The Allure of the Underground: A Night in the Paris Catacombs part 3

In this three-part blog series, I explore the fascinating Paris Catacombs, starting with the official tour and venturing into the lesser-known, hidden sections of the underground. From the meticulously arranged ossuaries to the unique charm of the unofficial galleries, join me as I uncover the history, beauty, and quiet intrigue of this remarkable world beneath the streets of Paris.

In the days after my first visit to unofficial part of Paris Catacombs, I felt an irresistible pull to return. Through a friend on Instagram, I connected with a seasoned cataphile, whom I’ll call Chat (name changed). While my previous guide had been knowledgeable and capable, Chat’s connection to the tunnels was something different. She wasn’t just a visitor - she spent an average of three days a week underground, her deep familiarity with the catacombs offering an opportunity to delve even further into this hidden world.

Cataphiles are much more than explorers - they are storytellers, artists, and guardians of an unseen world. Their connection to the catacombs is forged through countless hours spent in its depths, navigating labyrinthine tunnels with a familiarity earned only through experience. They uncover forgotten passages, preserve remnants of history, and map a realm that remains invisible to most.

For cataphiles, the catacombs are more than just tunnels - they are a space where creativity and community flourish. Murals appear on stone walls, left like fleeting signatures in the shadows, and clandestine gatherings bring people together in an atmosphere of shared curiosity and rebellion. Beneath Paris, the ordinary fades away, replaced by a world that feels alive with discovery and echoes of the past.

To step into the catacombs is to enter their domain - a hidden and vibrant culture that cherishes its history as much as its mysteries. It’s a world that captivates and humbles, offering a rare glimpse into the extraordinary life that thrives beneath the city’s surface.

By my second visit, the nerves were gone. Having already navigated the catacombs once before, I felt much more prepared. The map was now even more familiar, and I knew exactly what to wear and what to pack - this time leaving the tripod behind and sticking to just my light and camera. The experience of that first trip had taught me what was truly essential, allowing me to travel lighter and move more freely.

Chat and I plan to spend the night in the catacombs. We meet in the Montparnasse area at 9 PM on a Saturday night, and I immediately like her - which is a relief, considering we’re about to spend hours together in a strange and eerie environment.

Chat leads us to an unassuming manhole nearby, but it’s sealed shut. Cataphiles know of many entrances to the catacombs, though their accessibility varies - some are locked, others open. At the next spot, we get lucky. A narrow hatch gives way, and we quickly lift it. Without hesitation, I slip inside, disappearing into the shadows below.

I switch on my headlamp and climb down a set of metal rungs, descending one level into the darkness. At the bottom, I step onto a concrete platform and wait for Chat to follow, watching as she secures the hatch from below. The hatch is heavy, but she manages to lock it firmly in place. She clearly has experience.

The shaft continues downward for several levels, though it’s hard to tell exactly how far, as the space is filled with smoke. The limited visibility makes it difficult to see, and the air is unpleasant to breathe. When I ask Chat what’s going on - if there’s an open fire somewhere below - she guesses that someone has set off a homemade smoke bomb in the tunnels, likely just for fun. Apparently, it happens sometimes. In the past, such smoke bombs were reportedly used to prevent the catacomb police from catching unauthorized visitors, but these days, it’s more about amusement than evasion.

I pull my high turtleneck over my face to shield my breathing as we descend through the thick smoke, layer by layer. First, we climb down sturdy iron rungs for a few levels, then switch to lightweight, makeshift ladders secured with wire for stability. These ladders were likely set up by cataphiles - it’s hard to imagine this shaft serving any purpose other than access to the catacombs.

At the bottom, the ladders end directly on the sandy floor of a mining tunnel - a surprisingly convenient landing. The air is thick with smoke, making it difficult to see far, but Chat moves confidently through the haze. Our plan is to explore a few small yet fascinating galleries, including one featuring the eerie spectacle of a bone waterfall.

