and masterpieces on our way there. Emotions playing across his face as quickly as a brush dipped into the essence of his soul and painting me a picture of his desires and passions. Rafe is the embodiment of a world I’ve never encountered before. The old-world charisma I’ve read about in books. Poetry and art entangled with something mysterious, which keeps me so captivated.
Soon, we’re before a forbidding pair of black doors. I peek at the multiple signs announcing that what lays ahead isn’t for the faint hearted. A young man opens the doors to us. Giving Rafe a friendly nod, he bustles us inside before disappearing.
My steps falter as I see no one else around. “Where are the other tourists? Aren’t we supposed to have a guide?”
Rafe’s arm curves around my waist, urging me further in as I hesitate. “I’ve arranged a private seeing. I’ve been down here numerous times. You won’t get lost with me; I promise.” He produces a torch from the pocket of his coat and offers it to me. “Just in case you need it.”
Leading me to a spiraling staircase, we descend for what seems like forever. Doing my research before meeting him, I know the catacombs lay in an old quarry. Rafe guides me through a maze of narrow pillared corridors and stone sculptured galleries. We don’t linger in the museum before the catacomb entrance.
I eye the inscription carved above the doorway uneasily. “What does that say?”
“Arréte! C’est ici L’empire de la Mort. Stop. This is the empire of the dead,” Rafe translates, his quiet accented voice making the ominous warning even more sinister. “The bones of more than six million people are housed here. It was created to eliminate the cities overflowing cemeteries. It’s the largest necropolis in the world,” he explains, trying to soothe my anxiety.
I’m more aware of how deep beneath the quaint Parisian streets we are. In a damp, cold, hidden subterranean world of one thousand three hundred miles of sewers, caverns, alleys, and intersections.
“All these souls. Do you think they’re still here?”
“That would be sad, wouldn’t it? Trapped between life and death forced to exist on and on forever.” Sorrow is woven within Rafe’s words that I don’t understand why it makes him so sad. “Parts of the catacombs are forbidden, but people still come down here. They have secret ways in.”
The smell of incense infused, dusty air reminds me of being inside a church mixed with mildew and stagnant water. As we wander within, I’m struck with a morbid sense of fascination. Well-lit skulls and bones have been stacked in perfect symmetric styles. Towers, crosses, and various designs reflect a macabre artwork. Rows and rows of deep piles are on either side of the tiny paths that wind through the tunnels. We roam in silence, Rafe leading the way through the intertwining passageways and rooms. Stopping to turn in a slow circle, I absorb the oppressive atmosphere.
“I feel at home down here among dead things,” Rafe murmurs behind me.
Eyebrows pinching together in disbelief, I frown. “It’s claustrophobic and morose. It’s makes you face your mortality and that nothing lasts forever.”
He doesn’t reply.
Turning, I find him nowhere in sight. “Rafe?”
Silence.
“Rafe?” Fingers of one gloved hand clenching tightly around the torch, I stand still, my ears straining for any thread of sound. Shuffling into the next room, I check around. There’s still no sign of my tall, dark companion. Tension spirals though my limbs, an onset of a panic attack taking root. Where is he? If this is a joke, I don’t like it.
It’s then I catch a noise. Faint at first. Eerie. Low.
Rats? There must be millions of them down here. Beady-eyed and furry.
Listening closely, it morphs into something my frightened brain knows.
Whispering. Voices. Words.
All merged into a growing symphony of sound.
Not French.
Latin.
Rosa di sanguine.
I recognize that much. Hundreds of voices urgent, frightened. They mutter and mumble, the young to the old.
Rosa di sanguine.
Eyes widening in fear, I find no source to it. Disembodied, it only builds around me, invisible and frightening.
Rosa di sanguine.
The bright light fixed in the corner of the tunnel flickers. Backing up in panic, my spine bumps into something hard. A stack of leering skulls greets me as I whirl around. Wiping at my skin in sheer alarm, I try to rid myself of the film of bone dust that coats my head and face from where I’ve disturbed it.
The voices rise in volume, the chant pulsing through my blood and veins. Pressing my hands