World's Scariest Places: Volume One (Suspense Horror Thriller & Mystery Novel): Occult & Supernatural Crime Series: Suicide Forest & The Catacombs

by Jeremy Bates

  “I love America,” the man said, flashing a bright white smile. “Especially your movies. Batman, what a guy.”

  His buddies had yet to do anything more than stare myopically ahead. One had a wormy red scar that followed his left smile line. The other had a drooping mouth corner.

  Danièle said, “Nous partons—”

  “Shut your mouth, whore,” Ed Harris snapped. “I wasn’t speaking to you.”

  I blinked, shocked into silence.

  “Yo, whale shit,” Rob snarled. “That’s my sister-in-law. Watch your mouth.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Harris said calmly.

  “You better believe it.”

  “You do not know who I am, do you?”

  “You’re a joke,” I said.

  Danièle touched my arm. “Will, stop.”

  “Yes, you know who I am, don’t you, chérie?” Harris said to her.

  She nodded. “Le Diable Peint.”

  “Merci, mon amour.” He glared at Rob, then me. “Maybe if you and you knew what your friend knows, you would show more respect. For I should warn you, messieurs, that I am not partial to the aegis of ignorance.”

  I turned my back to the guy. Danièle and Pascal appeared pale, even in the weak candlelight. Rob had his manic grin on again, which I was glad to see.

  I said, “We’re wasting our time here—”

  Abruptly Danièle and Pascal’s eyes sprang open in alarm. Rob’s grin vanished.

  Frowning, I turned back to the Painted Devil, and discovered he now held a matte-black pistol in his hand, pointed at me.

  Chapter 17

  PASCAL

  Pascal could hear his heartbeat in his head, the way you could when nursing a really bad hangover, and he felt strangely light, as if he were floating. He would have run already, his legs wanted to, but the Painted Devil and the other two stood between him and the exit. His eyes darted around the room. There was nowhere else to flee to. They were trapped.

  At least the pistol wasn’t aimed at him. He had never seen one up close before, and it filled him with a sickening dread. One wrong move on his part, a jumpy finger on the Painted Devil’s part, that’s all it would take, and he would be lying on the ground, bleeding into the sand.

  Pascal realized he was frozen with fear, and he had to work his throat to swallow. He licked his suddenly dry lips.

  Maybe Will would attack the Painted Devil, he thought hopefully. He was the biggest one here. He should be the one to try that.

  He would probably get shot first, but it might give the rest of them a chance to get away.

  Chapter 18

  “Whoa, man,” I said, raising my hands. “What are you doing?” Although I was facing down a lunatic with a gun, I was surprised to find myself not so much afraid as calmly alert.

  “Getting your attention,” Ed Harris said.

  “You have our attention. No need for guns.”

  “Who am I?” he demanded with bright malice. His blue eyes were chips of ice. His jaw was clenched tight, causing his right cheek to twitch. In fact, he was one tightly wound coil, everything about him screaming, “Deranged.”

  How had I not noticed this before? I wondered. But the answer was simple. I had been distracted by the silly uniforms, and cocky because I believed we had the strength advantage.

  “The Painted Devil,” I said.

  “Then address me as such!”

  I cleared my throat. “There’s no need for guns…Painted Devil.”

  “Tell me what you are doing here.”

  “In the catacombs?” I kept my voice even. I didn’t want him to interpret anything I said as insolence or sarcasm. Who knew what would set his trigger finger off? Prowling the catacombs dressed as a Nazi and carrying a pistol—the guy should be locked away in a mental asylum. I said, “I’ve never been here before. My friends wanted to show it to me. We’re exploring.”

  “Address me properly!”

  “Painted Devil,” I said promptly, raising my hands higher. “We’re exploring, Painted Devil.”

  He took a snarly breath, wiped the hand holding the flashlight across his mouth, looked at Danièle. “Is this true, mon amour?”

  “Oui, Diablo Peint.”

  “You,” he said to Pascal. “How often do you come here?”

  “Des fois, Diablo Peint.”

