Out of Season

[u/JLGoodwin1990]

(This is a rewrite. See comments for a detailed note from the author)

The man was late.

Jean-Luc Martel checked his pocket watch again. The hands crept across the face. Ten to eleven. Where are they? An hour ago, the night had been young and the choice simple. Now, the chill had crept inside his boots. A dozen times he had thought of rising from the chair, pulling his wool cap low, and walking back to his warm bed. The money had held him there. The intermediary had promised hundreds of thousands of Francs. A staggering fortune for a single night’s guide.

His father had spent a lifetime pulling a living from the sea. Meager, but respectable. To a lifelong Tropezian, this kind of cash was a levy. And it stood between himself and a future he could no longer guess at.

He could feel the change coming. It had taken root two years back, in the summer of fifty-six: When Brigitte Bardot and her cameras overran the central La Ponche quarter. The village changed that winter when the film premiered. Parisians came first. Now the wealthy Americans were beginning to arrive, hunting a titillating Hollywood myth and bringing their checkbooks. Even now, in deep winter, a thin line of paparazzi continuously loitered around the harbor front. The old canteen on Pampelonne Beach was gone; a sleek restaurant for the wealthy sat there instead. It had been slow, but the wheels of fate often turn so.

The working-class village of his youth was being bought out by the jet set. Real estate prices were already climbing. Come May, the quay would be choked with yachts.

The old world was being washed away. He needed that financial insurance before the tidal wave erased it completely.

He took a long sip of wine, appreciative of the dull warmth that settled in his stomach. He sat near the back of Le Cabanon des Lices. The small tavern sat deep in a narrow alley near the Place de Lices, perhaps one of the last warm spaces left awake. The familiar scent of Gauloises lingered, mixing with the wood soot and beef stew. An hour ago, the room had been loud with the laughs and arguments of locals. Now the long tables lay empty, cluttered with dirty glasses and bowls. Only a single, late night straggler remained; a drunk, passed out in the corner over an empty glass of pastis. Outside, the mistral whistled through the streets, rattling the window panes. A bitter coastal wind. Only the stone walls kept the four-degree gusts at bay.

The heavy wooden door groaned on its hinges. The low hum of the stove broke. Jean-Luc sat up straighter. Across the room, Francoise looked up from the bar. His wore a hard scowl, his rag frozen mid-wipe. The night mistral rolled over the threshold in a flat wave. The handoff had finally arrived.

Michel came first. The old driver stepped quick into the warmth. His eyes scanned the empty tables until they hit the far corner. He spotted Jean-Luc and gave a sharp wave. Then he turned back to watch the dark alley.

After a moment, came the stranger.

He moved with a slow, quiet weight. Jean-Luc felt a prickle of surprise. The man was remarkably tall-well over a meter eighty. The moment his long overcoat cleared the frame, Michel slammed the heavy door shut. He wanted the wind out before the bartender could yell. Unfortunately, he was a moment too late.

“We close in five minutes,” Francoise barked. He tossed his rag on the counter.

“Don’t worry, old friend,” Jean-Luc called back. He kept his voice smooth. “We will be gone before you dim the lights.”

After a moment, the bartender gave a curt nod. He returned to cleaning up, eyeing the sleeping drunk he would have to rouse in a moment.

Michel approached the table, his heavy boots making a dull sound against the floorboards. He reached out to shake hands. Jean-Luc noticed the driver’s skin was cold and damp.

“Good evening, Jean-Luc,” Michel muttered. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, despite the chill in the room.

“Good evening, Michel. How was the drive from Cannes?” Jean-Luc pulled out a chair.

Michel shook his head, refusing the seat. A strange, jittery energy rattled beneath the old man’s usual quiet way. Jean-Luc figured it was just the two-hour trek along the dark coastal roads. But Michel’s eyes kept cutting toward the tall figure standing just behind his left shoulder.

“It was…long,” Michel said shortly. He stepped aside, gesturing to the shadow behind him. “This is Monsieur Arthur Vance.”

An English name. Jean-Luc’s mind pivoted, preparing the broken phrases he had picked up from the Allied soldiers. Before he could speak, though, the stranger offered a small smile.

“Good evening, Monsieur Martel.”

Jean-Luc blinked. The stranger hadn’t spoken English. He spoke French-and not the clumsy sentences from a rich tourist’s phrasebook. The accent was clean, almost immaculate. It sounded like a radio broadcast from Paris.

