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ignisaurumprobat19-blog · 7 years

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Midnight in Paris (full story)

initially published on r/nosleep

Paris may be the City of Love when you're a tourist taking pictures of the Sacré Coeur and having romantic, wine-filled meals in beautiful restaurants, but not so much when you're a broke 19 year old on a year abroad who just got dumped by his two-year girlfriend.

To top it off, it was December 17th and my roommates had already left the city, both of them going back home for Christmas holidays. The only thing I came home to after my last day of exams in La Sorbonne was an empty, slightly dirty flat, and the realization that my spanish roommate took his PS3 home with him.

I still had a bit more than 24hrs left in Paris before boarding my flight to LAX and the festive atmosphere made me feel more lonely than ever.

When I landed in Charles de Gaulle in early September, Paris looked so full of promises.

For the first two months, it was. Friendship blossomed quickly between my roommates (a Spanish, geeky 21 year old who never seemed to go to uni, and a 30 year old Irish doctorate candidate who spent 12 hours a day in the library), and I felt home in our cramped little flat.

I partied, explored the city, ate great food and drank cheap wine; often with friends, sometimes with a couple of girls I met at uni.

But real life caught up with me, in the form of compulsatory attendance classes, exams coming up, and some unfortunate tagged pictures on facebook that my girlfriend happened to see before I untagged them.

And here I was.

After a quick meal of leftover pizza, I decided to go for a walk. The cold was numbing, but going out was better than staying alone in this silent flat. I'm Californian, born and raised, so I admit I'm not too used to cold temperatures, but even Parisians had told me how uncharacterically cold this December was. Gloved hands in my pockets, woolly hat pulled low on my forehead and ears, I made my way through the crowded streets of Paris, secretly jealous of all those couples holding on to each other.

After nearly an hour of wandering, I stopped for a chocolat chaud in a little café I knew well. It was a well-known place in that neighborhood, always crowded, even late at night. When the waitress recognized me and smiled, I realized how much I appreciated and needed that little bit of warmth.

That's why when someone asked if they could share my table, I happily obliged. The place was crowded, the newcomer seemed kind enough and was an english speaker, something I really came to appreciate after nearly four months in France.

He had one of those snob british accent that I either find endearing or annoying, depending on the person speaking. For him, it was definitely endearing. He looked about 60, maybe 65, and his clothes seemed from another age. Hell, he even had a fob watch in his jacket's pocket ! I had never seen one IRL.

Perhaps sensing how much I needed someone to talk to, he turned out to be amiable and started the conversation almost immediately. Before I knew, I had told him everything about my first months in Paris and how I felt like I was disappointing everyone back home, from my parents to my ex-girlfriend.

He listened carefully, nodding from times to times, and when I finished, he pat my hand while I held back tears.

Only then did I notice that he hadn't ordered anything to drink. In fact, the waitress ignored him completely. As I said, it was a busy night, but in that café they were used to dealing with that. I felt bad for talking so much and not even noticing that he didn't get to order anything. Through the glistening of my tears, I noticed the greyish tone of his skin; he looked older than I initially thought.

I asked him if he wanted me to go up to the bar and get him a drink, but he shook his head, laughing quietly, and said it wouldn't be necessary.

“Actually, young man, I suggest you finish up that hot chocolate and join me for a night out with my friends! That will surely lift your spirits!”, he said with a smile.

I tried to turn down his offer, but he insisted, and what could I do? I couldn't say no to an older man who listened to my whiny ass for an hour. I figured I would go to that old people's “party”, stay for a bit, and then excuse myself. It would make him happy, and I would get one more hour out of the empty flat that was waiting for me to come back and feel sorry for myself.

I left a five euros bill on the table and left with my new friend. His name was James, by the way.

James led me to the nearest metro station. It had one of these big “METROPOLITAIN” signs at the entrance; the kind I used to take pictures with during my first week here, but quickly stopped after feeling the hatred from Parisians I blocked the way from.

I knew that particular station pretty well : my friend Giac lived a few streets away.

Which is why I gasped when I walked down the stairs after James and found out it looked nothing like the last time I went inside.

The white tiles had been replaced by wood and stone. Funk music was blasting, and colored lights flashed. There was no train in sight, no ticket vending machine, nothing that would make sense in a station.

And most of all, it was full of the most diverse crowd I had ever seen in my life.

Before I got enough time to take it all in, a black-haired dude in a dark purple velvet suit blocked my way. He angrily whispered :

“-James, for Zeus' sake. He doesn't belong here. You can't just bring people along.

-Oh come on, Mr H. ! The kid is going through a rough time. It'll lift his spirits!”, James giggled.

“Mr H” rolled his eyes.

“-Enough with the puns already, James. Alright, the kid can stay. But you're responsible for him.”

Mr H. shot me a cold look with his piercing blue eyes, but I could tell from the slight curl of his lips that he was quite amused by the situation.

“WHO IS THAAAT?”

I jumped at the deep, excited voice. Turning around, I realized it belong to a big, muscular drag queen with lime green platform heels and a flowing yellow button down dress, wide open on a fake cleavage that looked ready to burst.

I mumbled “Erm, I'm Dan. Nice to meet you.”

James chuckled : “Andy, be nice with the kid...”

“ISNT HE THE CUTEST THING? RIGHT? RIGHT? LOOK AT HIM! EVERYONE, THIS IS DAN!”, he screamed, turning around in a swift motion that sent his dress flying around him.