  “You have heard of me too?”

  “Oui, Diablo Peint.”

  “Then you should know how I detest Ravioli like you. You are pigs. You desecrate this area. My home.” He was scowling, his blue eyes dancing madly. “How would you like it if stupid ugly pigs came into your home and shit on your floors and painted on your walls?” He leveled the pistol at Pascal’s head. “Answer me!”

  Pascal’s face melted into a plea. His mouth hung open, but he didn’t say anything. Either he couldn’t find his voice or didn’t understand what the Devil was spewing.

  I said, “We wouldn’t like it, Painted Devil.”

  He swung the pistol back at me. “Of course you wouldn’t. You would call the police. They would arrest the pigs.” He wiped his hand across his mouth again. “Do you know what the police do to the pigs they find here?”

  “They fine them,” Danièle said softly.

  “Yes, mon amour, they fine them. But these quarries are very large, they cannot find every pig, this is why I help them, why I help them help me. I fine each Ravioli I come across for their transgression.”

  “You want money, Painted Devil?” Rob said. “We got cash.”

  He scowled. “I don’t want money. I don’t need money. But I will take something else. Your batteries. All of them—right now.” He waved the pistol between us. “Do not keep me waiting!”

  “We won’t be able to see,” I said, adding belatedly, “Painted Devil.”

  He grinned that white smile. “Exactly.”

  Reluctantly—there was no other option with a pistol trained on you—we retrieved our helmets from where we had set them on the limestone bench and popped the headlamp batteries free. Wormface collected them from each of us, sticking them in his pockets.

  “Your bags,” the Devil said. “Dump out your bags.”

  Cursing under my breath—I had been hoping these would be overlooked—I unzipped my backpack’s main pocket and upended it in front of me. Wormface confiscated the brand new Energizers I had brought. He moved on to Danièle, Rob, and finally Pascal.

  The Devil continued smiling; he was obviously enjoying this. “Well? Where are they? Give me your lighters too.”

  For a moment I considered telling the asshole that we didn’t have any. But then how were the goddamn tealights burning? I glanced at the others—and remembered Pascal stuffing the map down his pants…and Danièle the lighter down hers. They must have heard of shit like this happening before.

  At least we’ll have one lighter to help us find our way out again.

  I took the yellow Bic from my pocket and tossed it to Wormface.

  “Who else?” the Devil asked.

  “Only me,” I said.

  He nodded to Wormface, who searched us one by one. He gave the Devil a shrug. All clear.

  The Devil nodded and focused on Danièle. She fidgeted, looking anywhere but at him.

  “Look at me,” he told her.

  She did so hesitantly.

  “You are very beautiful, chérie. It is a shame to cover up that beauty. Take off your clothes.”

  “You motherfucker!” Rob said, clenching his hands into fists, his shoulders and neck muscles bunching into ropy knots.

  I tensed more than I already was and calculated my chances of tackling the Devil successfully. But this thought came and went in a flash. It was too risky. He was a good ten feet away. He could put a bullet in me before I got halfway to him.

  “Please try,” the Devil hissed, brandishing the pistol between Rob and me. “Please. Someone. I am waiting.”

  “It is okay,” Danièle said hollowly, to no one in particular. She stepped out of
her waders, kicking them aside, then pulled her T-shirt off, revealing a flower-patterned bra. She dropped the tee on the ground and unbuttoned her jeans, shoving them down her thighs.

  I met Rob’s eyes over her head and read in them what he was thinking: He can’t take both of us out. That probably wasn’t true, but I was keyed up on adrenaline. I couldn’t stand there and do nothing. I gritted my teeth and nodded imperceptibly.

  “What is this?” the Devil exclaimed. He was referring to the hidden lighter outlined against the thin fabric of Danièle’s panties. “Let me see—” Abruptly he cocked his head to one side, the way nutty people do when listening to nonexistent voices. But then I heard it too.

  Music.

  Chapter 19

  It was some sort of techno-pop, and it wasn’t very far away. That was the thing with sound down here. It didn’t travel. As we’d discovered with the Painted Devil and his cohorts, you didn’t know anyone was there until they were almost upon you.

