My palms were slick with sweat, so much so that I had to wipe them on my jeans for what felt like the hundredth time in the last hour. The air in the auditorium was thick, a cloying mixture of stale popcorn and nervous energy. It was the kind of nervous energy that hummed, a low-frequency vibration that seemed to make my teeth ache. This was it. The culmination of weeks of frantic research, late-night arguments with Jbanz, and that gnawing, persistent dread that had been my constant companion since I first saw the smudged ink on Mr. Abernathy's so-called "original map."
I glanced at Jbanz beside me. He was leaning back in his chair, a picture of casual indifference, his eyes scanning the rows of faces filling the seats. Students, professors, maybe even some townspeople who'd heard about the project. They were all waiting. Waiting for us to present our findings, to unveil the grand narrative of Oakhaven's founding that Mr. Abernathy had so carefully spun. And I, Elias Thorne, was supposed to be the confident voice, the one who'd unearthed this hidden history. The irony was a bitter pill I was struggling to swallow.
My stomach churned. Every instinct screamed at me to bolt, to run out that back door and disappear before the inevitable humiliation began. I knew what was coming. I had seen the proof, the stark, undeniable evidence that Mr. Abernathy's story, and by extension, our presentation, was built on a foundation of sand. The "ancient" map was a modern forgery, the ink still too vibrant, the paper too crisp. The interview with Abernathy, the cornerstone of our research, was riddled with inconsistencies that a cursory online search had easily exposed. I had told Jbanz, pleaded with him, but he'd brushed it off, his usual infuriating calm a wall I couldn't breach.
Professor Albright, our faculty advisor, gave us a nod from the stage. It was time. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Jbanz nudged me, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. "Go on, Elias," he murmured, his voice low. "The stage awaits."
I stood, my legs feeling like they were made of lead. The walk to the podium seemed to stretch into an eternity. The spotlight hit me, blindingly bright, and for a moment, I felt a dizzying disconnect from reality. I could hear the murmur of the crowd, the shuffling of papers, the distant hum of the ventilation system. All of it faded as I gripped the edges of the podium, my knuckles turning white.
I cleared my throat, the sound unnervingly loud in the sudden hush. "Good morning, everyone," I began, my voice a little shakier than I'd intended. "My name is Elias Thorne, and along with my colleague, Jbanz, we've been working on a project that delves into the rich history of Oakhaven. Specifically, we've been investigating the founding legends, focusing on the narrative presented by local historian, Mr. Abernathy."
I forced a smile, a grotesque grimace I hoped no one could see. I launched into the introduction, the carefully crafted opening that Jbanz had insisted on. I spoke of pioneers, of hardship, of the indomitable spirit that had carved Oakhaven out of the wilderness. The words felt hollow, rehearsed, and deeply, profoundly wrong. Every sentence was a lie I was forced to speak, a betrayal of the truth I'd discovered.
As I spoke, I could feel eyes on me, dissecting every word, every tremor in my voice. I imagined them all knowing, all seeing through the flimsy facade. The fear was a cold, creeping thing, wrapping itself around my throat.
Then, from the back of the auditorium, a voice cut through my rehearsed speech. It wasn't loud, but it was clear, carrying an authority that immediately silenced the room. "Excuse me," the voice said. "May I interrupt?"
My blood ran cold. I knew that voice. It belonged to Sarah Jenkins, a sharp, ambitious student from a rival research group. They'd been working on a parallel project, ostensibly about Oakhaven's folklore. I'd dismissed them as a minor nuisance, focused more on Jbanz's increasingly erratic behavior and my own growing suspicions.
Professor Albright gestured for me to pause. "Yes?" he asked, his brow furrowed.
"Thank you, Professor," Sarah said, and I could hear the slight smirk in her voice. "My group has been conducting our own research into Oakhaven's founding, and we've come across some… interesting discrepancies."
My heart leaped into my throat. Discrepancies. That was putting it mildly.
Sarah rose from her seat, a confident stride carrying her towards the stage. Another student from her group followed, carrying a large, clear plastic sleeve. Inside, I could see it. A piece of paper. A modern piece of paper.
"We've been fortunate enough," Sarah continued, her gaze sweeping across the audience before landing on me, "to obtain a copy of what is claimed to be the original founding map of Oakhaven." She held up the plastic sleeve. The audience leaned forward, a collective ripple of curiosity.
My breath hitched. I couldn't look away. It was the map. The forged map.
"Upon closer examination," Sarah announced, her voice amplified by the microphone, "using carbon dating analysis and ink composition tests—methods readily available to any serious researcher—we discovered that this map was not created in the 18th century, as claimed. The paper is a standard pulp paper, manufactured in the late 20th century. The ink, a synthetic pigment, is also modern."
A gasp swept through the audience. I felt a wave of heat rush to my face. This was it. The exposure. The humiliation I had dreaded. My carefully constructed world, the one I thought I was building on solid ground, was crumbling around me.
"Furthermore," Sarah continued, unfazed by the reaction, "we've cross-referenced Mr. Abernathy's oral history, the primary source for Elias and Jbanz's presentation, with public archives and historical records. We found that many of the key individuals and events he described are either fabricated or heavily distorted. For instance, the supposed 'lost diary of Captain Thorne'—a central piece of Mr. Abernathy's narrative—does not appear in any known historical registry or private collection. In fact, our research suggests that the diary itself may be a recent invention, created to support a fabricated historical account."
The words hit me like physical blows. Captain Thorne. My ancestor. The lineage I was so proud to explore. Now, it was revealed as a lie, a prop in Mr. Abernathy's elaborate charade. My shoulders slumped. I felt a profound sense of betrayal, not just by Abernathy, but by Jbanz, who had pushed me forward, who had dismissed my concerns. He had known, or at least suspected, and had chosen to proceed anyway.
I risked a glance at Jbanz. He was still sitting there, his expression unreadable. There was no panic, no shame, no flicker of distress. It was as if he were watching a play unfold, completely detached from the unfolding disaster. A part of me, the part that was screaming in humiliation, wanted to lash out, to demand answers. But I was frozen, trapped in the spotlight, the weight of the audience's gaze crushing me.
Sarah concluded her statement, her voice ringing with triumph. "Therefore, we must conclude that the historical narrative presented by Mr. Abernathy, and by extension, the research conducted by Elias Thorne and Jbanz, is based on fraudulent evidence and unsubstantiated claims. We believe it is important for the academic integrity of this institution that this information be brought to light."
The auditorium erupted. Whispers turned into a din of excited chatter. Faces were turned towards me, some with pity, others with scorn. I could feel the heat radiating from my cheeks, a burning testament to my utter mortification. My worst fears had been realized, and in the most public, agonizing way possible. I had been a fool, a pawn in a game I didn't understand, and now everyone knew it. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. I wanted to disappear. The legacy I thought I was forging had turned to dust, and the ashes were settling on my own reputation. I had nothing left. It was over. Or so I thought.