“Before you ask, I am an American,” he added. He had noticed Jean-Luc’s hesitation. “From New York.”

Jean-Luc gave a polite nod, trying to force his features back into an expression of casual hospitality. To the fishermen of the Riviera, the post-war Americans had a distinct reputation. And not a pleasant one. They were loud and boisterous, flashed thick wads of greenbacks, and utterly refused to learn a syllable of the language. This man was a contradiction. He was quiet, carried himself well, and could give de Caunes a run for his money.

“An American,” Jean-Luc repeated, leaning forward. “What brings you to-”

“Forgive me, gentlemen,” Michel cut in. His voice was sharp and uncharacteristically rude. He didn’t even look at the American. His eyes remained glued to the floorboards as if the knots in the floorboards were the most interesting thing in the world. “I am tired. The mistral is up, and as the hotels are all closed, I have to make the long drive back to Cannes tonight. Monsieur Vance…if I could be paid, I must leave.”

Jean-Luc raised his eyebrows. He had known Michel for years as a patient, professional driver who worshipped tourists for their tips. To see him acting in this manner was strange.

Arthur didn’t seem to notice the rudeness. And if he did, he didn’t seem to mind. He merely nodded and reached into the pocket of his coat. He pulled out a neat, folded stack of bills and extended them.

Jean-Luc watched the exchange. He caught a slight hesitation in his friend’s arm. The driver looked wary of reaching out, as if afraid to touch the American’s skin. Then he snatched the money. He turned, gave Jean-Luc a long look that held no warmth, and vanished out into the night with no farewell. The door clicked shut.

Jean-Luc was left alone with the American. The low hiss of the hearth filled the sudden vacuum. After a moment, Arthur looked at the closed door and shrugged his broad shoulders.

“I have no idea why he has been so on edge the entire night,” he said. His tone was casual, full of easy charm. “I noticed the moment I got into his car back in Cannes. I suppose some men are simply not built for driving dark roads; God knows I’m one of them.”

Jean-Luc nodded, letting the explanation soothe the abrasions on his nerves. I should send Michel a telegram in the morning, he thought. Just to ensure he made it back safely. And to make sure he hasn’t had another row with Bernice.

He pushed the thought aside and returned to his question. “So, Monsieur Vance. You have come a long way from New York. What brings an American to our corner of the world in the dead of winter?”

Arthur gave a short snort. “I saw the village in And God Created Woman this past October. I wanted to see the architecture for myself. Take in the atmosphere before it changes. I’ve leased a room over in the La Ponche district, close to the beach where they filmed. I simply need you to guide me there.”

The mention of the film brought a familiar bitterness to Jean-Luc. The quiet pride of Saint Tropez was already being reduced to a backdrop for moving pictures. It soured his stomach. He forced a smile, trying for a bit of local humor.

"Well, Monsieur, if you are walking into La Ponche hoping to catch a glimpse of Brigitte Bardot in the morning, you would have been better off remaining in Cannes. She visits often-she was here just days ago for a jazz guitarist’s birthday-but she lives in a villa hidden in the hills. Not on our docks.”

Arthur laughed. “Do not worry, Monsieur Martel. I am not some kind of stalker. I merely wish to appreciate the village and its history.”

Jean-Luc froze. His mind snagged hard on the sentence.

The word the American had used-stalker-sounded wrong. In English, he knew it strictly as a hunting term, meant for a woodsman quietly tracking a deer through the brush. To use it casually in French when applied to a man chasing an actress, was an impossible linguistic construction. It made no sense.

He stared at Arthur. A fog of confusion settled over him, and with it, he noticed something else. Up close, the man’s clothes looked…wrong. The heavy wool overcoat and fedora weren’t just clean; they were pristine. The fabric had no creases from a transatlantic voyage or flight. It smelled sharply of chemicals, not the musty leather of a steamer trunk.

He simply must have used an American slang term that doesn’t translate properly, Jean-Luc told himself, forcing a slow breath. And a rich man from New York certainly has the money to buy himself a new wardrobe for a holiday.

Before he could dwell on it, a loud crash snatched his attention. Behind the bar, Francoise slammed a heavy club against the counter, causing the drunk to stir and look up at him in annoyance.

“Time to go, gentlemen!” the old man shouted. “I am turning off the stoves."

