The Secret Diary of Anaïs Nin — Paranormal Investigator

A dark tale in the City of Lights

hPhoto by leon lau on Unsplash

Here's a handy link to all my Anaïs stories

October 17, 1944

Given the events of the past twenty-four hours, I wasn’t sure I would ever have a chance to write what took place. I’m all wrung out, like an old dress that has been washed by hand too many times. The pattern has paled and the cloth is thin in places. My seams have begun to tatter.

But at least I’m alive. Which is more than I can say for poor André.

Where to begin?

By the itch between my shoulder blades, I could tell the creature had been following me for several blocks through the dimly lit streets of Montmartre. The street lamps flickered unconvincingly. The smell of sewage drifted up from poorly kept streets. Here and there, familiar whores lounged in doorways and I might have called out for help, but I didn’t wish to involve the already destitute and desperate women. Or the men, for that matter.

And so I hurried on, my new shoes clattering against the cobblestone, like the Nazi gunfire that had only ceased a few short months before. Paris was no longer simply a city of dreamy, absinthe-swilling artists. It had become a city of soldiers, of resistance.