As we journey deeper, the smoke gradually clears. We encounter sights entirely new to me: a cave-in reinforced to prevent further collapse, calcite formations sculpted by endlessly dripping water, and a well filled with water so crystal clear it appears untouched by time. This particular tunnel is lined with ankle-deep water, its clarity exposing every detail of the floor below. The well itself is a large, round hole in the ground - an easy hazard to overlook if you’re not paying attention. Falling in would undoubtedly be a refreshing surprise.

We spot centipedes and snails - oddly fascinating creatures, given they manage to thrive in total darkness. When people pass through the catacombs, they sometimes spill beer or other yummy liquids onto the ground, creating a fertile breeding ground for molds and fungi. In those areas, I notice ghostly white, thread-like fungal growths rising eerily from the ground. They are strangely beautiful in their own haunting, otherworldly way.

Chat mentions that it wasn’t so long ago when mushroom plantations thrived underground, supplying fresh mushrooms to the restaurants of Paris. The constant temperature of around 13°C and the high humidity of the catacombs created ideal conditions for growing mushrooms. Mushroom cultivation began to decline in the mid-20th century, as the city’s modernization and infrastructure changes made it increasingly difficult to use the catacombs for farming. The idea of cultivation beneath the city adds yet another layer to the strange and fascinating history of these tunnels.

To reach the bone galleries we’re heading to, we must crawl through a very low section of the tunnel, stretching about 30 meters. It’s so narrow that we have to push our gear ahead of us, inching forward entirely on our stomachs. The experience is intensely claustrophobic - progress is slow, and the combined strain of crawling, lingering smoke residue, and the dust stirred up with every movement leaves my throat raw and dry.

Finally, the tunnel opens into a larger space - a welcome relief. However, knowing that we’ll have to crawl back through the same passage to leave is already irritating. My throat feels so parched that the liter of water I brought suddenly seems completely insufficient.

We are in a small gallery. Some skulls rest on shelves built into the stone walls, while others, along with various bones, lie scattered across the ground at our feet. On one shelf, we notice a section of spine, about seven vertebrae long. It’s uncommon to see bones other than skulls and femurs in the catacombs. The larger bones, like skulls and femurs, are typically used to create the more elaborate bone walls, with smaller, less prominent bones likely forming the support structure behind them.

Officially, the last bones were transferred to the catacombs in 1860, but the evidence here tells a different story. The skulls on the shelves, the bones scattered on the ground, and the bone waterfall itself all contradict that timeline. Modern dentures, synthetic clothing—still disturbingly intact, like nylon stockings and contemporary bras with metal clasps—and even a gravestone plaque dated 1956 suggest a more recent history. These unnervingly well-preserved garments add an unsettling layer to the scene, making it impossible to ignore the lingering presence of the recent past.

This discovery really piques my curiosity, so I later turn to my trusted companion, ChatGPT, for his take. His response is both insightful and thought-provoking:

“This is a fascinating and unusual observation, especially since, officially, no new remains have been placed in the Paris catacombs since 1860. However, there could be several explanations. In the 20th century, graves were sometimes relocated due to urban development, and remains uncovered during these projects might have been quietly transferred to the catacombs. The catacombs, being difficult to monitor, may also have been used unofficially or illegally for burials. Additionally, during crises like World War II, they could have served as temporary or permanent resting places. And while modern clothing and items like dentures or bras might seem strange, they could simply have been left behind by visitors and blended in with the remains.”

I share my own theory with him: Perhaps these remains are from graves whose upkeep fees were no longer paid. In France, like many other countries, maintaining a grave often requires regular payments. If these lapse, the grave can be reclaimed, and the remains transferred to the catacombs as a practical solution.

He agrees, saying, “That makes sense, especially considering the historical and cultural practices around cemetery management. Paris has a long history of reclaiming burial sites due to limited space, and transferring remains to the catacombs aligns with this. The modern dentures, synthetic clothing, and even grave plaques suggest these remains might be from the 20th century.”

Curious about burial costs, I look into Montparnasse Cemetery. A two-square-meter grave plot can cost around €15,500, comparable to Paris real estate. Prices depend on the location, size, and lease duration, which is typically 10, 30, or 50 years. Permanent graves are rare, and when leases expire, graves may be reused and remains relocated.

