The Catacombs (A Psychological Suspense Horror Thriller Novel)

by Jeremy Bates

  She stared at me for a long moment, the way a child might when trying to figure out whether you’re pulling his or her leg or not. And that’s what Katja was, wasn’t she? A child. She might have the body of a young teenager, but she was intellectually stunted. Everything she knew came from the books she’d read, or word of mouth from her father. It was all taken on blind faith. Nothing was grounded in gritty experience.

  Slowly, she began shaking her head. I was losing her, I realized, if I’d ever hooked her to begin with. “Katja—”

  “You’re a liar!”

  “Katja, you promised you wouldn’t—”

  She backed away from me. “Liar!”

  “Look at my skin! It’s not like yours. It’s dark. That’s from the sun.”

  She hesitated.

  “Katja, I’m telling you the truth! And I can take you to the surface. I can show you it without a suit.”

  “Stop it!”

  “Please, Katja. If you free me, I’ll take you, I’ll show you—”

  “You’re tricking me!” she yelled. “You just want to escape! You’re a liar, and I hate you!”

  She fled, sobbing, into the blackness.

  Chapter 52

  KATJA

  She should have listened to her father, Katja decided as she slowed to a walk. She should never have visited Will.

  Originally she had only wanted to see what he and his friends looked like. She had not planned on speaking to any of them (and in this way she wouldn’t really be disobeying her father’s orders, would she?). Even when they spoke to her—the woman in French, Will in English—she had not replied. She had wanted to, because Will had fascinated her. With his dark hair and dark eyes, and his nose and mouth, he was how she imagined Prince Caspian to be in The Voyage of the Dawn Trader. Also, after that first encounter, feelings—strange, warm feelings she’d never experienced before—came to life inside her. She had not been able to stop thinking about him, and she’d even imagined she would marry him and become Queen of the Catacombs, just as Ramandu’s daughter married Caspian and became Queen of Narnia.

  So eventually, inevitably, she had gone back to see him again, and even when he lied to her, she had gone back yet again. And she had touched him. That memory shot a shiver of pleasure through her body, made her inner thighs go tingly, though this was quickly followed by a cloud of dejection. Because why had he wanted her to stop? Her uncles touched their penises all the time, and it always made them happy. Had she done something wrong then? Had she hurt him?

  Katja reached her room and rubbed the drying tears from her cheeks. A tarpaulin with “Building Site, No Access” stenciled across the front of it covered the doorway. Her father had installed it there so she could have more privacy. Sometimes her uncles not only touched their own penises, but they wanted her to touch them too. She never felt an urge to do this like she had with Will, however, and during these occasions she would take refuge in her room, where they knew they were not allowed. Before the tarpaulin was in place, they would remain in the doorway and tell her to watch while they played with themselves. Now they left her alone for the most part—except for Hanns. He would simply push the tarpaulin aside. All she could do was turn her back to him and cover her ears with her hands and wait until he left again.

  Inside the room Katja considered going to her bed and lying down, but she still wasn’t tired. Instead she went to her bookcase. She set the candle on a shelf and plucked free one of her favorite books: Anne of Green Gables. It was the longest book she’d ever read, and she was always proud to feel its weight in her hands. She opened the cover. The first two pages displayed the table of contents, while the first chapter, “Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Surprised,” began on the third page.

  Where was the publication date Will mentioned?

  Katja returned the novel to its spot on the shelf and plucked free her next favorite story: The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. A quick look revealed no publication date. She checked a third novel—The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe—and frowned.

  The second page, it seemed, had been torn out. A sliver of it, the edge jagged, poked out from the glue.

  Feeling suddenly sick with something she didn’t like, she opened two dozen other books—The Tale of Peter Rabbit, The Wind in the Willows, Winnie the Pooh, The Velveteen Rabbit, Peter Pan, more—and they all had pages torn out. She had never noticed this before because you really had to look closely to tell.