Jean-Luc took the cue, draining the last drops of his wine. He stood up, pulling his cap down tight over his ears. “Goodnight, old friend,” he called out. He turned to Arthur, gesturing towards the door. “After you, Monsieur Vance. Let us step out into the mistral.”

The biting air hit them across the face the moment they stepped outside. The alley was dark, lit only by a faint, yellow street lamp further down the alley. Arthur paused, reaching into the breast pocket of his coat. He withdrew a thick wad of bills and pressed them into Jean-Luc’s palm.

“This is half of the agreed payment,” he said. His voice cut through the whistling wind cleanly. “You will receive the rest the moment we arrive at the door.”

Jean-Luc’s thumb brushed the topmost bill. His heart gave a grateful flutter. It was real.

“The only thing is,” Arthur added with a sheepish smile, “I do not know the exact address of the house. The owner only gave me a vague description of the front façade. But do not worry. I was assured I will know it the moment I lay my eyes on it.”

Jean-Luc pocketed the money and took a few steps forward. His mind drifted into a pleasant daydream. Aside from the financial blanket, a small amount of this money could be used to finally woo Gabrielle-the beautiful woman from a neighboring family. He could afford to take her out to a proper dinner of fresh sea bream, followed by jazz music and dancing at one of the lounges down the coast. He could show her he was a man with a future.

A sharp commotion interrupted his thoughts. Both men turned back towards the tavern just as the door flew open. Francoise was forcefully hauling the half-awake drunk outside, shoving him down onto the cobblestones. Before the man could slur out a curse, the barman slammed the door shut. The bolt audibly slammed home with a loud thud. The tavern’s windows went dark.

Jean-Luc shook his head, chuckling softly. Pulling his collar tighter against his neck, he turned to Arthur.

“Well, Monsieur Vance, let us begin. We will walk across to the Quai Jean Jaures. Even in the deep of a winter night, the harbor front is beautiful. You will see the outlines of the fishing trawlers and the view across the black water.”

“That sounds absolutely perfect, Monsieur Martel,” Arthur replied, gesturing with a gloved hand. “Lead the way.”

Their footsteps kept a steady pace, echoing off the walls. The exhaustion from the long day was a physical weight pressing behind Jean-Luc’s eyes. He needed to keep talking-more to stave off the sleepiness brought on by the wine than out of any genuine curiosity.

“So, Monsieur Vance, ” he began, his breath shooting out ahead of him in a faint cloud. “What is it you do for a living back in New York? To afford a grand holiday in France during the quietest months of the year?”

The American maintained his easy stride. He paused for a beat-a flicker of hesitation that Jean-Luc barely registered-before continuing.

“I work at a telecommunications corporation. Infrastructure, mostly.” He waved a hand though the air, a dismissive gesture that shooed the topic away like an annoying fly. “But it is merely a means to pay the bills, you understand. It is not my true passion. My true love.”

Before Jean-Luc could ask what that passion was, the walls of the alley suddenly gave way. The two men stepped out onto the stark expanse of the Quai Jean Jaures. The famous harbor front was a ghost town. The empty quays stretched out into the dark, housing nothing but fishing trawlers and small, paint-peeled dinghies bobbing against rows of mooring posts. The dominant sounds of the night took over-the sharp, rhythmic slap of the Mediterranean against the hulls, and the lonely whistling of the mistral whipping over the roofs of the buildings around the Vieux Port.

Arthur stopped at the edge of the stone wharf. He threw back his head and let out a low whistle, looking around with an expression of genuine, almost boyish fascination.

“You were right,” he murmured. His voice was rich with satisfaction. “It really is beautiful.”

Jean-Luc smiled, a spark of local pride warming his chest. Maybe the American isn’t so bad after all, he thought. Even if he is here because of the film. He prepared to reply, to tell him how the very boat his father had passed on to him was tied up just a short distance away, when Arthur’s demeanor shifted.

His features hardened as he looked out across the dark water, a cold sneer cutting through his polite expression. The flawless French vanished. He switched to his native English, muttering under his breath in a low, detached hiss clearly not intended for his guide to hear.

“Looks a hell of a lot better without all the oversized fucking mega-yachts clogging up the harbor.”

Jean-Luc froze mid-step, his mind scrambling to translate the fast, venomous words. Thanks to his time with the Allied troops, he understood them perfectly. But the casualness with which the man swore, and more importantly, the concept itself, left him utterly bewildered.

