line.”

  “Did they do the same to you as they did to us when you arrived?”

  “Imprison me? No—I was the first outsider they ever encountered, and they were too surprised to do anything of the sort before my father recognized me. He was dying then, and he believed my return was a preordained event. I was the son who had returned to inherit his kingdom. I remained for a week, then came back every few days after that, bringing supplies—proper supplies. My father had scrounged from alleyways and trash bins whereas I brought groceries from the supermarket. I was quickly embraced by everyone here. When my father died, I took over.”

  “And this is what you want?” Danièle said, gesturing vaguely.

  “What is wrong with this?” Zolan replied with a faint smile. “Here, I am free—categorically free.” He stood decisively. “Now, I imagine you are exhausted. You need to rest. I will take you to your room.”