  Had these missing pages contained the publication dates that Will had mentioned? Who had torn them free? Her father? But why? Because the books had been printed after 1945? But that would mean Paris wasn’t destroyed—or at least some city somewhere wasn’t destroyed. Why would her father not want her to know this?

  Then she recalled what Will had said: Katja, what would you think if I told you Paris wasn’t destroyed in World War Two by nuclear bombs, there is no acid rain or radiation, and there are in fact several million people living there right now?

  Katja went cold all over. She didn’t want to think about this anymore. But she couldn’t stop herself either.

  Paris had been destroyed. It was filled with radiation and acid rain.

  It had to be.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  She was tempted to go and wake her father right then, he would have an answer to why the publication pages were missing, he had answers to everything, but she didn’t go and wake him, because that feeling she didn’t like was still inside her, it was oily and nauseating and she didn’t like it one bit, and it took her a long time to attach a name to what it was: betrayal.

  Katja studied the poster on her wall. Her father had given it to her several years before. It showed Paris in ruin. All the buildings were destroyed and covered in snow, and the Eiffel Tower was broken in half. Along the top of it were the words: “The Day After Tomorrow.” Her father said that’s what people called the day the United States dropped the bombs on Paris. She never understood why it would be called The Day After Tomorrow. Didn’t that mean it happened in the future? Anyway, she never questioned him—and she never questioned why the bottom section of the poster had been torn free.

  Katja stood outside the door to her father’s quarters and listened. She didn’t hear him moving about inside, but that didn’t mean he was sleeping. He could be sitting at his desk, reading. Still, she had to take a chance. She felt as if she were falling apart inside, and she needed to know who to believe, what to believe. She needed to know the truth.

  She pushed open the door and let out the breath she’d been holding. The study was unoccupied. A number of candles burned softly, so she set hers aside. She didn’t like this room because of the bones that covered the walls. Her father told her that her grandfather was responsible for this. She didn’t remember her grandfather, but she’d always secretly hated him. According to her father, just after she was born, her grandfather tried to take their family to the surface without suits. Everybody became sick and returned underground, but the damage was done. They turned crazy and their noses and lips fell off. Only her father was unaffected because he had been smart enough to remain in the catacombs. And since she was so young, he was able to reverse the craziness inside her and raise her like a regular little girl.

  He’s done everything for me, she thought, fighting tears. He wouldn’t lie to me. I shouldn’t be here.

  Katja crept forward. Books were scattered everywhere. She wasn’t allowed to read them because they were for Adults Only. Some appeared really old, while others seemed much newer. She chose a newer one with a scary cover. It was thick and called The Stand. On the fourth page she read: First Anchor Books Mass-Market Edition, June 2011. And below that: Copyright © 1978, 1990 by Stephen King. There were other years on the page as well, but her eyes glossed over them. The print was too small, and her head was spinning.

  The book fell from her hands and hit the floor with a heavy thud. This snapped her from her stupor. Heart racing, she glanced toward the connecting bedroom. When her father didn
’t emerge, she pivoted, intent on leaving. That’s when she spotted an orange bag peeking out from behind her father’s desk. She had never seen it before—it was so bright and new—and she was sure it belonged to Will or one of his friends. She was also sure she needed to see what was inside it.

  She approached silently, stepping as lightly as she could, careful not to bump anything. The stone floor was cool under her bare feet.

  She rounded her father’s desk and discovered four bags in total, all different colors. She knelt before the orange one and unzipped the main pocket. She cringed at the sound the zipper made, but there was nothing she could do to quiet it. She pulled out a red sweatshirt. Beneath this was a black can. She turned it so she could read the label: Bière du Démon. She had never seen this particular beer before, but she had seen several other kinds. Her father drank them often. Like the books in this room, they were for Adults Only. The only other item in the bag was a scrunched piece of white paper. She unfolded it and discovered a list of some sort. She recognized a few of the words—bread, cereal, milk—but not others. Schweppes? Nivea? And what were those numbers on the right?

