Catacombs, Paris

The ceiling was barely an inch above his head.  And he was not a tall guy.

He was claustrophobic but did not want his companions to know.  The tight spaces, small entrances, and close, stone walls were closing in, as they say.

Small corridors carved into the rock led to larger rooms, crypts, but the sigh of relief from the enclosed halls was short lived.

Bones lined the walls, sculls scraping at his elbows at times, millions of shadows cast upon the minute crevices similar to what was under his own skin and muscles.  A creepy wind blew softly, hitting the back of his neck, forcing a shudder down his spine and into his soul.

Bones piled tightly, centuries ago, stacks of human remains surrounding him, reminiscent of a horror movie.

A moment, capturing the scene, the essence, the death and decay of centuries, and then on to the next small, cramped passage, onwards and downwards to more crypts, more bones, more darkness, more chills.

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