Visit the right bar in Paris and you’ll hear all the stories. I could tell you where if you like, although we’re understood, you didn't get it from me. Otherwise I drink this beer, with gratitude of course, and our conversation goes nowhere. And you can try your luck with some other drunk, but they’ll not know this tale.
Visit on the right evening and you’ll see them. The cataphiles. The catacomb explorers. Maybe even land yourself an invite; a trip beneath the city. That’s what most people are after and my guess is you’re no different. Laugh all you like but I’ve seen that look before.
You want my advice? Here’s some for free. Enjoy the sunshine. Go see some art. Find something else to write about. Leave the ground to the dead.
You’ll have been to the ossuaries, no doubt. Up in the fourteenth at Denfert-Rochereau. D’enfer it was originally called, that whole area, back in the eighteenth century when the bones were brought across. D’enfer. It means hell. The Gate of Hell. The Road of Hell. Doesn’t sound like it was the cheeriest of areas, does it? Maybe not the wisest place to bring six million dead.
That’s a story in itself. Graveyards overflowing and collapsing through basement walls. Whole cemeteries exhumed, bones and headstones alike. Carts piled with skeletons trundling through the streets at night. Two years it took to move them all. Two years. Fact is stranger than fiction, I’ve heard it said. Well you won’t hear me arguing.
Still, it’s a museum, the ossuaries. It’s for tourists. You can take your grandma down there. You can take your kids. You might as well have visited Disneyland for all the help it’ll be. So you saw a stack of bones. You had yourself a little scare. And now you think you know the tunnels? Trust me. You have no idea.
The underground theatre, that’s the tale you want to hear? Well I’ll give you the story as I heard it from Alex; right from the horse’s mouth. Not that he made much sense when we found him, shivering in the dark. Then you can believe what you want; it’s all the same to me.
The story starts with Constance. ‘The waif’ people called her. I saw her down there myself a few times, never paid her much attention. In the tunnels you meet all sorts: anarchists, ravers, explorers. She didn’t seem to be with any of them. Until she started tagging along with the twins, with Alex and Georges.
The way Alex told it, they’d clamber through their entrance and there she’d be, sitting side-saddle on a ledge, lit up by the candle she carried instead of a torch. A little old fashioned. A few airs and graces. A mouth like a market trader when the moment suited. All a little dramatic, if you ask me.
It was Constance suggested they search for the theatre. Everyone knew the rumour but she was the one convinced it was real. Even told them she knew where it was; overheard the story in one of the galleries. It’s hard to hide something like that, even in two hundred miles of tunnels. Someone always talks.
Turns out she was as good as her word.
Alex remembered travelling in circles. Always turning left. Always sloping downwards. They walked by candlelight and it was hard to judge their progress. Constance insisted it’s the way these things are done.
Three times around and that’s when they heard the music. Snatches of accordion carried through the tunnels. Clearer as they went on. Louder with each left turn.
Five times around and the air filled with the scent of fresh soil.
Seven times around and they were certain they heard voices. Hollow echoes of a speech cut short by clashing swords. Now they pressed on eagerly; any thoughts of going back forgotten.
Nine times around and the candle flickered out. Light filtered through an opening above them on the wall.
It was Alex who climbed. Slowly in the faint light. There were bars and he grabbed for them, hauled himself up. For a moment, through the wall, he saw it.
From the back of the stage the actors seemed frozen. They wore costumes from all eras but each ragged, patched and torn: a pilot from the war, an infantryman from a battle long gone, bell-bottoms and tie-dye, leather jacket and greased hair. A cast plucked out of time and led here to perform. Amongst them, wide-eyed, wandered Georges.
Constance stood at front of stage announcing the newest cast member. Beyond her the audience was a sea of wigs and masks, formal gowns and frock coats; the high fashion of their day. They raised their eyeless sockets to the stage and clacked their fleshless hands together. Ranks upon ranks stretched as far as the eye could see.
The lights went down for the performance. They never came back up.
A love rivalry the police concluded. Girl chose one twin and the other just snapped. He killed them both and hid the evidence somewhere in the tunnels. They never found the bodies so nothing could be proved.
Seems more likely, doesn’t it. They both had a thing for her, everyone knew that. But I’ll tell you this and I’ll swear it on the Bible. I saw her, Constance, afterwards. On an empty metro in the fourteenth where the catacombs cross the rail lines. Just me and an accordionist busking for change. When the lights flickered out she was there in the next car. Standing at the window. Smiling. I never saw her smile before. That girl has a wide smile.
That was the last time I took the metro. Hell, I even have to hire someone to change the fuses in the cellar. But I'm above ground. And I’ll stay that way until my number’s called. And if you take my advice, you’ll do the same.
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This is an entry for the Urban Legend Flash Fiction Contest run by 
The ossuaries are also real and the tale of how the bones were transported is also based in fact. If you're interested in this part of the story I recommend the historical fiction "Pure" by Andrew Miller. It's dead good.