  Katja stuck this in her tights and unzipped the bag’s smaller pocket. There was a blue wallet inside, what people used to use to hold their money. She opened it and gasped. There were several bills inside. She had never seen actual money before, and she reached for one—

  “Katja, what are you doing?”

  Her lungs locked in her chest. She dropped the wallet back into the pocket and yanked the zipper closed and stood just as her father stormed around the desk.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” he shouted.

  Katja shrank away from him. He had never hit her before like he hit her aunts and uncles, but she was sure he was going to hit her right then.

  “I couldn’t sleep!” she blurted.

  “You know you’re not allowed in here when I’m not up.”

  “I know! I’m sorry! I’m scared!”

  Through the tears that blurred her vision, she saw his face change. The hard lines softened. “What are you scared of?”

  “The visitors! I had a nightmare of them attacking us. That’s why I couldn’t sleep. So I came here, and I saw these bags.”

  “Did you open all of them?”

  “Only that one.”

  Her father picked up the orange bag, took the beer out. “This is all that was in it?”

  “And this.” She handed him the red sweatshirt.

  “Did you go through the other bags?”

  “No, I promise.”

  He tossed the bag aside and held out a hand for her. She took it. He pulled her to her feet and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, my mouse,” he said with a sigh. “But you know better than to come in here when I’m not up. We have rules for a reason. Without rules there would be no order, and without order, there would be chaos.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa. I won’t do it again.”

  “Good. And you have no need to fear the visitors. They’re chained up in the Dungeon. They can’t go anywhere I don’t want them to.”

  Katja wanted to ask him where the woman had gone, because only Will and the other man were in the Dungeon, but that would give away that she had visited them. Instead she asked, “What’s going to happen to them?”

  “Once I speak to them, and make sure they are not a threat to our way of life here, I will return them to where they came from, just as I have done with all the previous visitors.”

  If her father had told Katja this a few hours ago, she would have believed him wholeheartedly. She still wanted to, but she couldn’t.

  She couldn’t believe him about anything anymore.

  “Now,” he said, stifling a yawn with his knuckles, “it is still some time until Colin crows. You can sleep in my bed with me if you wish.”

  “No, I feel better now. I will return to my room.”

  She started for the door.

  “Katja?”

  She paused. “Yes?”

  “I love you. I would never let anybody harm you.”

  “I know, Papa,” she said, fighting a fresh onslaught of tears. “I know.”

  Chapter 53

  DANIÈLE

  Danièle’s “room” was furnished with nothing but a hammock, a plastic table meant for a four year old, a candle melted onto a ceramic plate, and a book of matches. She had waited a couple minutes after Zolan escorted her there, to make certain he was gone, then she stuck her head out the door. The hallway was lit with torches set in wall sconces, and some twenty meters to the right (the hallway ended abruptly to the left) she made out two zombie-men. One stood with his back against the wall, tapping a bone-weapon against his forehead. The other paced back and forth. At every about-turn he would touch a wall with a finger or toe ritualistically.

  Apparently she wasn’t free to do as she wished after all.

  Of course she wasn’t, she thought. How could she have allowed herself to believe this?

  Danièle summoned her nerve and walked toward the zombie-men. She wanted to test her boundaries, but she also needed to find someplace to relieve her bladder and bowels.

  The pacing zombie stopped. His left index finger remained pressed to the wall, as if he were ringing a doorbell. He stared at her, though she couldn’t read anything in his hellish face. The one tapping his head with the bone stared too, then licked the end of the bone with his tongue. Danièle didn’t know if this was sexual innuendo or an unconscious act, but it made her want to turn around and return to her room.

  She didn’t. She kept her back straight, her chin high. She was sure Zolan would have warned them not to touch her. But the question was: would they obey him? Zombies did whatever they wanted, didn’t they?