  I glanced at Rob, wondering if we should charge, or wait to see what happened next.

  The Devil acted first. He fired the pistol at the ground.

  There was a loud report. I instinctively dove to one side, half expecting another shot to follow, this one accompanied by scorching pain.

  There was none—only a brilliant red light burning a few feet away. Billows of smoke wafted from it, quickly filling the cavern.

  A flare! He was holding a goddamn flare gun.

  I stumbled away from the hissing, fiery flash, my dark-adjusted eyes temporarily blinded.

  “Where’d he go?” Rob shouted from somewhere nearby.

  “Don’t know!” I replied. The heat was intense, the air acrid with a sulfur/tar stench. I covered my nose with my arm.

  Danièle appeared beside me, carrying her clothes. “Will, this way!”

  Head down, I followed her until we passed into the next room. Rob and Pascal bowled into us from behind, almost knocking me over.

  “Where is he?” Rob demanded, spinning in a wild circle.

  “Gone,” I said. Spangles of light still danced before my eyes.

  “Fuck!”

  The music was loud and tinny now. Flashlight beams arced through the darkness twenty feet away. They zeroed in on us.

  “Qui est-ce?” Pascal called, holding his arm in front of his face, squinting.

  The voice that floated back was not one I wanted to hear.

  Dreadlocks and his two buddies approached us wearily. A cell phone dangled around Dreadlock’s bullish neck by a lanyard. He tapped the screen. The music stopped.

  Apparently the bad blood between us was forgotten, at least temporarily, as they seemed only interested in discovering what all the kafuffle was about. Pascal obliged their curiosity, talking excitedly and making elaborate gestures. I caught “Le Diable Peint” several times. The scuba guys hung onto every word, interrupting with questions or exclamations of disbelief. Then Pascal made a clapping noise and a vanishing gesture, apparently describing how the Devil had made his escape.

  Dreadlocks looked at Danièle. She had pulled her clothes back on and was now stepping into her waders. He said, “Tu va bien?”

  She nodded. “Ça va”

  He turned to me. “You know what? I think, after this, you are touriste no more.” He grinned broadly, proud of this generous proclamation. “You know what else? Because I punch your face, I feel bad, I give you gift.”

  I frowned suspiciously.

  “What?” he said. “You no want gift?”

  “Depends what it is.”

  “Batteries!” he announced, whacking me good-naturedly on the shoulder with a meaty paw. “We have many extras, and you have none.”

  After much consulting and comparing of maps, Pascal and my new pal Dreadlocks determined that we were all going in the same direction and would thus travel together—so explained Danièle, my translator in all the goings-on.

  As we refilled our backpacks and installed the gifted batteries in our headlamps, Danièle went on to tell me that there was a room with a Norman castle and gargoyles nearby, a room heaped with silk flowers, a room lined with paintings of film characters, and even a library—a small alcove littered with books cataphiles used based on the honor system. “I wanted to show you all of this, Will,” she said. “But I do not think it is a good idea anymore with you-know-who around.”

  “Voldemort?”

  “Do not be silly…Voldemort is English, not French.”

  “I don’t think we have to worry about the Painted Devil,” I said. “He only had the hand up because he tricked us. And he’s not going to trick us again.”

  “You do not know that for sure. We hurt his ego. We scared him away. He might want to get revenge somehow.”

  I didn’t argue the point—I didn’t care if we saw the feature rooms or not—and we rejoined the scuba guys and followed them to one of the Beach’s exits, what turned out to be a narrow fissure where the floor angled upward and met the ceiling.

  I wasn’t claustrophobic, but an oily something coated my gut at the sight of it. “We’re supposed to fit through there?” I said.

  “We call it a chatiѐre,” Danièle said. “A cat hole.”

  That was an accurate description, I thought, as it didn’t appear that anything larger than a domesticated feline could squeeze through it.

