The Catacombs

He sat in the house. It was empty, unforgiving. At least it was free. Only the study, kitchen and bedroom contained furniture and that wouldn’t change. Nothing will change. Six months his lethargic apathy had paralyzed him. Then again, this house was a change of scenery; his penthouse apartment was corrupted with love. Claire’s aunt had left the house to her a week after he’d died. Naturally, it was signed over to him through a marriage license. The house – half a mansion – was not without its creeps; dim-lit hallways, dank basement and a half rotting, antique bathtub. Many of the floorboards creaked, the doors loud.

For months he’d tried to convince her to quit her networking job since he’d published several books, acquiring a convenient cash flow. An argument about it was their last experience. Claire and him came from a small town and she was afraid of losing face with wealth. She insisted on taking the train even, to grasp normalcy. She boarded the 8:25 to Dundas and never arrived. It derailed, ninety-six people died including his wife.

When she jumped the tracks so did he. Writing has become impossible. Sometimes he’ll sit for hours writing a mere sentence before deleting it. Everything he wrote was pure crap. Sleep was impossible. That is why he drinks. Lately he’d gotten into the painkillers left over from Claire’s surgery last year – an axis ally. Late nights spent in large beds were torture.

Last night he’d dreamed, of a crawlspace filled with cobwebs and spiders. An abominable force was there. She was also there. A terrible force was keeping her from me. Unseen. Malignant. Noxious. For a moment he thought he could smell her perfume before awaking. He stroked the bottle, sitting in a fold-up chair surveying the basement door. The realtor mentioned a crawlspace yet hadn’t showed him it. He wanted to go, just wanted to be sure. It wasn’t even arachnophobia that worried him.

It was that thing.

Assuring himself it was a mere dream wasn’t a possibility. Rational thought grew faint, translucent in vision. When he drank the whiskey he didn’t taste it, he was already hammered. That dream dug deep. It was the closest he’d been to her in six months. No soul or task remained. In life, he was two things; husband and writer. Both duties wisped away.

Enough.

The crawlspace summoned. Already he could feel the tingles of hundreds of prickly legs on his skin. When he opened the door it groaned. Each step creaked and clunked under the pressure of his weight. An overhead light contributed little to his vision. It was an old basement; the walls constructed of large, grey stones and red brick above that. A rusted woodstove and wood stack to his left. Around the back of the stairs was the crawlspace. Several boxes sat in front of the door.

When he opened the door, his heart skipped, taking notice of the frigid draft. A small spider crawled from the crack of the waist-high door. It was enough to stop his movement. A stale cobweb slung from the door frame spoke to him. Not literal words but an off perception. He was told to retreat, that death and madness awaited him – stale.

A queer draft blew back his hair, exhaled from sordid lungs. The breath of the beast failed to deter him. Claire and his will were held hostage. He needed it. Death was a reasonable payment.

The doorknob grew colder against his palm. Insanity was awful. Automatism could be another world for it. Involuntary functions of the mind. No part of him wanted to believe the crawlspace contained hellions yet he believed it. Poking his head into the darkness beyond the door he fathomed comfortable lunacy.

Cobwebs caressed his face as he crawled. Much of it was empty save for dust balls shaped like boxes. Grits of cement scraped his palms. From his pocket he removed a small flashlight. Ahead were more cobwebs and he though he spotted guising spiders. Then legs crawled across his hand. He yelped, rather girlish from the fright. It was the respect he gave spiders that terrified him; nature’s perfect predator. He truly believed if they banded together they could overtake the world.

Ahead there was a green square, fashioned with vertical golden etching. The reflection was blinding. It was a door, eerie in its freshness. Not a single cobweb, absent of dust and the colours were vibrant. The door was decorated with a ruby, an emerald and a pearl stacked vertical. Without words he understood it; Claire. Red hair, green eyed; precious.

Boundless, torrential atrocities prepared. Gnawing mandibles and clawing talons and stinking abominations. How he knew this he could not say. A stray omnipotence propelled him through the doorway with no breeze, only stale.

Claire’s door closed, a phantom hatch winched shut.

For twenty minutes he crawled through grubby roots hanging from the dirt tunnel. His elbows drove his body, his mind drove his elbows and his vacancy drove his mind. He pushed, relentless. When he came to the end he climbed onto his palms and toppled, drunk.

