The Forgotten Isle

By Lyn I. Kelly and Chris Hays

In 1964 something happened at the Sanjeo Island Insane Asylum, something unspeakable. Now, thirty years later, it is about to happen again.

 

On Providenciales in the Turks and Caicos archipelago, four couples-a group of guys who have been friends since high school and their girlfriends-meet up for a vacation. During a fishing

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyn I. Kelly
• Release date: Jun 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798986289137

Lyn I. Kelly

Lyn I. Kelly is the author of the Dark Lands series; the horror novel, Tracks; and-along with Chris Hays-the comic book adaptation of The Forgotten Isle. His work has been published in Diamond Comics and in periodicals such as the Wichita Falls Times-Record News, the Fort Worth Star-Telegram and Newsweek. Lyn is a member of the Horror Writers Association of America (HWA). He and his family live in Keller, Texas. He has cats that occasionally hinder his writing.

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The Forgotten Isle Comic Book Series Copyright © 2019 Chris Hays and Charter Comics

The Forgotten Isle Novelization Copyright © 2023 Lyn I. Kelly

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means–whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic–without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by: Black Kitty Productions. A Kelly – Murdock venture.

ISBN: 979-8-9862891-2-0 (Paperback)

ISBN: 979-8-9862891-3-7 (Digital online)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Cover and Logo Artwork by Mike Murdock, http://iamthecog.wixsite.com/mikemurdock

Typesetting and Formatting by Jon Stewart, https://stewartdesign.studio/

Dedicated to Denny Kelly and

Sydney, the Big Orange.

I hope you are both somewhere

eating donuts together.

Acknowledgements

In the summer of 2022, I was approached by Chris Hays of Charter Comics about doing a novelization for one of their series, The Forgotten Isle. Knowing the fan base Charter Comics has, I was slightly hesitant. What if I messed it up? What if I took something great and made it menial? Charter Comics employs such talent as McLain McGuire, Ken Salinas, Cole Hays, T.B. Phillips, William Russell, and Chris Hays himself (just to name a few); do I belong in that company? Well, Chris had faith in me, and I am glad he did. So, my first acknowledgement is to the man himself, Chris Hays. Thank you for believing in me, trusting me with your creation, and giving me this opportunity to explore and expand the mythos of Sanjeo Isle.

My wife, Hera, has stood by my side since this writing odyssey really took off so many years ago, enduring more moodiness and bouts of writer’s block than most could or would or should, and she is still here. Thank you, baby. I Love You.

I want to thank my mom and my brother, both who have always loved and supported me. That is easier said that done, but they are true believers, and I would not be where I am today without them.

Hera and I have four kids between us–Kalyn, Seth, Logan, and Lacey–and they, like Hera, have been around since the publication of my first book. Not all of them are avid readers, but they are avid supporters, and they make life interesting to say the least.

I want to thank my stepmom, Suzi Kelly, for being a part of my family, our family. 2022 was a rough year, but you helped us make it through.

I, of course, have to thank my partner at Black Kitty Productions, Mike Murdock, who is not only my best friend and cover artist, but also my sounding board for ideas. He and I have been through so much together, and I am a much better man for knowing him.

Finally, I want to thank my readers. That might be simple, quaint, maybe even cliché, but you all read my books and spread the news so to speak. I appreciate each and every one of you.

Lyn I. Kelly

May 9, 2023

The human mind can harbor a darkness not its own, a darkness that can control and influence. After a time if left untreated, that darkness becomes the totality of that person, and that person believes only in that reality. After that there is no recovery.

—The Sixth Medical Journal of Dr. Arturo Sanjeo

PROLOGUE

East Caicos, Turks and Caicos Islands - 1964

Death often comes like a thief, stealing all its victim has and all they ever will have. For those who have lived a good life and are well prepared–or at least just well prepared–death may come like a friend, an old friend for whom someone has been waiting.

On some occasions, death is not content to just take one soul with it. Or two. Or even three. That is when the bell tolls unrelentingly even when the cries for mercy have screamed so long and so loud that they are etched on even the most callous of hearts. That is when death rides unmitigated through time and place and is a friend to no one.

The man lying motionless on the beach was thinking just that. Or was he? He could no longer tell what were his thoughts and those of…it. His body slathered with sand, water, and foam, he had just experienced death’s ride, a horrible, dark, ride, and death was still not done with him. More than once the man had tried to move, to awaken from his nightmare, but each time the reality of what he had done–what it had made him do–was too horrible, and he had slithered back into the recesses of his comatose state.

The others were dead, though if he listened past the undulating waves and calling birds, he could still hear their cries echoing around him. Accusing him. Prying into him.

Please, make it all stop!

