About Esprit de Corps

by GS Wiley
8 pages / 3600 words
Available file types - html, lit, pdf, prc, epub, Sony-optimized pdf

With his PhD in folklore, Max knows all about urban legends. He's pretty sure he's about to be in one when he runs out of gas in rural France on Halloween night, but his search for help comes to an end when he finds a kooky but devoted couple of role-players in World War Two-era clothing. Max also knows that things aren't always what they seem, however, and it's not long before he realizes there's more to the men than a mere costume fetish
 

Sample

About half an hour after he started walking, Max reached the point of wondering whether he ought to give up. He could sleep in the car and wait until morning for help. Surely cars would be more likely to come along in the daylight? He had nearly made up his mind to do it when at last he saw a tiny pinprick of light through the bushes. Like a beacon in a storm, it spurred him on. Max ignored his constricting lungs and his sore feet and pressed forward.

The light grew larger and brighter. Finally, Max saw it came from a small house. One of the upstairs windows was broken and boarded over with cracked planks of wood. A thin curlicue of smoke rose from the stone chimney, but it didn’t look like a well-used place, and no other buildings surrounded it. Rather, this house seemed to be completely alone in a flat, grassy clearing. Max was certain he hadn’t passed any signs announcing upcoming villages, and there were no signs of life anywhere in sight.

Still, Max wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice when it came to getting help. He walked up to the heavy wooden door and looked for a doorbell. There was none, so he raised his fist and knocked instead. There was no answer. He tried again, then tentatively turned the handle. It gave way easily, and the door swung open with a long, high-pitched creak..

It was some kind of bar or restaurant. Half a dozen round tables were scattered around the room, and a couple of heavy leather armchairs sat in front of the fireplace. Spindly-legged wooden chairs were stacked on top of the tables, cobwebs stretched between their limbs. The room smelled musty and unused, and a layer of dust lay over everything like thick grey cotton.

The table nearest the fireplace was set for two, but the rest were empty.. The only light apart from the flickering fire in the grate was a single white candle, guttering in a tarnished brass candlestick in the middle of the table. A dirty green bottle stood beside the candle, a thin, fragile champagne flute on either side of it. Max let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. At least the building was occupied.

“Bonsoir?” Max called. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that the old French he’d used to decipher the ancient loup-garou stories back at the university didn’t help much with modern-day conversation. Except in Paris, where everyone tried to speak some English, Max was forced to resort to a combination of pointing, gestures and the occasional pictogram to get his message across. “Je m’excuse. Is somebody there?”

There was no answer. Max could just make out a narrow staircase in the shadows. He wondered whether he should venture upstairs when a voice behind him let loose with a rapid and incomprehensible string of French.