The musty scent of old paper and something faintly floral, like dried lavender, clung to the air in my makeshift study. The late afternoon sun, slanting through the dusty panes of my attic window, cast long shadows that danced with the motes of dust. I was supposed to be collating Mr. Abernathy's rambling narratives into something coherent for our presentation, something Jbanz was already enthusiastically calling our "breakthrough discovery." But the more I sifted through his pronouncements, the more a knot of unease tightened in my gut.
It started with the town's founding date. Abernathy insisted it was 1847, a year etched into the town's official history, a year he'd repeated with unwavering certainty. But a quick search on the local historical society's website, a site I'd initially dismissed as dry and academic, presented a different story. Their archived newspaper clippings, digitized and surprisingly well-indexed, spoke of the first settlers arriving in the spring of 1848. A subtle difference, perhaps, but a difference nonetheless. Abernathy had been so emphatic.
Then there was the supposed founder, a man named Silas Croft. Abernathy painted him as a rugged frontiersman, a visionary who carved this town out of the wilderness with his bare hands. He'd even produced a daguerreotype, faded and cracked, of a stern-faced man with a wild beard, claiming it was Croft. The online archives, however, offered a different Silas Croft. This one was a merchant, a shrewd businessman who'd acquired the land through a series of land grants and shrewd investments. The daguerreotype? It bore a striking resemblance to a popular portrait of a prominent politician from the late 1860s, a man known for his meticulously groomed facial hair. Abernathy's Croft looked more like a lumberjack than a land baron.
My fingers trembled as I scrolled through more digitized documents. Abernathy had spoken of Croft's wife, Elara, a woman known for her healing herbs and gentle spirit, who'd supposedly died young, her memory preserved in local folklore. The historical society's records mentioned a wife, but her name was Martha, and she lived to be eighty-two, outliving Silas by a decade. There was no mention of an Elara. It was like Abernathy had taken the real history and woven a fantastical tapestry over it, thread by thread.
The treasure map. That was the real kicker. Abernathy had presented it with such flourish, a brittle, yellowed parchment covered in faded ink and cryptic symbols. He'd claimed it was Silas Croft's personal map, detailing the location of a hidden stash of gold, buried by Croft before he met his untimely end. I'd been so caught up in the romance of it all, the idea of a real-life treasure hunt. But now, holding the scanned image Abernathy had emailed me, a cold dread washed over me.
I'd been trying to learn to identify different paper types for a photography project once, and I remembered some of the basics. This scanned map, when zoomed in, showed a texture that was too uniform, too clean. And the ink… I'd used a fountain pen recently, and the way the ink bled slightly into the paper, the subtle variations in its darkness, were absent in Abernathy's map. This looked like it had been printed. Printed recently. The paper itself felt… wrong. Too smooth, too evenly aged. I even managed to find a digital sample of 19th-century paper texture online, and Abernathy's map was nowhere near it. It looked like aged printer paper, artificially distressed.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't just a historian embellishing a story. This felt like deliberate deception. Abernathy hadn't just found a legend; he'd manufactured one, complete with a fabricated map. And here I was, ready to present it as fact.
I needed to talk to Jbanz. Now.
I grabbed my phone, my fingers fumbling as I dialed his number. It rang once, twice, then his cheerful, booming voice filled my ear. "Elias, my man! Ready to conquer the world with our presentation?"
"Jbanz, we need to talk. About Abernathy." My voice was tighter than I intended.
"What about him? He's a goldmine of information, isn't he? That treasure story is gold!"
"That's just it, Jbanz. I don't think it's gold. I think it's fool's gold. Or worse."
There was a beat of silence, the cheerful energy draining from his voice. "What are you talking about, Elias? Did he say something that upset you?"
"No, it's not that. I've been doing some independent research. Cross-referencing his stories with actual historical records. And… it's not matching up."
"Not matching up? What do you mean? He's the local historian!"
"That's what he claims. But the town's founding date, the founder's identity, even his wife's name… it's all different in the official archives. And the map, Jbanz. The map looks like it was printed last week."