A sea of faces turned to me, but I didn't look at them. I stood there, shocked, as I stared into the drag queen exposed cleavage. Under the stuffed bra, a huge, gaping wound stood on his ribcage.

The bones were exposed.

Yet not a single drop of blood was dripping off.

I felt James holding my arm. He whispered : “It's okay, kiddo. Don't worry.”

Looking around, it was all I could see now. When I first got a glimpse of the crowd, I saw the crazy outfits and hairstyles, from the hippies with long hair to the ladies in voluminous, Marie Antoinette-like gowns and crazy updos, the flapper girl in the corner, the classy Edwardian dandies smoking cigars...

But now, oh now, I saw it all.

The flapper girl's hairpiece covered the part of her skull that was missing.

One of the dandies' skin was bloated and greenish, as if he had spent the last few days immersed in water.

One of the Marie-Antoinette ladies wore a choker that failed to hide the line on her neck.

Everywhere I looked, I saw deadly wounds and conditions on those lively, enthusiasmed party goers.

I swallowed back puke, my heart pounding.

Andy the drag queen looked at me, then at James, then back at me. He elbowed James, causing the poor man to stumble a little; if he hadn't been clutching to me, he probably would have fell down.

“JAMES! You didn't warn the kid? Look at him, poor thing! He's gonna have an heart attack!”

“Well, that'd make two of us, hehehe!”

Andy sternly looked at James and grabbed my hand:

“ALRIGHT, SWEETHEART! DO NOT FRET!” He lowered his voice : “You see, we're not exactly [he made the “quote” gesture]... ALIVE.”

“Am I dead too?! What happened?”

“Oh no, darling, you're very much alive!” He interrupted to kiss some classy lady dressed in 1960's fashion on both cheeks. “Muriel, darling, look at you, aren't you gorgeous! Long time no see! This is our new friend DAN ! ISNT HE CUTE!”. As she smiled and walked away, I noticed her skull was smashed in on the back of her head.

And that's how I got introduced to a bunch of dead people by a gigantic drag queen who also happened to be very much dead.

At some point, I just assumed that I was either 1)dreaming, 2)going crazy, 3)dead.

Either way, there wasn't much I could do about it right now, so I decided to enjoy the party and worry about it later – if I wasn't dead, that is.

It turned out, most dead people are quite friendly. They wouldn't tell me how exactly the afterlife was, mainly because Mr H. seemed to appear everytime one of them tried to touch on the subject, but they told me not to worry too much.

The alcohol they served was real, and they seemed to get drunk, so it kinda reassured me that there was an afterlife in which I could keep getting drunk if I wanted to.

On that night, unsure whether I was alive or dead, I sure drank a lot.

As an history major, it was quite fascinating to talk with people who actually experienced some of the things I had learned about. I was immersed in a conversation with a guy who died during the Roman Empire (a conversation that taught me two things : one, I didn't actually know shit about the Roman Empire; two, when you've been dead for 1956 years, you end up learning a lot of languages) when Mr H. materialized next to me. I don't mean he showed up unexpectedly. He litterally appeared out of thin air.

“Dan, it's time for you to go home now.”, he said in a rushed tone.

Andy (who hadn't left my side all night) pleaded “Oh come on, Mr H! We're just starting to have FUN!”

Mr H. looked stern and... Anxious?

“It's nearly midnight. He has to go.”

Andy got as pale as he could possibly get under his heavy layer of make up.

“Oh. Yes.”

Composing himself, he smiled at me : “Well, kid, WASNT IT FUN? I SWEAR YOU'RE THE CUTEST LITTLE BASTARD I'VE MET IN THE PAST TWENTY YEARS -”

He stopped mid-sentence, as we all heard a train approaching. It was the first train of the night, despite this station normally being one of the busiest of Paris.

There was another noise, too. Wailing. It was deep. It was scary. It felt like despair was engulfing us.

I felt a hand grip my elbow, and suddenly, I was sitting on the sidewalk in front of the entrance of the station.

Standing next to me was Mr H, seemingly unbothered by the cold in his purple suit.

I, on the other hand, was already shivering.

“Erm, Mr H.? I left my coat inside, could I-

-No, Dan. This isn't your world yet, and you can't go back now. It's midnight, the gates are opened. I can't let you wander now; you might get lost.

-But I'm not dead, right? I'm not?”

He looked about 30, yet the way he looked at me right then reminded me of the way my grandfather used to look at me.

“-I would know, if you were.”

I finally got the nerve to ask him what had been bothering me for the whole evening. Even when we were down there, he looked... Out of place. His skin didn't have this greyish quality, he showed no sign of wound, and he was too young to have died of natural causes.

“What are you?”

He seemed almost pleased, as if he knew I was going to ask.

“Daniel Thorne. For an history major, you're not too smart.”

He lit a cigarette and started walking back to the station at a leisurely pace. I sat there, thinking as hard as I could in my drunken, confused state.

Then it clicked.

He was almost halfway down the stairs when I called him back :

“Hades!”

He turned around, the hint of a smile on his lips.

I stared into his blue eyes and muttered :“When am I going to die?”

“Not today, Daniel, not today.”

He turned around and resumed walking down the stairs, but I heard him saying :

“But please make sure you live, first.”

#writers #writers on tumblr #nosleep #sixpenceee #that's some sixpenceee shit #horror story #ignisaurumprobat19 #creepy #my writing #greek mythology #hades #paris #year abroad

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