Chapter 23
By the time I reach the cemetery, the weather has shifted. Roiling clouds cast the world in shade, the air thick and heavy with the threat of rain.
The entrance is not what I expected. Instead of a fence, I find towering stone walls. And instead of green grass, wide cobblestone paths meander through the graves.
I check the business card again, the shop owner’s black ink scribbled on the back. Tombs and monuments spread farther than I can see, so I’m grateful to have step-by-step directions to the Marteau family mausoleum.
A gentle roll of thunder carries from a distance, and for a moment, I hesitate. Maybe I should leave. What am I doing here anyway? Searching for a tomb? And I still have to go back for my dress. Protective bag or not, I don’t want to expose it to rain.
But even as I consider leaving, curiosity pushes me forward, moving my feet across the uneven stones.
Slipping my hand inside my purse, I touch the cover of the old book, as if to reassure myself it’s there.
Père Lachaise is a tourist site, known not only for its size but for the famous people resting inside its walls. It’s an interesting contradiction, such grandeur in a graveyard. Beauty and art mixed with reminders of death.
The Memorial to the Dead sits at the end of the main passageway, and the instructions tell me to veer right before reaching the massive stone. As I progress, the side trails grow smaller. They feel more personal and private, tombs and statues closing in on both sides.
I pass a monument surrounded by a wrought-iron fence, bars covered with fresh flowers. The famous tomb of Frédéric Chopin.
A little farther, and I reach the landmark noted on the card. A huge circle of grass with a statue in the center. I walk around to the far side and follow the sign pointing up a slight incline.
The path grows darker the farther I climb, ancient trees looming overhead. Narrow stone steps lead me to a raised plot and a fenced section with a gate. The Marteau enclosure. Secluded and cordoned off, as though they believed themselves superior. Even in death.
Beyond the shrubbery, the mausoleum waits. It’s impossible to miss. Twice the size of any others, with stone steps and pillars gracing the entrance. The name MARTEAU embossed above the doors.
Wind races down the corridor, rattling leaves as clouds swirl above. I step closer to the gate, put my fingers on the handle, and pause to scan the grounds.
No one is in this part of the cemetery, only one older man with his back to me, heading downhill with a withered bouquet.
The handle squeaks beneath my hand. I cringe, glancing around again. Is it illegal to enter a mausoleum? Pushing open the gate, I slip in and ease it shut, squaring my shoulders and trying to look natural. Like I belong.
Hurrying to the vault, I climb three stone steps and press on the doors. I’m almost surprised when they open. Surprised and unnerved. An abyss waits beyond the doors, a dark void smelling of must and decay.
Taking a moment, I question the wisdom of trespassing on a sacred site. Especially one of a powerful family.
But I’ve come this far, so I shove inside and quickly shut the door.
Immediately regretting the loss of light, I fumble in my bag for my phone and its flashlight. One tap and the beam cuts through the black, illuminating carved marble and intricate designs.
But no windows. No light.
“Because vampires can see in the dark.” My voice echoes in the chamber, my self-comforting joke falling flat.
I don’t believe in vampires.
I don’t.
Ignoring my unease, I move around the space. One wall is divided into rectangles with engraved plates. Burial chambers.
Most of them have the Marteau surname, though some of the women have their married names included.
A few small doors have no plaques, still waiting to be filled and marked. The last two are a man and woman, likely the most recently deceased. Pierre Marteau and Lillian Bouchard Marteau.
I trace a finger over the brass plate. Luci’s parents?
Swinging my phone to the back reveals several large structures. I’m not sure what to call them. Caskets or tombs or sarcophagi? Effigies top the containers, stone carvings of the deceased person lying within. These family members clearly ranked a higher status.
The heirs, my mind whispers.
Like Dora.
I take soft, quiet steps to the back, as if I might disturb their rest. Several tombs sit in a line, stretching from one side of the space to the other. But one, by far the grandest effigy, stands alone in the back.
It’s not until I’m close that I notice a stained-glass window on the wall, centered above the casket. If there’s a window, why is it so dark inside?
I shine the light at the glass. No airy, joyful pastels here. Only deep rich colors, opaque, permitting no light. Many of the panes appear pure black.
I can’t make out the entire scene, but a castle sits by a river. The river is unnatural, not signified by blue or green or white.
I move closer, hold my flashlight near the glass.
The river is red. Deep, rich red, the color of—
My hand shakes, and I drop the phone. It lands flashlight down. The chamber turns black, my phone a white rectangle on the floor.
Plunged into sudden darkness, I squat and grab my phone, shining the light to every corner.
No one is here. No rising spirits, no earthly creatures, no angry Marteau descendants.
And no vampires.
As my trembling subsides, I lower my gaze to the main attraction. A standalone tomb beneath the window.
I light up the name. GRéGOIRE LéON MARTEAU.
And below, a symbol etched in stone. The familiar V with the snake forming an S.
The letters must stand for a motto, some catchphrase that held great value for this man. The mysterious Grégoire Léon Marteau.
The name makes a spot between my shoulder blades tingle, a cold stab of awareness. Like an omen or premonition.
If I believed in such things.
I say his name and my voice wavers. So I say it again. Like a child playing Bloody Mary in the night. Taunting, daring, forcing myself to face the fear.
Suddenly, the atmosphere feels charged. I’m not a child. I don’t believe in the undead. But that doesn’t keep dread from seeping down my back. Thick and cold as oil.
Thunder rumbles outside, close enough to rattle the walls of the tomb.
In a matter of seconds, I’m out the door, through the metal gate, and back on the path, my steps clipping along at a hurried pace.
Above me, the sky churns, still threatens to rain. But my worry stays behind in the great stone tomb, my mind still stuck on symbols and puzzles.
Fixed on whispers of vampires.
And rivers of blood.