Write about: the catacombs.
You're welcome Greg.
Highlight of the day: this morning Max and I were playing Santa Claus. Because of course we were.
The couch was the sleigh. Max was the elf (yes, the, not an - he was the only elf doing any work... for reasons I cannot recall at the moment). I was Santa, waiting for him to finish loading the presents onto the sleigh. I was impressed with all the details he was thinking up and taking care of, so I told him:
"Max, you're a very prepared little elf."
"Thanks, Dada." Slight pause. "You've a very impaired Santa!"
Whispers live down here. They emerge when the torches remain unlit for long enough. The darkness is a comfortable cloak, keeping them warm and safe as they roam these echoing hallways.
They do not take kindly to visitors. No, allow me to be perfectly accurate here. They do not believe in visitors. To them, there is no such thing.
There are only intruders.
If they had their way they would be left to their own devices for the rest of time. Would they be happy? I do not think that is the correct word. The phrase content in their misery comes to mind, however, and I think it is fitting enough to do the job for now.
They watch over the dead, keep them company. One might call them guardians, of a sort. Night watchmen, patrolling and policing this place far beneath the ground. It would be best if they were simply left to do their work in peace.
Unfortunately for everyone - us and them - there is another burial to be performed.