Page 69 of Fate Fiction

Evan nodded.

I reached for his hand, “there’s another part to it, come on.”

I tugged him towards me and we continued walking down the path in silence, Evan following closely behind. We approached a clearing, a cliff overlooking the far end of the lake.

Where we stood was only a mile from camp by way of water, but the lake looked entirely different from this side. I had a passing thought about some metaphor for the way I’d begun to see Evan differently in a similar manner. Same person, different angle.

“In my research about the crash it said that along with the lone survivor, three of the victims’ bodies were found down here, rather than at the point where the plane landed. I’d like to think that the last thing they saw before they passed was this view.”

A vision of orange flames and black smoke crossed my mind as Evan sat himself on a rock. “I’d hope that it was too,” he replied. “What an incredible last image to have.”

We were both sitting on the cliff watching the lake, and from Evan’s unsettled posture, apparently both thinking about death. What a way to connect with a complete stranger.

“Do you ever worry about how you’ll be remembered?” he blurted out.

“No,” I spoke quietly, still holding a reverence for the space. “I’ve spent a lot of my life forgotten, it only makes sense that I’d be forgotten in death. I think it might be the best possible outcome.”

He turned to me, brows furrowing. “What makes you say that?”

“I feel like I haven’t done much worth remembering. I can leave this world as quietly as I entered it,” I was focusing on my nails, fidgeting with my fingers as I contemplated. “On one hand, it’s absolutely depressing that I’ll have existed as a mere blip, on the other, it’s nice to know my failures and shortcomings will die with me.”

Evan chewed at the skin around his thumbnail. An old anxious habit that he must have had a tough time cracking. “My whole life has been meticulously cataloged by strangers. I don’t have control over my own narrative now, I’m certain my corpse won’t either.”

“You’d rather a death in anonymity than be remembered for how the public saw you?”

“I know it’s counterintuitive to every life choice I’ve made in the last decade, but yes. A thousand times over.”

“You’ll have a legacy at least, and your shortcomings will be glossed over by your accomplishments. I mean, thanks to the internet there will be teenage girls finding you and thirsting over you. You’ll be like a regular Gregory Peck or Paul Newman. There’s positives at least.”

Evan scoffed. “Don’t make it seem like it’ll be a good thing that teenagers will be in love with my rotting corpse⁠—”

“Shit, wait, do you see that?” I cut him off. A thick plume of smoke steadily rose from a clearing in the densely packed pine trees across the lake. It towered in a pillar above the treeline then dissipated into the blue sky above.

Evan whipped around from the rock he was sitting on. “No way, it can’t be,” he whispered, as if the hermit could hear us from across the water.

Because it had to be the hermit.

We both stared at the sight across from us, a mix of fear and intrigue swirled through my veins. It was mesmerizing, and seemingly came out of nowhere.

I had seen the smoke one time before, a separate summer from when I heard the lone gunshot. It had been early in the morning, I was drinking coffee alone on the dock when the smoke plumes began rising from the woods. Identical to the smoke plume I was presently looking at. It was easy to write it off as strange fog formations and not allow my mind to revert back to a younger version of myself that was afraid of the mystical hermit.

It wasn’t outside the norm for me to wake up a few times in the middle of the night thinking about the possibility of something or someone else on the lake—be it hermits, aliens, murderers on the lam, or cryptids. It was a shared experience with anyone who’d come to camp. Nick, Andrea, Caroline, and anyone else I knew who visited would talk of the dark silence, the mystery of the woods, the eerie nature of it all. Like all of us were waiting for something to cry out in the night or appear in our vision.

Having an experience with someone else—confirming all the fears that sat dormant in the back of my mind—sent a chill down my spine. It couldn’t be real. I wouldn’t allow myself to fall for the same scary stories that freaked me out as a kid.

“I mean, it could be a camper making a fire,” I said.

Evan gave me a skeptical look. “Or Sue might be right.”

“Or we’re both seeing things.”

“If you’re so convinced that it’s not the hermit we should go investigate.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

Evan took a few steps closer, my nose was practically pressed into his sternum. Every inhale was of his scent. It felt like he was torturing me by standing this close.

He pointed back at the smoke, still steadily rising from the clearing. “If you can look at that and tell me it doesn’t creep you out a little bit I will happily accompany you on your trip to figure out what it is. But I think you’re a little more freaked out than you’re letting on.”