It was a passageway; ancient by impression. Torches illuminated the passage way, a staircase swooped down and right. The architecture was remarkable, unlike any he’d ever seen. The ceiling resembled a steeple. Though, it couldn’t be higher than fifteen feet. Sandstone blocks were designed for the wall to appear to flow like a river. There was no choice, he had to move. Something was tearing for him.

Bearing a torch he descended further into lunacy.

At the bottom of the stairs happened upon a door constructed of cast iron. Its weight was tremendous. All of him opened the door, its deep whine echoing through the next chamber. This chamber was much smaller, homely. Ten feet ahead was another door, small (like Claire’s door) but plain. He opened it and looked inside. The crawlspace was only two or three times his length and he could see a light as well as a table leg.

No hesitation existed, only an aching destitution. The fit was tight but he was able to pass through it without much effort. An old wooden table was in front of him. There were three places set with clean, white china. It was a kitchen, he could smell roast. It didn’t make any sense. The room was dilapidated with luxury dinnerware.

There was a door and it opened to a hallway. Upon further investigation he found two doors in the ‘L’ shaped hall. Inside the first was a bedroom. Though rundown, it was far from dirty. A single candle was lit beside the bed, a pair of glasses beside them. They were hers, he knew it. He picked them up and smelled them – lavender, definitely hers.

He called her but received no acknowledgement; alone and asunder. Comprehension throbbed in his head. Ignorance was bliss.. This proves he wasn’t crazy, that this was all real and she needed him. But this place, it defies logic.

The glasses turned to ash in his hand, leaving it’s remnants on his palm. Onward he would have to go. Pieces of her weren’t enough.

When he opened the door to the second bedroom his heart stopped. The walls were draped in dark red sheets. There were three beds beside each other, white sheets draped over bodies. It was their featureless faces – the noses – he noticed first. Two candles were lit and they blew out; a tendril of dense black faded in their stead.

A coarse pressure expanded around him. His hair went numb, his eyes stung. Something was coming. He didn’t know what it was and he didn’t want to know. There was no sound, no notification. He just felt it.

Knew it.

As he ran he knew it was getting closer and it was fast, ripping apart whole worlds just for him. It was years faster than him. He threw open the door into the kitchen. Faces, boneless, were laid on the fine china. A man was eating a woman’s face, cutting with a knife, a mild stream of blood. All he noticed was the stranger’s plain report before lunging into the crawlspace.

As fast as his elbows could pull he pushed. A wall imploded, he could taste the dust. The pressure was so intense he waited for an eyeball to burst from its socket and his ears to hemorrhage. A sulphorous odour emanated from the fiend. He pushed open the door and felt the brief touch of alien before slamming it shut behind him.

It screamed and pounded on the door then outright vanished. Embodiment of terror, pure evil is what he felt tearing towards him. In the dense silence he heaved and wiped the sweat from his brow. A peculiar thought entered his head; it was tearing through this place yet this flimsy door halted it. He decided it was best not to question good graces.

A new door had materialized. It was a deep, crimson red and decorated with strange wood cuts. One showed a sailboat going off a waterfall and another while another presented a woman in a rocking chair. Each individual picture represented something subtle, too subtle. What was its purpose? Who made it? They were questions lacking answers and voices without words. When he touched the knob, it was ice cold. A bad omen, perhaps, but Claire was beyond this door.

They were both green and ambitious, only sampling life. A cosmic force killed them. How was he supposed to start over when he’d barely learned to start? Thirty days of insomnia, drinking, writer’s block and grief. Last week his brother, after weeks of irritation coerced him to lunch. It was a listless affair, the dialogue faded from his memory. No two conversations have lacked exhausting empathy and feeble endorphins. The love he felt for his brother was authentic. However, he’d banished love in all forms.

When he awoke this morning he’d the platonic presence of death. He dreamt of a crawlspace, but what of this place? What fiendish force induced this? A faint murmur begged for reconsideration. It was too late.

Inside the door was a cavern. Jagged spikes of earth rutted the landscape. It was quite expansive in height but narrow, like a coffin standing up. A folded note, donned by a lone torch was placed beside him. The writing was feminine, scrawled in scarlet ink.

S’ Bye Dear

Lavender, it reeked of it. He inhaled its narcotic nurture. Tears welled to near escape but he convalesced. When the paper ignited in his hands it floated away. Another piece burned away. There was no fighting, he cried with the utmost shame. He hated crying. Being a wounded fawn watching the wolf lick its gums. Avoidance allowed it to brood. He grabbed the torch and continued into the damp passage.