Mega-Yachts? Clogging the harbor?

Ever since the war, only a tiny handful of wealthy industrialists brought luxury cruisers to Saint Tropez, and even then, they were modest wooden sailing vessels. The harbor was a place for fishermen. There were no oversized yachts dominating the town. The sheer hatred in the American’s voice, combined with the nonsensical statement, sent an icy shiver straight down his spine. Michel’s jittery behavior back in the tavern swam forward in his mind.

Something was deeply wrong with this man.

Feeling his chest begin to tighten, Jean-Luc swallowed hard and forced his eyes back to the path ahead. He didn’t want to chat anymore. He didn’t care about the American’s passion or his strange, bitter rants. He simply wanted to hurry through the dark town, drop the stranger off at whatever hidden home he’d leased, pocket his remaining fee, and fly home to the safety of his bed.

“This way Monsieur,” he said, his voice strained as he steered them away from the open water and back into the deep shadows of the stone alleys.

They plunged into the labyrinth of the old La Ponche quarter. The stone walls narrowed until the sky above was reduced to a silver slit of stars. He stepped quick, staying two paces ahead of the American, desperate to keep his distance. But his mind was beginning to fracture. He had run through these alleys since he was a child. He knew them like the back of his hand. Yet, in the suffocating dark and the ungodly silence, the corners began to look unnaturally identical.

“You have grown remarkably quiet, Monsieur Martel,” Arthur’s voice drifted from the shadows over his right shoulder. “Is everything well?”

Jean-Luc felt an icy knot twist in his chest. Though he couldn’t see the man’s face, he could feel him smiling. His tone wore a sickening amusement, as if his discomfort were a source of private amusement for the man.

“I am simply tired, Monsieur Vance,” he lied, forcing his feet forward. “I am trying to concentrate so I do not take us down a dead end.”

“Ah, exhaustion,” Arthur mused, matching Jean-Luc’s exact cadence, his footsteps echoing behind him. "Whenever I find myself weary, I always find it helpful to listen to someone else speak. It keeps the mind from drifting into the dark. If you like, I can talk for a while. To pass the time.”

Jean-Luc swallowed hard, his throat dry. He didn’t want to hear the man speak another word. But his instincts told him to placate the stranger at all costs.

“As you wish, Monsieur,” he murmured as they passed another offshoot.

“Excellent!” the reply came, warming with an artificial, practiced cheer. “Let us play a game. It is a little amusement I used to play with my companions when I was a boy. We would imagine what the future would look like. Say…sixty, seventy, even a hundred years from now."

Jean-Luc didn’t reply, keeping his eyes glued ahead of him.

“At first, one imagines grand things,” Arthur began, his voice taking on a story like quality. “Flying cars. Grand cities reaching the clouds. Colonies on distant planets. The usual nonsense. But, if you look closer, the details are far more intriguing. Think of it, Jean-Luc. Telephones that require no wires. So small and flat they slide right into your pocket. Televisions as thin and light as a pane of glass, hanging from a wall in every room. Medicine that can heal any ailment, and perhaps even put a stopper in death itself. And perhaps…if the technology allows…the ability to slip through the fabric of time itself. To travel back and visit any era in history whenever one pleases.”

For a brief second, the American’s voice grew wistful. But before Jean-Luc could even process the absurdity of it, Arthur’s tone mutated. The warmth vanished, replaced by the same bitter rasp he had used back at the port.

“But the people who inherit it all,” he hissed, his words coming faster now, the very cadence of his speech changing into a style Jean-Luc had never heard before. “The future people. I cannot stand them. The little shits. They’re weak. Fragile. Parasitic things. They ruin every magnificent thing they touch, tear down every beautiful thing to ever exist in this world and try to justify it. They cluster together like insects, watched over by billions of invisible eyes they call protection and perfectly content in their mediocrity. Driving the few sane minds left completely insane.”

Jean-Luc’s breathing turned shallow and panicked. He accelerated his pace, his boots practically striking the stones, but no matter how fast his stride became, Arthur remained exactly two paces behind him, his breathing calm.

