The Catacombs (A Psychological Suspense Horror Thriller Novel) (27 page)

So what the hell was she doing living with
them?

I decided to treat her as I would a regular
person.

“My name’s Will,” I said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Will.”

Like out of a phrasebook
. “Katja’s a
nice name.”

“Thank you.”

“I won’t tell your father that you were
here.”

She appeared anxious again.

“I promise,” I reassured her. “I promise. I
just want to talk though. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“You are safe here.”

Safe? Maybe she was mad after all. “My
friend is dead.”

Her face fell. “I know that. I’m sorry. I
should have tried to stop them. But Hanns, he does what he wants.
He doesn’t listen to me.”

“Is Hanns your father?”

“He is my uncle.”

“He’s the one who killed my friend?”

She nodded.

Hanns. I recalled his yellow eyes. They had
been filled with a lunatic hate for me. “I hurt him,” I said. “I
don’t think he likes me. I don’t think I’m safe.”

“No, you are safe now. My father is back. He
won’t let anything happen to you or your friends.”

“You said my friend is sleeping?”

She nodded.

“She is okay?”

Another nod.

“What about my other friend?”

“He is there,” she said, and pointed into
the darkness where I had last seen Rob.

“Is he breathing?” I asked.

“Of course.”

I swallowed. “Why are we chained up,
Katja?”

“So you don’t leave.”

“We won’t try to leave.”

“You might.”

“Is your father like you? Does he speak
English?”

“He speaks English and French and German,”
she said proudly.

I recalled that harsh back-of-the-throat
language I’d heard before Jaundice—Hanns—knocked my lights out with
the bone.

German.

The Painted Devil?

“What does your father look like?” I
asked.

“Like you.”

I blinked. “Like me?”

She touched my nose, my lips. The gestures
were oddly intimate.

“I understand,” I said. “But what does he
look
like.”

“Like you.”

I swallowed my frustration. “Does he control
your uncle and the others?”

“Everyone listens to him, yes.”

“You mentioned he was away before. Where did
he go? To the surface?”

Her eyes brightened. She leaned closer,
conspiratorially. “Have you been to the surface?”

I wasn’t sure I heard her right. “Have I
been?”

“Have you seen it?”

“That’s where I’m from, Katja. I live
there.”

She seemed stunned by my response. Her brow
knit. “You are not telling me the truth.”

“Yes, I am. I live there. My friends
too—”

“You’re a liar! No one lives on the
surface.”

“Yes—”

“No!” She snapped to her feet.

“I can show you, I can take you—”

“You’re a liar! My father told me you would
try to lie to me. That is why I am not supposed to talk to
you.”

“I’m not lying, Katja. Your father is lying
to you—”

“Stop it!”

She scooped up her candle and dashed toward
the exit.

“Katja!” I shouted desperately. “Don’t go!
Come back!”

She didn’t.

I lay awake in the dark for a long while. I
didn’t bother to test my restraints. I didn’t have the strength to.
Instead I focused on the questions buzzing around inside my head.
Why were Katja and Hanns and everyone in her so-called family
carved up like they were? Why was Katja so different than the rest
of them? Who was her father, and why had he told her nobody lived
on the surface? Where did she think I came from if not the surface?
Why did the mention of her father instill such fear in her? Why had
she come to see me if she was forbidden to do so? Why had Danièle
been moved to a different room while Rob and I remained here? Was
Danièle really okay? Was Rob really still in this room? Was I
really safe for the time being?
Was any of this really fucking
happening?

I took a deep breath. It came out shaky. I
took another and another until I was breathing evenly. I rolled
onto my side to relieve pressure from my burning shoulders. This
proved extremely uncomfortable, so I returned to the supine
position. I closed my eyes, opened them, closed them, opened them.
I felt as if I were floating. I felt as if I were in eternity. I
closed my eyes and imagined I was in deep space, floating, as light
as a feather, floating through space, floating with no worries,
floating, no up, no down, no direction whatsoever, floating and
floating and floating…

I was inside my bedroom closet in the
fraternity house. Danièle was with me. We were hiding, but from
what I didn’t know. Neither of us spoke, and the silence dragged
on. Then I heard movement. It was Danièle. She was moving closer to
me. I wanted to tell her to stop making so much noise, but my mouth
wouldn’t work. She placed her hand on the top of my thigh. She left
it there for several long seconds before moving it onto my crotch.
I became aroused. This embarrassed me because I wasn’t sure Danièle
knew where her hand was. It was dark. Maybe she thought her hand
was on my knee, or on my hip. If she realized I was turned on, she
would likely think I was a depraved pervert. This wasn’t the time
or the place for sex. We were in danger, we should be focused on
survival—

Her fingers worked the button of my jeans.
They were strong, dexterous, efficient. They pulled down the
zipper. They gripped my erection and moved up and down, slowly at
first, experimentally, then faster and with more friction, faster
until my heartbeat raced, faster still, faster until I groaned—and
that sound shattered the dream, because it hadn’t come from the
dream.