Several bats flew overhead. Smutty supplies of disease. As he walked he heard the bats vision, from the left then overhead. Not creatures particularly to his liking but tolerable. Fluttering by his face, he dodged one. There was the matter of rabies. He swung around the torch to warn them, before continuing forward. Minutes later the bats were behind him and the cavern began to narrow. It was a hydro minefield. Reflection of the fire made it difficult to discern distance.

What was that noise echoing forth? Did it exist? He listened, the fire roaring beside his head. It was so faint…

Cold filtered the air. A chill climbed his spine before sinking into his head. What was up there and why was he so afraid? He’d sensed the abomination but what of it?

Pressing forward he avoided the water. Visibility wasn’t more than fifteen feet. Some thing could be perched, tensed. The sound of water spelunking echoed but there was something subtle looming beyond it.

There was something off to the side, an old typewriter. It was hefty, made of dense metal. Claire’s birthday gift to him, he’d meant to write his next novel on it but he can’t even recall if he’d packed it. It had rusted from dripping water. Why was this here? He didn’t touch, didn’t want to lose it to dust.

A whisper distracted him. It was her voice but it was unintelligible.

Then it was coming. The noise had grown louder, faster.

Above him the ceiling was dome shaped, constructed of limestone tablets. The light reflected effortless, a wider field of view. The cavern was dead and a beast was coming. It felt different; less barbaric, and covert. A deathly skitter, audible barely above the torch. His mind painted wretched portraits and he shoved them aside.

First they were tiny, insect sucking things. They’d all stopped in a circle, covering the entire tunnel. Tiny legs crawling all over each other and millions of eyes watched. It was a candid sensation of anxiety. The beings behind those eyes meant to suck him dry. Not long after, the meaty ones arrived. Cannibalistic, calculating, predators lined in front of him.

Swinging the torch did little. It was as if they were hive, together for a universal objective. The fire projected a wave reflected from their ravenous eyes. Then something peculiar happened. They all crawled over each other, creating a dense mass. All species combined to create a massive spider. Its skin rippled and flowed as they trampled. The scale was massive making him an insect in seconds. The entire cavern was engulfed by this force.

What could be done to defeat it? It’s long, slender leg reached forward and pushed him down. Several spiders broke away and crawled over his skin. He flicked a black widow from his shoulder and daddy long legs from his leg.

It moved with quiet grace. He swung at the leg and broke it. An assortment of spiders exploded from it, many burning before they were replaced. To his right was the type writer. An urge to write on the keyboard was impossible to resist. Words channeled out of him, he didn’t focus on what he was typing just the fact that he was. It was sheer ecstasy. A simple joy he’d been without for half a year. Hearing the click clack of the keys was relief.

As the spider reared up and darted towards him his mind drifted toward Claire; their wedding and honeymoon, fights and agreements – bittersweet.

He looked above at the formidable force looming. Its liquid skin swarmed around him, scratchy and slithering. Random breeds dropped from the host. At first he sensed the legs inside his jeans, prickling his calves. Then he felt the pincers. He’d been bit. Death was imminent. A stream of them poured over him, a faucet flowing arachnids.

Through it all his hand continued typing, even when it was covered in spiders. Click. Miniscule, grating laughs horded around him. Millions of fangs pierced him. Clack. He screamed out in pain. A large spider lay on his face, felt the bite into his brain. Through the paralysis he knew they were all wrapping him up.

As he began to swoon, a hint of lavender broke through the sordid stench.

Then he coughed. Something in his mouth tasted horrible. He turned his head and was sick. All he could taste was ash. All the spiders were gone. He was surrounded by ash. It was odd but he didn’t question it. The typewriter, too, was blanketed in ash. He wiped away the paper, a thick cloud of smoke billowing.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Everything that lives, dies. The spiders dematerialized around him leaving him sheathed in clotty ash. He coughed and turned his head to vomit.

He continued reading, intense and discombobulated.

When he read the words on the type writer he couldn’t believe his eyes. Surely, it was all a mistake. He’d gone insane, it was the only answer. He continued reading until he reached the bottom of the page. This is where the catacombs would erode.

His eyes widened as he read the words. They became vacant, redundant. He began to rise.

When his knees lifted from the gritty floor a panic surged through him. An abnormal weightlessness that, if he could feel it, would’ve started to thrash. He clutched the type writer, desperate to know what happened next. No man’s grip could break its bindings. As he rose higher the words passed out of focus, then the type writer then the circle of grey.

