The Curse of Knight's Island: Love Lost Series, #5

By Sidney St. James

Step into a world where shadows whisper secrets and curses linger across centuries. The Curse of Knight's Island is a spine-tingling romance mystery and suspense thriller that weaves together passion, betrayal, and the chilling power of a vow spoken long ago.

In 1567, a grieving mother cursed the Knight family after her daughter's brutal murder. Her words etched themselves into history, binding every generation of Knights to a legacy of sorrow, loveless marriages, and death foretold. For five hundred years, the curse has haunted the family and the isolated island they call home.

Now, in the present day, the mystery resurfaces when famed detective Vincent Gideon—long retired and weary of battles past—is drawn back into the case that could cost him everything. As the curse threatens the lives of those he holds dearest, Gideon must confront the unrelenting shadows of the past. Will he finally break the cycle of despair? Or will the prophecy claiming his son's violent death prove inevitable?

Twining Gothic atmosphere with the heart-pounding pace of modern suspense, Sidney St. James crafts a haunting tale of doomed love, chilling family secrets, and the resilience of the human heart. Fans of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and classic Gothic romances will find themselves captivated by this evocative novel that dares to ask: can love and sacrifice conquer fate, or will the sins of the past always win?

The Curse of Knight's Island is not just a story—it's an invitation to lose yourself in a labyrinth of desire, darkness, and destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BeeBop Publishing Group
• Release date: Aug 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393206170

Sidney St. James

Sidney St. James is a beloved and highly read author in the world of romance. With a unique ability to craft heartfelt and captivating stories, St. James has captured the hearts of readers around the globe. Their novels are renowned for their emotional depth, well-developed characters, and immersive storytelling. Born with a natural talent for storytelling, St. James began writing at a young age, driven by a deep passion for romance and the power of love. Drawing inspiration from personal experiences and the complexities of human relationships, his novels delve into the intricacies of the heart, exploring themes of love, hope, and second chances. St. James' writing style is characterized by its exquisite prose, evocative descriptions, and the ability to create genuine connections between readers and the characters. His stories are filled with tender moments, passionate encounters, and the timeless allure of romance. Over the years, St. James has gained a devoted following of readers who eagerly anticipate each new release. His books consistently top bestseller lists, enchanting readers with their ability to transport them to enchanting worlds and immerse them in deeply emotional journeys. What sets St. James apart as a romance author is his commitment to creating realistic and relatable characters. Each protagonist is thoughtfully crafted, with flaws, dreams, and a unique journey of self-discovery. St. James explores the complexities of relationships, delving into themes of trust, forgiveness, and the transformative power of love. Beyond their literary success, St. James is known for his dedication to uplifting others and actively supports charitable initiatives, particularly those focused on empowering women and fostering a love for reading. St. James believes in the transformative power of stories and the ability of romance novels to inspire hope and joy. As Sidney St. James continues to touch the hearts of readers with his beautifully written romance novels, his impact on the genre remains significant. With each new release, readers are drawn into enchanting worlds of love and passion, finding solace and inspiration within the pages of his novels. Sidney St. James is truly a master of the romance genre, spreading love and warmth through his heartfelt storytelling.

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BEEBOP PUBLISHING GROUP

Publisher Since 1972

BeeBop Publishing Group does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

Copyright 2025 by Sidney St. James

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from BeeBop Publishing Group. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

2nd Edition

2025

This tale is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors or for changes that occur after release. Furthermore, the publisher does not have control over and assumes no responsibility for the content of author or third-party websites.

Available in eBook, Paperback, and Audio

DEDICATION

Dedicated to my high school classmates in Eagle Lake, Texas—Goose Hunting Capital of the World!

From early mornings in the crisp marshland to late-night laughter in our small-town streets, you shaped the person I am today. This story is for every shared memory, every lesson learned, and every dream that took flight from our hometown skies.

Author’s Note

When writing The Curse of Knight’s Island , I found myself returning again and again to the name Rosenthall . Readers may notice it woven into the fabric of this story — sometimes as a shadow, sometimes as a whisper, but always with weight. This is no accident. Rosenthall was not born on Knight’s Island, but rather in my earliest work: a detective series that introduced Vincent James Gideon to the world.

For me, Rosenthall has never been just a name. It is a reminder of beginnings, of the first steps I took as a storyteller into the mystery genre. Gideon’s world and Knight’s Island are not the same, yet they are joined by this thread. I chose to leave Rosenthall here as a kind of echo — a small acknowledgment of where the path started, and of the characters who continue to live in the margins of my imagination.