I opened my eyes and discovered Katja bent
over me, her fist pumping quickly.

I cried out and jerked away from her. She
yelped herself and fell backward onto her rear.

“What the fuck?” I blurted, my breathing
coming in gasps.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought—” She
seemed about to flee.

“Wait, it’s okay,” I said, keeping the
revulsion from my voice. “I was just surprised, that’s all.” I
wiggled myself to my elbows, then rocked forward, so I was sitting
upright. My shirt draped my genitals. “I’m glad you came back,” I
added just as genially as if we’d bumped into each other in the
park.

“I thought you would like that,” she said.
Her teeth were white in the candlelight, in contrast to the
bubblegum pink of her gums. She wore the same too-large Icelandic
wool sweater and charcoal tights.

“I did. I do.” I cleared my throat. “I—I was
just surprised. I was dreaming.”

“Do you want me to finish?”

“No, not now. Maybe later.”
Maybe
later?
“Where did you go earlier?”

“I returned to my room.”

“Did you go to sleep?”

“I tried to, but I couldn’t.”

“What time is it? Do you have time
here?”

“Of course we do.” She pulled up her sleeve,
revealing a yellow Timex wristwatch. “It is four thirty in the
morning.”

“That’s a nice watch.”

“My father gave it to me,” she said happily.
“Do you have time where you’re from?” She folded her legs beneath
her, planted her elbows on her knees, and cupped her chin in her
hands. A sweet farm girl from a Norman Rockwell painting—on
Halloween night.

“Yeah, I do,” I told her. “What time does
everyone here wake up?”

“Whenever they want to.”

“You have a rooster? I heard
it…yesterday?”

“His name is Colin. Have you read
The
Secret Garden
?”

“No… Have you?”

“Yes! It is one of my favorite books.
There’s a girl in it, her name is Mary, who has to go live with her
uncle Archibald Craven at his home called Misselthwaite Manor. When
she’s there, she hears someone crying in the middle of the night.
It turns out this is her cousin Colin. He has some problem with his
spine that causes him a lot of pain and to cry out. When I read
this, I thought of the rooster, which always makes noise in the
early morning. That’s why I named him Colin. We also have six hens.
We had seven, but one died last week.”

“I…okay.” I couldn’t think of anything to
say. This was too bizarre. “So you eat eggs for breakfast?”

“Sometimes. Do you?”

“Sometimes. Katja?”

“Yes?”

“What’s going to happen when your father
wakes up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is he going to want to speak to me?”

“I imagine so. But remember, you can’t tell
him I visited you. You promised.”

“I know. I won’t say anything. Do you know
what he will want to speak to me about?”

“Where you came from, probably.”

“Where—where did I come from?”

Her brow knitted. “I do not think you are
well. I think you need to rest.”

I licked my lips. “Katja, I think I lost my
memory when your uncle hit me in the head. I…I can’t seem to
remember anything before I arrived here. I’m really confused.”

She issued a high-pitched sound, and I
realized it was laughter. “That is why you thought you lived on the
surface!” She clapped her hands.

“Yes…so…can I ask you some questions? They
might sound strange, but they will help with my memory.”

“What would you like to know?”

“What year is it?”

“I’m not sure exactly.”

“Can you guess?”

“Twenty ten? Twenty fifteen?” She
shrugged.

“Why do you live underground?”

“For the same reason you do.”

“Why is that?”

She gave me a skeptical look. “You really
don’t know?”

“I told you, my memory…”

“Paris was destroyed in the war.”

“What war?”

“World War Two, by nuclear bombs. No one can
live there. Acid rain falls from the sky, and the air is filled
with radiation that is invisible, but it can kill you in
minutes.”

“But it doesn’t kill your father? You said
he goes to the surface.”

“He has a special suit.”

I nodded. A special suit. Why the fuck not.
But at least it was all starting to come together—well, some of it.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to see the surface for yourself?”

“The suit is too big for me. But my father
promised me he will find a way to take me one day.”

“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?”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “I would
think you really need to rest.”

“You said you read
The Secret Garden
,”
I said. “What other books have you read?”

“Oh, too many to count. I have a bookcase
full of them.”

“What kind of books?”