Looking at European burial practices more broadly, I find that expired graves are often handled in one of several ways. Remains may be transferred to an ossuary, reburied in smaller or communal plots, cremated with ashes stored or scattered, or left to decompose naturally. These practices are practical solutions for densely populated areas while respecting cultural and religious traditions.

Pragmatically, I reflect: in death, people inevitably become ethical waste - or rather, this transformation occurs when their resting place is no longer paid for or maintained. Ultimately, the peace we find in rest depends on those we leave behind - on their resources and, perhaps more importantly, their willingness to continue caring for our memory. In the end, it’s those who pay and whose families persist that are afforded lasting rest. So much for equality, even in death.

As a practical person with a dark, ironic sense of humor, I can’t help but think: by choosing cremation, your skull avoids spending eternity on a shelf, posing for a photo - no wonder it’s such a popular choice these days.

After exploring this particularly fascinating gallery, we wander around a while longer, soaking in our surroundings. Eventually, it’s time to squeeze back into the narrow, sandy tunnel. The cramped passage feels just as uncomfortable as before - perhaps even longer this time. Emerging at last into a wider corridor, we pause to catch our breath before continuing on.

And so we move swiftly once again, navigating the endlessly winding tunnels - sometimes upright, sometimes nearly so but with heads tilted to the side, and other times in a half-crouch. I realize that I’ve already become accustomed to moving through this environment. Despite our fast pace, I haven’t hit my head even once - a sharp contrast to my first visit, when it happened three times.

Our next destination is a place known as “Bysance,” meaning Byzantium, where we hope to find other cataphiles. After walking for at least an hour, I begin to recognize familiar landmarks - In this area, I had already ventured during my first trip underground. Finally we arrive at Bysance, a gallery opened by cataphiles a few years ago, and it’s clear we’ve found exactly what we were looking for.

A strip of colorful lights runs along the ceiling, bathing the entire space in a warm, festive glow. The room is bordered by a rough, wide stone ledge that doubles as seating, while at its center stands an imposing stone table. Nearly twenty people are gathered around it, crowded together and cheerfully sharing a fondue feast in the depths of the underground.

I find myself immersed in the cataphiles' Saturday evening gathering. Cracking open a beer I’d brought along, I settle onto the stone ledge and take in the lively, cheerful crowd. The group is bursting with personality - fascinating individuals sporting tattoos, foldable boots, and an assortment of gear tailored to their underground adventures. Many of them speak English, making it easy for me to join the conversation. The atmosphere is warm and welcoming, and I quickly find myself enjoying the company immensely.

Among the cataphiles present are some of those who unearthed this gallery, painstakingly digging it out of the sand to bring it to life. One of them even crafted the central table - a 20-centimeter-thick slab of stone - using traditional methods: a chisel and pickaxe. This massive piece was transported into the space on rollers, adhering to old-fashioned techniques, and finally lifted onto two large rectangular stones to form the table. Its surface retains a beautifully rough, natural texture, reminiscent of raw-hewn stone. I’d estimate the tabletop weighs several hundred kilograms, making its creation and installation a monumental achievement. It’s a striking example of craftsmanship that commands admiration and respect.

A couple of hours pass quickly as we linger in this room. People come and go, creating a steady flow of new faces. I realize that even if I had arrived here alone, without Chat, I would have felt welcomed. While I always prefer to see each person as an individual rather than part of a general group, I can’t help but admire the remarkable people who make up this loose-knit community.

When I ask a few of them how many cataphiles they think exist, the answers vary. One guesses around 300, while another believes that might be an overestimate. But really, who counts as a cataphile? “It’s an attitude and a way of life,” they explain. A cataphile is someone who feels at home underground for one reason or another and follows a shared ethical code and unwritten rules. Some visit once a month, while others spend several days a week in these tunnels.