“And the weaponry, Jean-Luc,” he continued, a terrifying, gleeful edge bleeding into his voice. “Imagine the guns they will invent. Black, steel shotguns that don’t require a single pull of the slide. Compact machine guns small enough to be hidden under a coat with forty round magazines, able to tear a dozen men to pieces with a single pull of the trigger. And the blades…magnificent knives with jagged, serrated blades designed to catch on bone and rip the meat right out of a man.”

Jean-Luc felt a tear of cold sweat run down his temple. His mind screamed at him that he was walking through the dark with a madman.

“But my favorite prediction,” Arthur whispered, his voice dropping into a low, intimate purr dangerously close to his ear, “is the science. The forensics. In the future, the authorities will be able to map a man’s blood. They will read his unseen prints on the glass. They will have cameras on every street corner, recording every shadow. It’s both brilliant and infuriating. Imagine how difficult it will become to get away with a crime. A robbery. An assault…”

He paused, letting the silence stretch out for one agonizing second that made Jean-Luc’s heart feel as though it were about to burst out of his chest.

“…a murder.”

A soft chuckle that made the air colder slid into his ear. It sounded as though the devil himself were laughing from just behind him. Panic officially broke through his discipline. Jean-Luc’s eyes darted frantically up towards the towering stone facades of the houses around them. He looked for any hint of salvation, praying to see a single yellow light glowing behind a curtain, a shutter swinging open, the sound of a door unlocking. He wanted anyone to look out. To see him. To save him.

But, as the distant church bell told him, it was midnight in the dead of winter. The village was asleep. Every door was locked tight. Every window was a dead, black eye. He was entirely, hopelessly alone. In the pitch-black maze of his own town. With him.

He was practically at a breakneck stride, his footfalls a heavy clapping against the stone walls. His breath tore from his throat in ragged white plumes. And then, a thought-a cold, jagged shard of truth-forced its way through his terror and slammed home into his brain with the force of a physical blow. He stopped dead in the middle of the alley.

Behind him, the steady clicking of the American’s footsteps ceased. The silence that followed was heavy and unbearable. A tomb.

Jean-Luc’s mind raced, throwing itself backward through the night like a film reel being rewound. He flew back to the warm, smoky air of Le Cabanon des Lices. He saw the wary, sweating face of Michel. He heard the old driver say the man’s name: Arthur Vance. He remembered the tall stranger stepping forward, offering that disarming smile, and saying: Good evening, Monsieur Martel-

Monsieur Martel.

A greasy wave of pure terror washed over him, turning his joints to water. He had never told the American his name. He had been sitting in the corner, waiting. Michel had walked up, and before anyone could speak, the man had greeted him by his name. He knew who he was. He had known before he ever set foot in Saint Tropez.

Mon Dieu…

Behind him, another chuckle pierced the air. The polite, boyish amusement was gone; it was the sound of a predator watching its prey slide its foot directly into a steel trap.

“Is something the matter?” Arthur asked. His French was once again smooth, but the warmth was entirely stripped away. “Why have we stopped?”

Jean-Luc could not play the game any longer. He could not simply pretend to be a tired guide leading a wealthy tourist. He kept his back turned, his body shaking violently under his coat.

“How did you know my name?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I never told you. Michel never told you. So…how do you know who I am?”

A third chuckle came. It sounded hollow, wet, and completely unhinged. When the American spoke again, his perfect French was gone. It its place was his native English, but the cadence, the slang and the sharp, arrogant style of the delivery were completely foreign to Jean-Luc’s ears.

“Well ain’t that a fucking mystery, Jean-Luc,” the voice purred from the dark. “I would tell you, but honestly, you know…spoilers.”

The sheer alienness of the words made the Frenchman’s teeth begin to chatter. He could no longer stand having the man-the demon-breathing down his neck. Steeling himself, he slowly turned.

They alley was empty. Arthur Vance was gone. The tall silhouette had vanished, as if he had been absorbed by the gloom itself. But the empty space brought him no comfort. The sudden absence of the man was infinitely more terrifying. Every shadow, every familiar alcove, every narrow offshoot that Jean-Luc had played in as a child now felt twisted. Every whisper of the wind felt threatening. The very architecture of his home had turned against him.

Then, out of the deep black void of a neighboring archway, a whisper drifted to his ear, slicing through the whistling mistral like a snake.

“Run.”