Was this his fate? To die alone amongst the flora and fauna? To be absorbed into the sand until he was nothing more than a bleached skeleton to be stumbled upon by interlopers years from now? As sickening and desolate as the thought was, at least it had a measure of justice. The man thought he felt himself smile at the insinuation, but then quickly decided it had been nothing more than a spasm.

Over there.

A voice?

Had he heard a voice? Surely not. Surely it was the vagaries of an unstable mind.

Is that a…person?

It was another voice, but not the first voice. The first one had been English. This last one had a Spanish nuance to it.

Voices.

People.

No.

Suddenly, he felt it.

The amulet.

It was cold at first, like the brushings of polished metal on a winter’s day. Then it began to burn, searing into his left hand so viciously that he was certain he heard flesh sizzle.

The man gasped and tried to move. If he could drag himself into the ocean, maybe he could drown himself and let the waters take him and the amulet to a briny grave. He tried several times, but he felt as if the weight of Sisyphus was upon him.

Is he alive?

I don’t know.

The voices were close now. He tried to scream, to warn them away, but his lips would not part, his throat would not utter. Don’t you fools know death when you see it? Why do you not run?

Suddenly, there were hands on him, rolling him over. He heard his bones crack and muscles pop at the incursion. His head lolled and slammed into the sand. Then, he was face up, the sun burning into his eyes. He again tried to speak, but no words would come through his parched and cracked lips.

The voices became faces. Two men, one fair and the other warm skinned.

He felt his left-hand pry itself open; he felt the amulet let itself be seen. Then, he understood. He had been a pawn, an arrogant pawn whose usefulness had long since reached its apex, and his time was over.

What’s that?

A coin?

Some kind of medallion, I think.

In his dying periphery, the man tried to scream a protest, a warning, but nothing emerged. The conversation between the voices continued, but he could no longer hear them, their voices now replaced by the screams and cries of the dead. Louder and louder they grew until the sounds were unbearable, and he was certain his ears had ruptured and were bleeding.

Finally, he found his voice, words erupting from him like a pungent sickness.

I can’t stop hearing the screams! he shouted through his raw throat, driving away everything but his own darkness, a darkness that followed him deep into death.

Then, there was nothing but the amulet.

CHAPTER ONE

Providenciales, Turks and Caicos Islands – 1994 (Current Day)

He felt her before he heard her, though he could not be certain who her was. He was not one to womanize, never had been, and this was not a moment where he was confusing ladies. Far from it. He was just that tired; names, faces, and places all jumbled in his head. The night before was a blur though he did remember that idiot, Luke, lining up the shots of rum until everything went blurry, or black, or both.

Mason.

He opened his eyes, the light from the day making him shut them again but not before he saw–

Hannah, he smiled, though he did not feel like smiling.

Mason, get up or you will be late, he heard her whisper, and he was so glad it was just a whisper. He doubted his head could take much more.

The trip, Mason, she said a little more vocally.

Trip? What trip? He did not–

The fishing trip, he said urgently as he vaulted up from the bed, his brain feeling like it was still rocking in a sea of rum. Which, maybe it was.

You’ve only been planning this thing since your senior year in high school, Hannah teased.

Had it really been that long ago?

Mason slowly steadied himself from the bed and then treaded gingerly to the bathroom. It seemed that the sun was pouring through every slat of every blind in every window like there were multiple suns, not just one.

"This is still Turks and Caicos, right? We didn’t vacation on Tatooine?" he called from the bathroom.

Tatooine? Hannah replied.

Nothing, he mumbled.

Is that some geeky reference?

"Star Wars," he answered proudly.

Did you think I was Noah or something?

Mason turned back, catching Hannah getting up from the bed in one of his t-shirts, her white panties flashing him as she did so.

Noah wouldn’t look half as good as you in one of my t-shirts, he smiled.

Too bad you are in such a rush, Hannah replied, a slight wink for emphasis.

We’ll be back tonight, Mason replied. Then, I won’t be in any rush except to see you in that outfit, sans the shirt and panties.

Bad boy, she smiled.

All your fault, he said as he started to brush his teeth. He really needed a shower, but there was not time. It was a fishing trip anyway, he reasoned. He was going to be smelling like fish and fish entrails soon enough. Why bothering cleaning up now? When he got back, he would shower. Then, he would get dirty again with Hannah.

He rinsed out his mouth and looked in the mirror, a man with salt and pepper hair looking back. He looked old. He felt old. But he was not old. At least not that old. Twenty-three? Was this what years in the desert did to you? No, it was what being shot at did to you.

He felt Hannah’s finger on his back tracing over the same scar she always traced over: it was an exit wound just above his right shoulder blade, the entrance wound just below his right clavicle. Some called it the price of freedom. His fellow