If you are new to my work, you may simply see Rosenthall as part of the lore of Knight’s Island, a detail meant to deepen the sense of place and mystery. But for those who have traveled with me before, especially through the cases of Vincent James Gideon, you may hear it differently: as a nod, a connection, even a quiet salute.

In truth, every novel carries traces of the ones that came before. In Rosenthall, I leave a bridge — from Gideon’s relentless pursuit of truth to the haunting legends of Knight’s Island. My hope is that when you encounter this name in these pages, you’ll feel not only the tension of the present story, but also the echoes of another world that once unfolded line by line.

This is the joy of writing across novels and series: worlds overlap, voices return, and no story truly ends. Rosenthall is proof of that.

Prologue

The world was as silent as if it had ended in the night. There was still a sliver of moonlight from a smiling moon waiting to welcome the sun, which had not yet risen. The trees lining the Oregon River, veiled in the lightest of mists, revealed their trunks, dark brown with sable cracks that gnarled the bark.

A long and winding line of white haze marked the course of the river as it wound through the mountains, made its way through Black Rock Cove, and emptied into the Pacific Ocean. The dew from the early morning fog lay thick over the prairie grasses, and drops fell from the many wildflowers across the nearby prairie. The trees along the banks of the river were veiled in the lightest of mists, their trunks subdued brown with sable cracks that gnarl the bark.

The world appeared brand new. Fresh. Good. Good as it might have been coming from the hand of the man upstairs, back when it all began... way back when.

The air smelled crisp, new, and ready for man’s work at the beginning of a new and beautiful day. The earliest of the day was beginning to welcome the early bird workers who were up before the roosters, ready for the renewed conflict of another day of toiling to make a living to help put bread on the table.

In the small and peaceful village of Black Rock Cove, three miles away, dimly seen from the glow of the morning moonlight, lay on the other side of the fog-mantled river with hardly anyone astir. A vast blanket of white hung over the foothills and flowed into the village. It suffocated every building. Every tree. Every distant object vanishing around every corner one might look.

In the grand chateau near the hillside and facing the west towards the Pacific Ocean, signs of life were still nonexistent. All the curtains on the buildings were closed.  The shutters were also closed. No one moved in the courtyard. No smoke rose from either of the two chimneys of the home to blemish the wholesomeness of the morning air or from any of the many vents associated with the outbuildings on the property.

Across the river in Black Rock Cove, the scene was desolate, or at least it appeared so during the early morning hours. It was still too soon for the city workers to be getting up and going to work.

On this side of the river, however, the scene was different; one hour made a significant difference in the preparations for work in the morning versus those who prepared for the hustle and bustle of an office job in the Village.

Looking up and down the river in any direction, one’s eyes would see nothing but open farmland, farms with their alternating stretches of wheat and barley. Forests up and down the hillside of the towering mountains nearby were untouched yet by the woodman’s ax. Spotted outside the Cove were many quaint-looking farmhouses, old and unpainted. Some were in complete ruins due to their owners' prolonged absence, with no maintenance having been performed.

Scarcely a farmhouse in sight was without its vague and shadowy line of smoke, rising from its chimney and breakfast fire lit on the inside. Women were busy making breakfast. Men hustled to the fields for the work of the day, and young boys were directing the sheep out to pasture. In the situation of the Ace of Spades in the previous novel, we saw the famed detective, Vincent James Gideon, going back to retirement life. Instead of in Black Rock Cove, he moved to a place on the outskirts of Portland. His detective agency continued to operate and conduct business without him, as he had retired and intended to enjoy life’s pleasures in his senior years.

The newspaper headline of the Portland Sentinel changed all that. The veteran detective read something that completely changed his mind. The doctor had just given him some disturbing news. After reading the newspaper, he knew right away it was time to handle one more case... just one more!

Without further ado, the following pages will answer the mystery of the Curse of Knight’s Island.

Chapter 1:  Time to Go to Work

The lads were driving the sheep toward the pastures for feeding. The summer heat pressed down from above, shimmering in the air, heavy on the shoulders of both boy and beast. The newly sheared lambs, pink and fragile in their bare skin, scattered this way and that, uncertain without the weight of their wool. One of the boys pursed his lips and whistled, a sharp note that cut the morning stillness.