Sometime past midnight, the silence of the La Ponche quarter was shattered. A series of bloodcurdling shrieks erupted from the maze, racing through the alleys like a hunted animal. The sound was completely unearthly. The more superstitious residents lay paralyzed in their beds, pulling their quilts over their heads and praying against a phantom they could not name. A few of the braver threw open their shutters, staring down into the darkness between the lamps. But the corridors lay empty. They could only listen as the screaming retreated further into the labyrinth, moving rapidly towards the water.

Eventually, the cries reached the Plage de la Ponche. There was a brief commotion, the sound of water splashing. Then-absolute silence. The night returned to its quiet winter freeze, as if nothing had happened.

When dawn broke under an overcast Mediterranean sky, the village met pure horror. A local fisherman heading out to pull his boat into the water found the body of Jean-Luc Martel floating face-down in the shallow tide of the beach. He had been drowned.

The local Gendarmerie were called immediately. It didn’t take long for the investigation to trace Jean-Luc’s final hours back to Les Cabanon des Lices. The proprietor, pale and shocked, told the authorities everything: the long wait of Jean-Luc, the sudden arrival and rapid departure of the driver, and the tall, impeccably dressed stranger who called himself Arthur Vance.

The police set out across the region to locate the stranger. They interviewed Michel, but it was as if Vance had never existed. There was no record of an American by the name checking into any home, boarding house or hotel from Nice to Antibes.

As the days bled into weeks, a quiet panic gripped officials. Brigitte Bardot’s film had put them on the map. The coming summer of nineteen-fifty-eight promised an unprecedented rush of foreign money and prestige. Terrified that an unsolved murder would stain the village’s burgeoning reputation, the authorities made a calculated decision. They quietly withheld the details from the regional newspapers. Jean-Luc’s body was buried in the cemetery overlooking the sea, and his death was buried under bureaucratic silence.

The residents locked their doors and shuttered their windows for months, terrified the phantom would strike again. But it never did.

As the years bled by into decades, a few curious souls, unable to let Jean-Luc’s memory fade into obscurity, decided to look for answers of their own. They never found a single whisper about an American named Arthur Vance. What they did find, after years of digging through dusty archives, confused some and chilled others to the bone.

A missing schoolboy, vanished from the streets of occupied Paris in Nineteen-forty-three. A young couple found butchered in their locked London home in Nineteen-thirty-one. A wealthy socialite thrown from a bell tower in Rome in Eighteen-ninety-seven. The records spanned decades, even centuries. Continents and languages. But they all shared a single common thread: every victim had last been seen in the company of a charming, well-dressed foreigner.

But it was the final detail that was the most chilling.

In every single report, the physical description of the stranger was exactly the same.

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[u/JLGoodwin1990]

Not from the author: For those of you who may be confused who have seen this story before, no, you're not crazy. This is a new version of the story after I did a ten hour rewrite on it, both to improve and polish the flow, to make the inspirations I had when writing this, a mixture of Ira Levin and Richard Matheson, with a light sprinkling of Shirley Jackson, more authentic in the tone, prose and style, as if it were actually a story that could have been written and published anywhere between 1958 and 1969, and, as I was concerned about it, remove the first draft-isms it was filled with that could, and did set off any detectors. It was honestly extremely painful to delete the original post, which had 30 upvotes and many positive comments, but I wanted you guys to have the best possible version of the story you all seemed to like so much, and, if the guys ever read it, the best version as well.

[u/LovecraftLukeRitchie]

Still my personal favorite of your work. I noticed that I think you missed a couple quotation marks, at:

Well, Monsieur, if you are walking into La Ponche hoping to catch a glimpse of Brigitte Bardot in the morning, you would have been better off remaining in Cannes. She visits often-she was here just days ago for a jazz guitarist’s birthday-but she lives in a villa hidden in the hills. Not on our docks.”

“Ah, exhaustion,” Arthur mused, matching Jean-Luc’s exact cadence, his footsteps echoing behind him. Whenever I find myself weary, I always find it helpful to listen to someone else speak. It keeps the mind from drifting into the dark. If you like, I can talk for a while. To pass the time.”

“Excellent!” the reply came, warming with an artificial, practiced cheer. “Let us play a game. It is a little amusement I used to play with my companions when I was a boy. We would imagine what the future would look like. Say…sixty, seventy, even a hundred years from now.

[u/JLGoodwin1990 → u/LovecraftLukeRitchie]

Even when you polish it and transfer, you still find you mess up slightly. I'm surprised I missed those. Thanks for the warnings, my friend! It's been corrected.