All was black, dense, except for a pinprick of light off in the distance. He wanted to float to it but he couldn’t control his movements. There was a voice that echoed. The only word he could decipher was ‘movement’. No idea what it had meant. He closed his eyes or thought he closed his eyes.

When he opened them a bright light was facing him. Someone was touching his right arm, a murmur. He tried to speak but no words came out.

He wanted to know where he was, wanted to know where she was.

How much time passed he couldn’t determine. A woman told him his parents were on the way, they would be ecstatic to see him moving. He tried to ask her why they were coming and where was he moving? He smells something, lavender. A vase of flowers invaded his thoughts with white sheets and a blue gown.

“Oh hunny. Are you alright?” A woman asked and far away someone kissed him on the cheek.

“Claire?” he choked out. It might have come out as hair, or dare. Hope that the message was received was all he had.

“Who? Who is Claire?” Was the reply.

Time slipped.

He was alone. The flowers were gone. A tray of food lay to his right. Much of the blur had faded from vision. Blinking hurt his head, thinking hurt more. Images were received but not processed. The white walls cramped him. He wanted to thrash because there were spiders on him. If his legs and arms were moving he couldn’t feel it.

Someone walked in the door, daylight poured in through the window.

Did he fall asleep?

A shadow loomed over him and he tasted chicken, felt his jaw move. “My wife, where is my wife?” he asked, each syllable a marathon. There was no reply, only another sampling of chicken. There was no protesting.

When he was alone again, he was embraced by a coarse pressure. He attempted to scream. No sound. He couldn’t even run. The wolf was licking his gums.

A hand grabbed him and he was shaking. Another hand grabbed his shoulder and pushed him down. A man told him he was dreaming and they were there for him. A raspy laugh drilled into his skull.

“It’s your mother.” She said. Her face was lucid, wrinkles deeper than his memory recorded. Memory felt foreign. “There was an accident, on a train.”

“I know. I remember. Claire is dead.” The words were a reaction.

“The nurses have said you’ve mentioned her, said she’s your wife. You’ve never married. Never dated anyone name Claire.”

Could that be genuine? The love of his life, figmented then fragmented? It wasn’t a probability! It was preposterous above and beyond! He protested and screamed and they tried to remain calm. His mother broke down into tears and his sister had to leave the room. Did he just lose her all over again? His father calmed him and he was left alone.

Ten minutes later he watched the images deteriorate. Shards remained but it was hard to piece together. There was a crawlspace, spiders and…that force. An image of bodies covered in white sheets bogged his mind and he cringed. The terror was all too real; the insane knowledge of evil approaching. It faded. He heard a door shut and there was a doctor.

He was briefed on the accident. A passenger train had derailed. They found him under three bodies, impaled through the shoulder by a pole. Severe trauma had cracked his skull, gave him a concussion and sent him into a comatose state.

The next few days were a blur but a week later he was discharged and returned home.

Claire had died. She was a fellow passenger on the train. Still, he cannot recall the slightest second of that train ride. He made sure to visit her grave. There be broke down, it was impossible not to. His parents watched with hurtful eyes. They thought he’d gone crazy. He sprayed lavender on her grave and left her a yellow tulip, her favourite. They may never have spoken, perhaps overheard her name in conversation yet he grieved her, longed for her.

When he got home he there was a present waiting on his desk; an old fashioned type writer. A note attached proclaiming he’d slept through his birthday. A piece of paper was already ready. A quixotic desire surged through him. He began typing. Click. Clack.

A great idea just came to him, ‘The Catacombs’ he would call it.

The dedication read: To Claire, thanks for the inspiring train ride.

Author's Note: This was an assignment for school. It had to be under six pages so that's why it's crammed together. It's not to bad considering it's to be a novella, or perhaps even a full fledged novel. The idea for this was inspired by a dream I had one night, in which I travelled through a long series of passage ways, opened doors and at one point find myself on a train. It wrote itself. (or at least planned itself)

Over time I played with the idea. Dreams have always fascinated me and my dreams are often expansive, intense and hyper realistic. Most elements from this short story have been incorporated from my own personal dreams. In particular, I've had numerous dreams regarding a crawlspace and an evil force dwelling within it. The scene where our character enters the kitchen and sees the bodies covered in sheets; that entre sequence was straight from a dream, save the stranger (from another dream) and the glasses (story element).

When I compose the full length version, it's goal is to be a nightmare. All elements taken from nightmares yet not at all directly personal. All the horrors are vague and versatile. The ending, essentially, is in fact the means of my inspiration.