Sandy, a wiry Collie with eyes as sharp as flint, sprang forward. The dog bounded low to the ground, his movement quick and purposeful. At once, the lambs surrendered to their instincts. They crowded together, pushed into a trembling mass, flowing forward in a single direction. Their unity resembled a shoal of fish, darting through invisible currents as though one will commanded them.

Carlton Powell watched from the far side of the path. His lips curled slightly as he murmured to himself, Even chaos bows to a firm hand.

He said it with no trace of pride, only a quiet recognition of a truth he longed to command in his own life.

Wait—look closer.

Here comes one now: a boy, though perhaps no longer only a boy, herding fifteen—possibly twenty—sheep along the winding riverbank. He was eighteen, perched uneasily on the edge between youth and manhood. His step was steady, but his frame betrayed his hunger, his thinness. Still, time would not wait for him to grow. It would force him into manhood whether he was ready or not.

Call me a boy if you wish, he thought, tightening his jaw. But soon enough, I will be a man. And when I am, the world will know it.

He guided his flock carefully along the gravel road by the Oregon River, the current shimmering with a veil of mist. The river curved around Black Rock Cove, restless in its journey toward the Pacific Ocean.

Carlton’s eyes gleamed with something like excitement, though worry lingered there too. He reminded himself daily that he had endured more than most men twice his age. His body was scrawny, his frame awkward, his clothes torn and ragged, yet his mind was restless, eager to take the chances of a man. And within that mind lived one faithful image—one woman, and one woman only, to whom his thoughts always returned.

Every boy’s burden is measured by the love he refuses to forget, he reminded himself, a vow whispered into the rising light.

He had left his small home only minutes before. The sky had begun to change color, the night retreating to make way for dawn. Within half a mile, the world itself seemed to shift, as if something waited for him—something that mattered.

Carlton Powell was his name. A boy in appearance, but with the sharp edges of a man taking shape beneath the surface. His feet, clad in shoes far too large—size twelves, waiting for a growth spurt that had yet to come—slid along the gravel. He hated his face. Acne plagued him, mocking him daily. In the 1950s, there was no Clearasil, no cure for the blemishes that set him apart. Yet, in secret, he dreamed of something brighter, faster, freer—the 1955 Corvette gleaming in the Sinclair Auto lot.

He ran his hand through his wild hair, grimacing. It fell across his brow in ungovernable tufts. No girl looked at him twice. Truth be told, no girl looked at him at all. Other boys at school seemed to shine in whatever they wore. A fine suit or a tattered jacket—it made no difference. They carried themselves with confidence that Carlton could never summon.

You could dress me in the finest silk, he muttered under his breath, and still, I would be invisible.

There was pain beneath his words. His father’s drinking had left its mark on his body—bruises fading from purple to yellow. The deeper scars remained hidden, pressed into the silence of his heart. A few asked questions. Fewer cared.

Bruises fade, he thought bitterly, staring down at his hands, but silence bruises forever.

He trudged along in coarse clothes, patched again and again until little remained of the original fabric. His shoes were held together with strips of duct tape, the soles nearly worn through. Almost barefoot, he whispered a prayer of thanks that the road bore no burrs that morning.

The dew clung to his feet, damp and cold. It seeped into the holes in his shoes, but Carlton ignored the discomfort. He already knew the truth about himself. A boy unloved becomes a man unyielding, he told himself, adjusting the brim of his frayed straw hat. The thought came without effort, carved into him as surely as the lines on his weary face.

He wore a frown as constant as the sunrise itself. He detested life—or perhaps it was life that hated him. Whichever it was, he had long accepted the bitterness that sat heavy on his shoulders.

His stepfather’s drunken rages filled his nights. The man came home with cheeks flushed from whiskey, eyes clouded, fists eager for flesh. Years of drinking had corroded what little soul he had left. He had no interest in changing, no desire to dry out. Death would take him drunk, and he would welcome it.

Carlton lowered his eyes to the path. Someday, he whispered to himself, someday I’ll leave this place. Black Rock Cove will not hold me forever.

Two rabbits darted across the gravel road. Carlton stopped, startled. The creatures paused, upright on their hind legs, tiny paws clutching an acorn as if it were treasure. Their brown eyes fixed on him, curious, defiant.

Carlton bent swiftly and seized a stone, cold and rough in his palm. His fingers tightened. He hurled it with all his strength. The rock struck. One rabbit stumbled, its leg shattered.