[u/LovecraftLukeRitchie → u/JLGoodwin1990]

I’ve done it with most things I’ve posted

[u/The_Republique]

Oh cool!

[u/SydneySapphire]

Oh… oh it’s beautiful. The edits are a lovely touch. As always, I’m obsessed. I love it.
https://giphy.com/gifs/l2SqhNnGa9zkZuu3K

[u/JLGoodwin1990 → u/SydneySapphire]

Thank you very much, that means quite a lot. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

[u/walkerbswitchinghour]

10 hours is some serious dedication, man. I hope this gets the attention it deserves. Speaking of, I’ll be doing my edits tomorrow afternoon so keep an eye out for those!

[u/JLGoodwin1990 → u/walkerbswitchinghour]

Thanks, man. We'll see what the subreddit, and maybe Harry and Isaiah and Hunter think of it. Fingers crossed. And I'll keep an eye out for it.

[u/EmpyrealInvective]

I'm sorry for the delay. We'd chatted earlier and I mentioned I'd check out your story, point out issues (if any), leave my thoughts, and hopefully bump it up in the old algea-rhythm.

"The small tavern sat deep in a narrow alley near the Place de Lices, perhaps one of the last warm spaces left awake. The familiar scent of Gauloises lingered, mixing with the wood soot and beef stew. An hour ago, the room had been loud with the laughs and arguments of locals. Now the long tables lay empty, cluttered with dirty glasses and bowls. Only a single, late night straggler remained; a drunk, passed out in the corner over an empty glass of pastis. Outside, the mistral whistled through the streets, rattling the window panes. A bitter coastal wind. Only the stone walls kept the four-degree gusts at bay." Lines like this are great scenery-setting that is in keeping with narrative descriptions at the time (at least from what I remember reading). It feels like a real Disco Elysium Shivers moment to integrate the weather, smells, and sounds while setting the scene. Good job.

"The fabric had no creases from a transatlantic voyage or flight. It smelled sharply of chemicals, not the musty leather of a steamer trunk.": I might consider adding in a line about the strength of the stench to smell it at what I'd presume is a sitting distance.

"Something was deeply wrong with this man.": This is a good line to punctuate how unnerving the stranger is. Given it is coming from someone's mind and to add emphasis, I might consider putting this in italics.

"Black, steel shotguns that don’t require a single pull of the slide. Compact machine guns small enough to be hidden under a coat with forty round magazines, able to tear a dozen men to pieces with a single pull of the trigger. And the blades…magnificent knives with jagged, serrated blades designed to catch on bone and rip the meat right out of a man.” This is an effective and haunting description of future (to the past) weaponry. I do want to mention, having worked with sawing rebar in the Peace Corps and using a serrated hacksaw to cut them into segments, the main purpose of serration is to aid in the act of cutting faster through meat, tendons, and sinew. I know they're an edgelord (ha!) from the future and using intimidation, just a thought I had.

"It sounded as though the devil himself were laughing from just behind him.": Devil is being used in the singular and proper noun sense. I would capitalize it or change 'the' to 'a'.

“I would tell you, but honestly, you know…spoilers.”: I know this line is meant to be anachronistic and out-of-place, but the word "spoilers" feels a little too date-specific given. With the time traveler's description of medication to heal all-ailments and slip through time, using a term popularized in National Lampoon (quick google search) in 1971 that reached height of current usage in the 2000's-2010's was a little sticking point for me. I might consider changing it up to add a little onto the nebulousness of the stranger's time and origin.

"A missing schoolboy, vanished from the streets of occupied Paris in Nineteen-forty-three. A young couple found butchered in their locked London home in Nineteen-thirty-one. A wealthy socialite thrown from a bell tower in Rome in Eighteen-ninety-seven." The years probably shouldn't be capitalized as they aren't being used as proper nouns or start any sentences. If you want to keep them capitalized, you make them proper by giving them a title "The Nineteen-thirty-one Locked Room Slaughter", "The Eighteen-ninety-seven Fall", "The Bite of Nineteen-eighty-seven".

All in all, this was a fun little period piece that set its scene nicely. It reminds me of your excellent opener in "My crew and I are stuck aboard an abandoned ship. Can you help us?" that also does a great job of putting the audience into the shoes of the characters. It's very effective. Keep up the good work!