The silence stretched, filled only by the faint hum of my old laptop. Then, Jbanz sighed, a sound that was surprisingly weary. "Elias, you're overthinking this. Abernathy is old. He might have a few details mixed up. That's natural. And the map… they used old techniques back then, right? Maybe it *looks* modern, but it's authentic."
"Jbanz, the paper texture is wrong. The ink is wrong. It's not just a few mixed-up details. The entire narrative he's spun about Silas Croft and the treasure… it seems to be a fabrication. The real Silas Croft was a merchant, not a frontiersman, and his wife lived a long life. There's no Elara, no tragic early death, no buried treasure. It's all a story he's invented."
"Invented? Elias, that's a huge accusation. Abernathy has been here his whole life. He wouldn't lie about something like this."
"Why wouldn't he? Maybe he wants to make the town's history more exciting for tourists. Maybe he's trying to drum up business for his antique shop. I don't know his motives, but the evidence is pointing to him creating a false narrative. And we're about to present it as fact."
"So, what are you suggesting? We just throw everything out? We worked so hard on this!" Jbanz's voice was rising, the frustration palpable.
"No, we don't throw everything out. But we can't present a known lie as truth. We need to re-evaluate. We need to find verifiable facts. Maybe there's *another* story, a real one, that we can tell."
"Re-evaluate? Elias, the presentation is in two days! We're supposed to be showcasing the town's hidden history, the legend of Silas Croft and his lost fortune. That's our angle! If we pivot now, we'll be starting from scratch!"
"And if we don't, we'll be presenting a fraud. Do you want our names associated with that?" I could feel my own temper flaring.
"My name is associated with success, Elias! And this project, with Abernathy's story, is a success! You're letting your skepticism get the better of you. You're always so cautious, so afraid of being wrong. Sometimes, you have to take a leap of faith!"
"A leap of faith into a swamp of lies, Jbanz? That's not faith; that's delusion. This isn't about being cautious; it's about integrity. If we're going to do something, it needs to be honest."
"Honest? You think Abernathy is lying? You think *I'm* lying by extension? You're questioning my judgment, Elias."
"I'm questioning the information we've been given. And I'm questioning our responsibility to present it accurately. This is our academic reputation on the line, Jbanz. Not just Abernathy's tall tales."
"My reputation is built on delivering results! And this project *is* delivering results. Abernathy's story is compelling. It's captivating. It's exactly what the judges will want to hear. You're letting your paranoia ruin a perfectly good opportunity."
"Paranoia? Or critical thinking? I've seen enough to know something is deeply wrong here. That map is fake. The story is embellished to the point of being fiction. We cannot, in good conscience, present this as historical fact."
"'Good conscience.' You sound like you're about to give a sermon, Elias. Just stick to the plan. We'll polish it up, make it sound good, and move on. Abernathy knows more than you think. He's just… romanticizing it."
"Romanticizing? He's fabricating! There's a difference between adding a little color and inventing an entire past! Jbanz, please, just look at the evidence I've found. Just spend an hour looking at the digitized archives. You'll see it too."
"I don't have time for 'an hour looking at digitized archives.' I have a presentation to finalize. And you, my friend, need to stop letting your anxiety get the better of you. Abernathy's story is our ticket. Don't you dare try to pull the rug out from under us now."
He hung up before I could respond. The dial tone buzzed in my ear, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of worry and frustration churning inside me. I leaned back in my chair, the dusty sunlight painting stripes across my worn desk. Jbanz was so focused on the presentation, on the win, that he was willfully blind to the truth, or perhaps, actively ignoring it.
I looked at the scanned image of the map again. It was so convincing at first glance, so full of promise. But now it just looked like a cheap imitation. A forgery. And Abernathy, the esteemed historian, was the forger. The thought made my stomach churn.