A smile twisted across Carlton’s lips. It was not joy exactly, but a grim satisfaction. For once, he had power. For once, something weaker than he bowed to him.

The first taste of power, he muttered, is often bitter.

He urged the sheep onward, now moving at a faster pace. The fog on the river lifted, revealing ripples where fish broke the surface. Carlton chewed on a stalk of straw, watching the river wind like a living thing through the trees. Always onward. Always toward its end.

I am a drudge, he thought, grinding his teeth. An outcast. A slave to everyone’s need but my own.

He spat into the dirt.

Loneliness clung to him. No friends, no allies, no soul to confide in. Yet his thoughts were restless, sharper than his years. He devoured books, always reaching for more—knowledge, wealth, power. Power, especially.

If only I could reach Portland, he whispered. If only...

The late summer sun swelled behind the Black Rock Mountains, red and enormous through the veil of mist. Its light caught the ripples of the river, scattering gold across the surface.

For a moment, the world was breathtaking. For a moment, even Carlton—hardened, bitter—paused to watch.

Hope rises with the sun, he murmured softly, even for those who cannot see it.

The glory of the day had strengthened with every passing moment. The boy could not fight the sun; its golden hand reached down and dragged him forward into a day he would never forget. Carlton squinted into its blaze, his fists at his sides, as if he could resist the pull of time itself.

He halted beside a towering oak whose branches swayed with the faintest stir of morning wind. The leaves shimmered silver in the light, each one trembling as though whispering secrets. Carlton lifted his eyes, a rare smile stealing across his troubled face.

The goodness of God, he breathed, is written in every leaf that moves.

The prairie spread out before him in a rolling quilt of wildflowers—blue, yellow, violet—all bowing gently under the weight of dew. Each fragile blossom seemed to proclaim, in its delicate nod, that the Lord had not forsaken His creation. Carlton’s faith was no grand sermon, no thunderous prayer; it was this—this silent acknowledgment that beauty still existed, even for him.

Perhaps my faith is the only thing that keeps me walking, he thought. Without it, I would fall where I stand.

A soft tinkling interrupted his meditation. The tiny bell, fixed to the lead sheep, chimed faintly as the animal moved into the tall grass. Carlton turned toward the sound, his feet dragging through gravel and damp earth. The sheep obeyed their guide instinctively, their white bodies swaying like ghosts through the morning haze.

He paused again, his body stiffening as his gaze fell upward to the mansion that clung to the cliffs above the Pacific. Its windows caught the sunlight like watchful eyes. The boy’s hand clenched into a fist, raised in sudden defiance toward the house that symbolized everything he loathed.

There lies the root of my misery, he muttered through clenched teeth. A curse upon that place and all who dwell within it.

His face twisted, ugliness carved into every line. For an instant, he seemed less boy, more something darker—someone ready to turn his rage upon the world itself.

The sheep pressed onward, and Carlton followed. The path curved away from the river, bending into a strip of woodland where shadows lingered like silent sentries. The air grew cooler under the trees, heavy with the scent of damp moss. The gravel road dipped into a shallow valley, then rose again along a narrow ridge where the world opened wide around him.

From this height, he could see the land stretch for miles in every direction: the mountains bathed in pale gold, the meadows unfolding like a painted canvas, the Pacific glinting beyond its cliffs. A breeze rose suddenly, carrying a hollow, mournful note, as though the wind itself tried to warn him.

Carlton paused. His eyes narrowed. The sun now cleared the mountain’s crest, though clouds drifted across its face, dark blotches that bruised the sky.

Something was ahead.

A glimmer caught his eye—a flash in the grass, bright as polished steel. He froze. The sheep balked, crowding one another, pushing sideways into the wet grass as if to avoid some unseen terror. Their bell tolled unevenly, a sound of confusion and dread.

Carlton’s throat tightened. What... what is that? he whispered, shielding his eyes. He squeezed them nearly shut, peering hard into the brightness. Was the sun playing tricks on him? Or was something truly there?

The truth came with a sudden, brutal clarity. Carlton’s breath caught in his chest. His legs felt hollow, his very bones stripped of youth.

In that instant, Carlton aged years. Boyhood fled him.

Death lay across his path.

The body sprawled unnaturally upon the ground, limbs twisted, utterly still. The man’s spectacles, knocked askew, glinted with merciless brilliance. The glass reflected the morning sun, though the eyes beneath it—those wide, fixed, and unseeing blue eyes—would never reflect anything again.

