The Haunted Traveler Vol. 1 Issue 1

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time of year, the Gatineau Hills offered colors enough, but
Yocelin's canvas enameled them. The greens were deep, the
browns transmuting to lacquered reds, the blue of the sky
lowering to mauve, the clouds as white as an unexpected
punch. The day was bright, but not that bright. Yocelin's
wished-for world was surreal.
"It's kinda Fauvist," the young man offered, proud of himself.
Yocelin slipped a smile at him. His dark blond hair and
light brown eyes were pleasant enough, but his skin was
captivating. It was unreservedly golden, and Yocelin had to
admit that his red shirt, however superfluous, generated a
contrast that would look magnificent in oils.
"This is—so you're from France?" the young woman asked
the artist.
Yocelin nodded and put nostalgia in her eyes.
The man shifted beside her. Her breasts, of course, were
too present.
"Was it worth the walk?" Yocelin asked, and gestured at
the view.
The couple clasped hands, nodded.
"This place is amazing," the man allowed. "I mean, the
whole town, but also this," he clarified, tamping at their hill.
"I mean, I can't believe we're the only ones here."
Yocelin nodded. "You're the first people I've seen for days.
That climb might be to blame," she added, nodding towards
the edge of the bluff, where the road seemed to drop away
to nowhere. "Isn't it lovely?" she asked, and didn't need an
answer.
The three of them appreciated the sunshine, the breeze,
the flap of a hawk's wings overhead, and the delightful absence
of blackflies. Below them, hidden by larger, lower hills,
was a riverside town bursting with the crimson of a covered
bridge and the cobalt of board-and-batten homes. It jigged
with tourists, bakers, boaters, shopkeepers, a music venue,
even a steam train, but up on the cemetery bluff the world