The Last Campsite Before Autumn

Nobody went to Greymoor Lake in November. That was the general consensus among the residents of the village of Stonewick, delivered with the particular confidence of people who had grown up somewhere and therefore considered themselves experts on it. November at Greymoor meant cold mud, low grey skies, mist that rolled in off the water before noon and didn't leave until the following morning, and absolutely nothing else worth mentioning.

Felix Adeyemi had heard all of this from his aunt, his aunt's neighbour, the woman at the village post office, and a man walking a dog who had volunteered the information entirely unprompted. He had listened to all of them politely and then gone back to helping his dad set up the tent.

The camping trip had been his dad's idea, in the way that most of his dad's ideas were: sudden, enthusiastic, and only partially thought through. "End-of-season adventure," his dad had said two weeks ago, spreading a map on the kitchen table with the expression of someone about to announce something wonderful. "Before the cold really sets in. Just the two of us. Greymoor Lake. Famous for its scenery."

"Famous among who?" Felix had asked.

His dad had gestured broadly at the map, which did not answer the question.

Felix was thirteen and had been on enough of his dad's adventures to know that they usually involved at least one moment of genuine panic followed by a story they'd be telling for years. He had packed accordingly, including a spare torch, a waterproof notebook, and twice as many socks as recommended.

The campsite, which was the only official one within walking distance of the lake, was almost entirely empty when they arrived on the Friday afternoon. One other tent stood at the far end of the field, a small orange one that looked as though it hadn't been moved in some time. The site manager, a weathered woman named Pat who wore an expression of permanent mild disapproval, had checked them in with the air of someone who found their presence puzzling.

"Bit late in the year," she'd said.

"That's rather the point," his dad had replied cheerfully.

Pat had looked at Felix in a way that seemed to communicate several things at once, none of them particularly reassuring.

The tent went up in forty minutes, which was a personal record. His dad made a fire in the stone ring provided and they ate pasta from a camping stove as the sky darkened from pale grey to deep blue to black. The lake was visible from the campsite, about two hundred metres through a line of birch trees, its surface flat and dark and perfectly still.

Felix liked it, he decided. It was the kind of quiet that had texture to it, layers of sound beneath the silence: wind in the birch leaves, the occasional bird, the soft movement of water.

"What's the story with this lake?" he asked, pulling his coat tighter.

His dad looked up from his mug. "Story?"

"People in the village seem a bit funny about it. The post office lady practically crossed herself when I mentioned it."

His dad laughed. "Small villages. Every pond has a legend. Probably something about a monster, or a witch, or a monk who died badly. That sort of thing."

Felix nodded. He'd look it up when he had signal, which was currently not. His phone showed one bar that disappeared if he moved more than three steps in any direction.

He was looking out at the birch trees when he saw the light.

It was distant, moving slowly along the far edge of the lake. A warm, yellowish glow, the kind that came from a lantern rather than a torch. It moved with the unhurried pace of someone out for a walk, pausing occasionally, moving on, disappearing for a moment behind a tree trunk and then reappearing further along the bank.

"Dad," Felix said. "Is there a path along the other side of the lake?"

His dad looked. "There's one marked on the map, yes. Why?"

"Someone's walking it."

His dad squinted at the distant light. "Someone with a lantern? That's a bit old-fashioned."

"Yes," Felix said.

They both watched for a moment. The light completed its slow circuit and then, without fading or flickering, simply stopped. Not went out. Stopped, as though it had been there and then was not there, with no transition between the two states.

"Huh," his dad said. "Probably someone from that other tent, heading back."

Felix looked toward the orange tent. Its zip was closed and no light showed from inside.

He said nothing. He took out his waterproof notebook and wrote down the time, 9:23 PM, and a description of what he'd seen. Then he went to bed and lay awake for longer than was entirely comfortable, listening to the sounds of the lake and thinking.