Carlton’s mouth opened, but no sound came. His heart thudded violently, each beat echoing in his ears like the toll of a funeral bell.

God help me, he rasped, barely audible. Who did this?

Salt-and-pepper hair, matted and darkened with dried blood, clung to the man’s brow. His lime-green coat and shirt were stiff with crimson stains. A grotesque mask of finality was etched into his face, his expression frozen forever between terror and release.

Carlton’s teeth locked tight, his jaw a prison for the dread that threatened to burst from him. His face mirrored rigor mortis itself.

Death has found me, he thought wildly. And I will never be free of it again.

The forest around him fell silent, the canopy blotting out the sky. Only his heartbeat thundered, deafening, insistent, drumming against his temples.

Then—panic. Suddenly, complete. His body surged into motion before his mind could command it. He turned and fled. His legs carried him with desperate speed, his lungs burning, his chest heaving in frantic gasps. Each breath came ragged, like a drowning man clawing for air.

This is not real, he tried to tell himself. It cannot be real. Yet the image of those glassy, unblinking eyes burned itself into his memory.

No! Carlton cried aloud, though no one was near to hear him. No, I saw it—I saw him! A dead man! Oh, God!

The gravel road blurred beneath him as he sprinted, every stride hammering with the rhythm of terror. He stumbled, caught himself, pressed onward.

He had never seen death before. Now it had seized him, claimed him. The horror clung like a second skin, suffocating, inescapable.

I must tell someone—anyone! he gasped, half-choked on his own breath. They must know in Black Rock Cove!

The pounding of his feet matched the pounding of his heart. Both threatened to break him, but he dared not stop.

Behind him, the sheep scattered across the grass. Before him, dread pursued like a hunter, unseen but relentless.

And so Carlton ran—not just from what he had seen, but from the boy he had been that morning.

AWAY! AWAY!

Carlton ran as fast as his legs would carry him, each stride pounding against the gravel road like a drum of warning. Fear had found him, wrapped him in its icy grip, and refused to release him. A quiver of resistance shook his limbs, whispering of danger even as his legs propelled him forward. He felt weak, hollowed, yet driven by a frantic necessity he could not resist.

There’s nothing to fear but fear itself, his mother had said long ago, her voice soft in his memory. But her words offered no comfort now. Fear clung to him like a living shadow, clouding his thoughts, making his stomach churn, hammering his heart until it ached as though it might burst. He had to reach the village, had to tell someone—anyone—what he had seen.

He surged past the estate of Professor William Knight, the man to whom he owed so much labor, past the sprawling fields where he and his father had sharecropped since the Powell family had adopted him at two years old. The morning’s mist clung to his skin, thick with humidity, soaking his clothes and slicking his hair to his scalp. Each breath was a labor. Each inhale was a desperate fight.

Carlton swatted at a blur of gnats, ignored the sting of sweat in his eyes, and pressed onward. He felt the pulse of his heart hammering in his chest, reverberating through his temples. Never had he known such a terror, such raw, overwhelming fear.

A clap of thunder rolled across the valley, then cracked again in echoing force. He stumbled over a broken limb, pitched forward, rolling onto his side. A harsh cough ripped from his throat, the sound raw and ragged. When he rolled onto his stomach, he felt the world tilt, lurch, spin. And then he vomited, the contents of his stomach spilling onto the dirt, leaving him shaking and hollow.

Sitting up, Carlton rested his hands on his knees, feeling the pounding of his heart in his head. The trees around him seemed to sway unnaturally, shadows stretching and twisting like fingers. He lowered his head between his arms, trying to find control, to reclaim his breath. But even when he rose again, legs trembling, lungs on fire, he ran, driven by the memory of what he had seen.

The arched bridge crossing the Oregon River rose before him, its stone glinting in the morning sun. He sprinted across it, lungs screaming for air, reaching the far side only to find he could go no further. He fell to his knees, gasping, chest heaving like a bellows, before pressing onward again, rounding the corner onto Black Rock Cove’s Main Street.

The street was waking. A small group of men had gathered outside Johnny’s Barber Shop, murmuring to each other on the wide sidewalk. Smoke drifted from Beckmann’s Drug Store next door, curling from the Cuban longleaf cigars that men puffed at the door.

Carlton ran toward them, hands on his knees, throat raw. He tried to speak, but no words came; only the rasping sound of air forced through his tight lungs. His head bobbed side to side, his eyes