JOSIE LUCERO

Ah Paris! Home of the sensationalized Eiffel Tower, the prestigious Louvre museum, and the creepiest place I’ve ever been too -- the Catacombs, the permanent underground home of six million Parisians’ bones.

 

During my time studying in Paris last fall, my inner American was itching to do some sort of autumn pastime, but France is vastly lacking in pumpkin patches and corn mazes. So when I discovered that the entrance to the subterranean attraction was located in my neighborhood, the 14 arrondissement, I eagerly planned my spooky October adventure.

 

I consulted the monuments website, and quickly became familiar with the somber story of the Parisian Catacombs.

 

According to the website, during the 1780’s, the Cimetière des Innocents, once located in the first arrondissement, began to become a source of infection to the locals after ten centuries of use. After local’s complaints, the Parisian government decided on November 5, 1785 to stop using the cemetary, and ordered for the bones to be moved.

 

The unused quarries in the southern part of the city were chosen to be the new home for the remains. From 1786 to 1788, the bones would be transferred at night by  carts covered with a black veil. Priests would follow the procession path while singing a service for the deceased. Until 1814, all Parisian citizen were buried in the Catacombs.

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Pictured: Deep within the Parisienne Catacombs, it a urn shaped structure made of entirely of long bones, and skulls. In this location, the ceiling is extremely low, making it slightly difficult for taller visitor to pass through. Photo taken by Josie Lucero.

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While slightly startled by their history, I still continued planning my trip to the Catacombs.

 

A classmate of mine at the Institute Catholique de Paris, Ronald Hobbs, warned me of the atmosphere down below.

 

“It’s easy enough to desensitize yourself [to the bones] before hand,” said Hobbs. “But once you’re down there it’s really unsettling.”

 

I pushed his comments to the back of my mind, I set out that next Sunday morning for the Catacombs.

 

Arriving almost two hours early, to beat the absurd line that has an average four hour wait time and that wraps around Place Denfert-Rochereau, I managed to snag one of the first spots in line.

 

When the doors opened at ten, I quickly bought my five euro ticket, and pushed past the tour groups that would slow me down. Little did I know that was my first mistake.

 

As I descended down the narrow, winding limestone staircase into Paris’s underground empire of the dead, the air became chilly and musty smelling.

 

I arrived at the bottom of the 130 stairs, and I took off through the narrow passageway. As I followed the long, twisty tunnel, the only sounds that broke the eerie silence were my own footsteps and breathing.

 

Scurrying through cramped tunnel, I suddenly found myself at a doorway with an inscription above it that read “Arrête! C'est ici l'empire de la Mort” which means “Stop! This here is the empire of death.”

 

I crossed through the threshold into my first glimpse of the millions of souls that were that laid to rest.

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Pictured: Since France is a largely Catholic country, when the bones where moved from neighborhood near Les Halles to the Catacombs, priests added crosses and prayers within the bone-architecture to create the feel of a final resting place.  the Photo taken by Josie Lucero.

 

Stacks and stack of expertly arranged tan, aged long bones and skulls lined the walls around me. The air was now cold, stale, and too still for comfort. My skin began to crawl as I took in the reality of that what I was looking at: real, centuries old, dead bodies.

 

I continued on slowly through the rest of tombs, observing the precision in which the bones were stacked to create designs. Some skulls were stacked into crosses, while other haphazardly winded through the long bone with no design in mind. One section of skulls were even shaped in the most morbid heart I’ve ever seen.

 

As the mesmerization started to wear off , I became very aware of the fact that I hadn’t seen another living soul in almost 30 minutes.

 

I quickened my pace as I realized how far 60 feet was underground and how long 1.2 miles could be. As the silence pressed down on me, terror slowly started to consume me, and I began to dart through the tunnels.

 

With my heartbeat in my ears, I sharply turned a corner right into one of the Catacomb’s attendants. Taken aback, I let out a loud, sharp yelp as I back peddled right onto the floor.

 

“Ça va? (Are you okay?)” asked the attendant.

 

I mumbled some French in response as I pulled myself off the dusty floor in chagrin.

 

She gave me a wiry smile, and said in English, with a very heavy French accent, “The exit isn’t much further, you’ll be in the above soon.”

 

I thanked her, and took off toward the exit.

 

I finally reached another spiral staircase that would take me to world above. I looked back over my shoulder for a last glimpse of the Parisian underworld, shivered, and took off up the stairs.

Slowly, but surely, I hiked up the 83 stairs to the surface. When I reached the top, I thanked the attendant at the turnstile, and pushed my way into the light, oddly thankful to be alive, as I rejoined the world of the living.