At one point, I notice a large rat watching us with quiet curiosity. It has emerged from one of the countless cracks in the wall beneath the stone bench that encircles the room. For a moment, I reflect on its life - navigating the perpetual darkness of the sewers, occasionally illuminated by gatherings like this, with their vibrant lights and lively personalities. It seems like a good spot for it; the crumbs left behind on the floor and table provide a steady supply of food. After a brief moment of observation, the rat scurries away, vanishing into the cracks and shadows of its underground world.

When the clock strikes two, it’s time to leave. The three of us set off together, the last to depart - party’s over. Behind us, the room fades into darkness, as though it had never been alive with people. Chat and I are making our way to The Crypt, a spot we visited on our first trip and one I’m eager to see again. At a crossing, we bid our companion a quick au revoir and continue on our way.

Arriving at The Crypt feels strangely comforting. The corridors are familiar, and as I descend the beautiful staircase, I know exactly what awaits below. Once there, I pause to take a few photos of the carvings and the corridor before we settle in a small alcove at the back of The Crypt. We sit and talk, covering a range of topics, including an abandoned hospital nearby that sounds fascinating. Chat describes its eerie collection of old exhibits: glass jars filled with wet specimens, some partially dried, including fetuses and other unsettling remnants. It’s equal parts haunting and intriguing.

A group of four passes by and continues into a low, crawlspace-height tunnel that extends a bit farther from the back of The Crypt, eventually leading to a dead end. I don’t have the energy to crawl any further tonight, so we stay where we are, still talking. After a while, the group returns, passing us on their way out. Another round of au revoirs, and then it’s just the two of us again.

It feels like it’s finally time to return to the surface - it’s four in the morning. The exit isn’t far, but there’s some uncertainty about whether it’s still usable. We’re prepared for a longer walk if needed, but we decide to try this closer route first.

The passage begins with a short, crawlspace-height section that abruptly turns upward into a narrow vertical shaft. It’s so tight that maneuvering into a standing position is a challenge. Chat goes first, and I can see just how difficult it is. The space is so confined that lifting a foot more than ten centimeters is impossible, with no room for the leg to bend at the knee. While she stands in the shaft, I wait behind, lying on my stomach in the tunnel. I can’t see where her upper body is or what she can grasp with her hands, but it’s clear that climbing out isn’t easy. I try to help by pushing under her foot, giving her a boost to reach higher. From what I can tell, there’s little for her hands to hold onto for leverage.

After a couple of attempts, Chat manages to pull herself out of the opening. Then it’s my turn. I’m skeptical about fitting into the shaft at all. I quickly realize my arms need to be fully extended over my head before plunging in - there’s no space to move them once inside. Once I’ve maneuvered myself upright, I’m standing in the shaft with just the top of my shoulders and head peeking out. Chat helps me climb the rest of the way up. It’s a strange feeling - almost no use of your legs, just awkward contortions. It’s difficult, but eventually, I join Chat on a metal platform.

The area is clearly active, an electrical service room, with wiring running along the walls. We’re still deep underground, with about four stories of climbing ahead of us. Chat goes first, climbing skillfully, and as she pushes open the heavy manhole cover, a cascade of rainwater spills down onto us from above. We emerge onto an empty, quiet street, rain falling steadily around us. The early-morning city of Paris feels both surreal and disorienting after hours spent in the shadowy tunnels below.

I thank Chat for this incredible experience as our paths part ways. Chat heads off to find a bike, while I call a Bolt and head home, both exhausted and exhilarated. The next day is spent washing away limestone residue from my clothes and catching up on much-needed sleep. Reflecting on the experience, I’ve learned that the catacombs are far more than just a resting place for the dead - they are a dynamic, ever-evolving environment that challenges you to adapt to its unique demands.

For those fascinated by the catacombs and their history, I’d recommend the official catacombs. They feature the most beautiful bone arrangements in a well-preserved and accessible setting. And you don’t necessarily need to travel to Paris to experience the catacombs - The Catacombs of Paris Online Tour offers a comprehensive overview of their history and significance for just €5.

And no, this is not a paid advertisement - I recommend it simply because I genuinely believe it’s worth experiencing.