What was I supposed to do? Go along with it, knowing it was a lie? My entire academic life was built on the pursuit of knowledge, on uncovering truth, not on perpetuating falsehoods. If I presented this fabricated history, I would be complicit. I would be no better than Abernathy himself.
But Jbanz was right about one thing: the presentation was in two days. And he was already incredibly invested. He saw this as their moment, their chance to shine. He wouldn't easily abandon it, especially not because I'd found some discrepancies in old documents and a suspicious-looking map.
I ran a hand through my hair, the rough texture a small comfort. The weight of this decision felt immense. I could confront Abernathy directly, but what good would that do? He'd likely deny everything, or worse, try to charm me into silence. Or I could try to convince Jbanz, which seemed like an impossible task at this point.
My gaze fell on the stack of Abernathy's notes, the handwritten pages filled with his distinctive, looping script. He'd seemed so passionate, so sincere when he'd shared his stories. Was it all an act? A meticulously crafted performance?
I picked up the scanned map again. The paper looked too uniform, the ink too clean. There was a faint smudging on one corner, almost like a thumbprint, but too perfect, too rounded to be a real smudge. It looked… digitally applied.
A cold knot of certainty formed in my chest. This wasn't just a mistake; it was a deliberate act of deception. And I was caught in the middle of it, with Jbanz blissfully, or perhaps willfully, unaware and unwilling to see.
I needed to find incontrovertible proof. Something that would make even Jbanz see. Something that would expose Abernathy for what he was. I opened my laptop again, the glow of the screen illuminating the exhaustion etched on my face. There had to be something more. Something that would break this whole carefully constructed facade.
I started searching for information on Silas Croft's actual business dealings. Land grants, property records, anything that would solidify the merchant identity. I looked for records of Martha Croft, trying to find any mention of her in local death registries or obituaries. I even tried to find the politician whose portrait Abernathy's Silas Croft so closely resembled, hoping to find a source for the daguerreotype.
The hours ticked by. The sun dipped below the horizon, plunging my attic room into twilight. The only light came from my screen, casting a blueish glow on my determined, weary face. Jbanz's words echoed in my mind: "You're letting your paranoia ruin a perfectly good opportunity." But this wasn't paranoia. This was about truth.
Then, I found it. A digitized newspaper article from 1875, detailing the estate of Silas Croft. It listed his surviving heirs, including his wife, Martha. It also meticulously itemized his assets, which included vast tracts of land, several businesses, and a significant sum of money in various banks. There was no mention of any hidden treasure, no gold buried in the hills. The article was dry, factual, and utterly damning to Abernathy's narrative.
Further digging unearthed a local historical society's blog post from a few years prior, discussing the "myth of Silas Croft's treasure." The author, a different local historian, had debunked the legend, citing the same archival evidence I had found. They even mentioned Mr. Abernathy by name, noting his persistent promotion of the story and a vague accusation of Abernathy "embellishing" local history for personal gain. It seemed I wasn't the first to suspect something was amiss.
And the map. I found a forum for paper restoration enthusiasts. One user, an expert in historical paper, had posted about identifying forged historical documents. They described microscopic fibers, chemical compositions, and aging techniques. I compared the descriptions to the details I could glean from the scanned map image. The paper was described as having a chemical sizing agent commonly used in the late 20th century, and the ink analysis pointed to modern pigments. It wasn't just a hunch; it was backed by technical expertise.
I felt a surge of adrenaline, a mixture of vindication and dread. I had it. I had proof. Now, the hard part: convincing Jbanz. And then, facing Mr. Abernathy.
I saved all the evidence to a USB drive, my hands still trembling, but with a newfound resolve. The evening air was thick with the scent of impending rain. I knew this was going to be ugly. I knew Jbanz would be furious, and Abernathy… well, Abernathy would likely be furious too. But I couldn't let this stand. The integrity of our work, and my own conscience, demanded that I expose this lie. I looked out the window, the first drops of rain splattering against the glass, mirroring the storm brewing within me. The path forward was clear, even if it was fraught with conflict. I had to be the one to speak the truth.