  Zombie #1 with the wall fetish didn’t move to let her pass, and she was forced to stop directly before him. He stank. She couldn’t remember ever smelling something so vile. There was the feces and urine and body odor, but there was something else mixed with all this, a peaty rottenness she associated with bogs. She guessed he was anywhere between forty and sixty. He was mostly bald, with greasy tufts of white hair sprouting above his ears. He had the normal disfigurements (God, was she already beginning to think no nose or lips as “normal?”), and his albino-white skin was etched with burst capillaries and scabs and smeared with mud. He wore a torn Rolling Stones T-shirt and frayed track pants soiled in the groin and knees. The body beneath the clothes seemed lean and hard.

  She stepped right, to go around him. He matched her step. She went left; he went left. Zombie #2 issued a wobbly bellow that she assumed to be a laugh. Zombie #1 joined him, laughing in her face.

  His breath was so foul she acted without thinking, shoving him aside so she could get past and get fresh air. When she realized what she’d done, she expected him to grab a fistful of her hair and drag her back to her room like cavemen did in the Sunday morning comics. He didn’t, and she kept walking, staring straight ahead as she passed Zombie #2.

  Danièle didn’t know if they were following her, she couldn’t hear them if they were, but she didn’t check. She didn’t want to show uncertainty, which would be interpreted as weakness. She went straight until a secondary hallway broke off from the one she followed. This led to Zolan’s study, she knew from memory. As she glanced down it, she saw in her peripheral vision that the two zombie-men had indeed followed her. They hovered about ten yards back.

  She resumed walking and came to another intersecting corridor, this one unlit. She paused at it. Make a dash into the darkness? No. She wouldn’t get far. The zombies would catch her. They would tell Zolan she attempted to escape. Whatever privileges she had been afforded would likely be withdrawn. She needed to be patient, wait for a better opportunity.

  She continued straight and after several minutes arrived at what seemed to be a kitchen of sorts. It was a large room with a high ceiling and a central fire pit, the embers within the circle of rocks glowing hotly. The air smelled of smoke and st
ale produce. Lining the walls were homemade shelves that overflowed with boxes and containers. On the ground sat a basket of potatoes, and another of mushrooms. On a crudely constructed table were an assortment of pots and pans, plates and bowls. And scattered everywhere: junk. Broken chairs, slabs of wood, sheets of rusted metal, a stack of flattened cardboard boxes.

  She entered the room reverently, as you would enter somewhere you were not supposed to be—and sensed movement from the shadows. A zombie-woman sat among a pile of trash. She watched Danièle but didn’t say anything. She held her gnarled hands tightly against her sunken chest. Her head was cocked to one side. Through a gap where several teeth had once been, her tongue protruded like a worm, liver red, running back and forth over her gums. She cackled, almost as if she were trying to speak. She repeated the cackle at intervals, cricket-like. From ahead, through an arched doorway, a loud, terrible groan responded.

  Danièle recoiled a step, then dashed back past the zombie-men, all the way to her room.

  The rest of the day passed with excruciating slowness. A zombie-woman—a different one than the decrepit thing that had made those cricket noises—brought Danièle breakfast a little after the rooster cock-a-doodle-dooed again: eggs scrambled with mushrooms and a cup of black tea. Danièle was hesitant to eat the eggs, but her hunger proved too great. Afterward she used the plate and spoon to dig a hole in the corner of the room to serve as a latrine. She had no toilet paper and felt disgustingly dirty after she did her business, but what could she do?

  Sometimes the zombie-men in the hallway made loud noises, which she assumed passed for communication, but for the most part they were quiet, and when she checked on them, sedentary. They simply sat and stared, the way old people in nursing homes sat and stared at the same spot on the wall.

  Danièle wanted to stay awake, stay alert, but her eyelids turned impossibly heavy, and she dozed off in the hammock. She woke later to Zolan standing in the entrance to the room.