  The scuba guys went first. They had introduced themselves to us by their catacombs monikers. The old guy was Zéro, the skinny kid was Chevre (which, according to Danièle, meant Goat), and Dreadlocks was Citerne (Tank), though I preferred “Dreadlocks” and continued to think of him as such.

  Dreadlocks climbed the slope that rose to the ceiling, shoved the oxygen tanks and harness into the hole ahead of him, then crawled in after it. Zéro went next, then Goat.

  “It is not so bad,” Danièle told me as we ascended the gradient after them. “You put your arms in first, then you wiggle your hips to move.” She shook her butt to demonstrate. “Just follow me.”

  When we reached the fissure, she slipped inside without hesitation, her willowy frame allowing ample leeway on either side of her body. I peered in after her, but could see little more than the soles of her boots kicking as she crawled forward.

  “Let’s go, nancy boy!” Rob said from behind and below me.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. I stuck my head and shoulders into the hole, decided to hell with that, then switched to a crab-walk, feet first.

  “No, no, no,” Pascal said. “That is not the proper way.”

  I scuttled into the narrow space quickly. My head was aching with faded adrenaline, and I didn’t want to deal with any of Pascal’s shit right then.

  The walls and ceiling pressed tightly around me. I dug my heels into the ground and pulled myself forward, dragging my backpack behind me.

  After about a minute of this, and struggling the entire way, I halted, contemplating whether to backtrack and start over again, headfirst, military-crawl style. But Rob had already entered behind me, blocking my exit. He cackled in that witchy way of his, as though he thought this cat hole was a trip, and said, “Get going, smurfdick!”

  “I can’t move fast on my back.”

  “Why didn’t you listen to Rascal? Headfirst! This isn’t a fucking waterslide.”

  I resumed pulling myself forward with my legs, but it didn’t get any easier. The shaft seemed to be narrowing, limiting my maneuverability.

  My feet kicked rock. A dead end? I continued kicking, probing, and discovered the shaft had angled to the right.

  My relief didn’t last long, however, because laying supine wasn’t ideal for turning laterally. I was like a straw caught in the elbow between two lengths of pipe. I would have to roll onto my side, so I could bend at the waist.

  Problem was, the damn ceiling was now too low to do that.

  “Boss,” Rob said. “What’s the holdup?”

  “The shaft bends. I don’t think I can get around it.”

  “Yeah you can. That big oaf d
id.”

  “He went headfirst. I can’t twist the way I am. I think we have to reverse back out.”

  “No fucking way!”

  “I don’t have a choice!”

  “I’m going to push you.”

  He began shoving my backpack.

  “Stop it!” I said. “That’s not helping.”

  “Then stop dicking around.”

  I attempted to roll onto my side, but it was difficult to generate torque without the use of my arms, one of which was extended past my head, the other pinned at my side. I crossed my ankles and bent my knees and corkscrewed my legs to the right. It took a couple of rocking motions, but I was finally able to flop onto my right side.

  “You good?” Rob asked.

  “Yeah…” I said, though I felt like a pretzel.

  I began to inchworm around the bend, my upper shoulder scraping the ceiling. Everything was going well until the ceiling lowered even more. I slugged on, squeezing into the pinching shaft, telling myself the space had to open again. It didn’t. Soon I could no longer move forward. I tried reversing, but couldn’t do that either.

  I was stuck.

  “Dammit,” I said softly.

  “What’s wrong?” Rob asked.

  “I can’t move.”

  “Come on.”

  “I’m stuck!”

  “You’re not—”

  “I am!”

  A pause. The silence was bleak. There was something inherently unnerving about being unable to move your body how you wanted to move it.

  A commotion sounded as Rob shoved my backpack to one side. He saw me and said, “Fuck, bro, you gotta get flat on your stomach or back.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You gotta twist.”

  “I’m all twisted up!” I snapped. “I shouldn’t have kept going.”

  “You got in there, you can get out.”

  “Give me a sec.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to think!”

  “Danny!” Rob shouted.

  “What…?” She sounded far away.

  “Will’s stuck!”

  No reply.

  “Danny!”