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    The Forever Isle
    The Forever Isle
    The Forever Isle
    Ebook227 pages3 hours

    The Forever Isle

    By Adam Lindsley

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    About this ebook

    The car crash changed everything. Pulled from the wreckage horribly scarred and minus an eye, Elsa Batiste now lives on a tiny island in the middle of Puget Sound with only her boring parents, four quirky neighbors, and her cat to keep her company. At least there's no danger of getting in another crash here.

    But something's wrong on this seemingly peaceful island haven. Maybe it's the strange symbols on the rocks that only she can see. Or the way her neighbors have started acting even more peculiar than usual. The night when Elsa happens to see an attack on sweet old Ms. Raven seals the deal: something is definitely up on Rogue Island.

    Oddly enough, no one seems to care about the incident but Elsa. Certainly not her parents, who think she imagined the whole thing. And her neighbors--even sweet old Ms. Raven--assure her that everything is absolutely positively fine, nothing to worry about, thank you very much.

    Determined to prevent a second attack, Elsa begins an investigation that unravels a fiercely protected secret kept safe on the island for centuries. The deeper she digs into the mystery, the scarier (and weirder) it gets, and the discovery of Rogue Island's astonishing true nature leaves Elsa faced with the most important decision of her young life.

    No matter what choice she makes, there is no going back.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAdam Lindsley
    Release dateDec 15, 2015
    ISBN9780997090925
    The Forever Isle
    Author

    Adam Lindsley

    I was born in 1981 in Astoria, Oregon, and spent the first 18 years of my life across the Columbia River on the Long Beach Peninsula in Southwest Washington. Neil Gaiman's wonderful quote about being a "feral child raised in libraries" could just as easily describe my own youth, as I spent an ungodly chunk of my summers and after-school hours in the stacks with my nose in the spine of some fragrant old tome. After six years in Los Angeles, California, and two in Austin, Texas, I returned to the Pacific Northwest and now reside with my wife in Portland, Oregon.

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      Book preview

      The Forever Isle - Adam Lindsley

      The Forever Isle

      by Adam Lindsley

      Text and Cover copyright © 2015 Adam Lindsley

      Cover art by Paris Ioannou (artstation.com/artist/paris60)

      Smashwords Edition

      All rights reserved.

      ISBN: 0-9970909-2-8

      ISBN-13: 978-0-9970909-2-5

      Visit lindsleynw.com for more works by Adam Lindsley

      for Meghan and Poppy

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Chapter 1

      Mr. Batiste brought three boxes to the breakfast table the morning Elsa lost her eye.

      The first box contained a fork. A normal, everyday fork, like the one Elsa had eaten her macaroni and cheese with the night before. Knowing her father, though, Elsa was certain this particular fork would soon turn out to be anything but ordinary.

      All right, said Mr. Batiste, holding up his hand and spreading his fingers. I want your five least favorite foods. Go.

      Fish, liver, broccoli, meatloaf, mushrooms, Elsa replied without so much as a second of hesitation.

      Mr. Batiste picked up the fork and twirled it in his fingers. Now imagine not having to worry about any of those popping up on the dinner table ever again. Would you be excited about that?

      Hmm, let me think, YES.

      Mr. Batiste nodded and lifted the cover off the second box to reveal something truly horrific.

      Bagel with cream cheese and lox, he said, relishing the frown on Elsa’s face. Would you like a bite?

      Mrs. Batiste, who was chopping celery in the kitchen for tonight’s pot roast, craned her neck around the cupboards. "What on earth are you going on about, Leonard? You know she doesn’t like salmon."

      Just bear with me, Wendy. Mr. Batiste gave his wife a knowing wink and turned back to Elsa. Well? Care for a nibble?

      Elsa grimaced. That’s disgusting, Dad.

      I thought you might say that. Watch.

      Elsa’s father pointed the fork at the bagel and pressed his thumb down on the end of it. A quick stream of clear liquid shot out of the tines and splattered against the pink lox, coating the fish. The salmon absorbed it like a sponge.

      Okay. Mr. Batiste pushed the bagel across the table toward Elsa. Now try it.

      Elsa stared at the bagel. Why would I do that?

      Because, said her father with another wink, this one even more knowing than the last, you’re in for a surprise.

      That phrase really could mean anything in the Batiste household. Elsa had learned to try to keep an open mind about it. Still, the prospect of putting that fish in her mouth sent a nasty little chill through her body.

      Come on, Mr. Batiste insisted. "If you hate it, you can spit it out. You can spit it at me."

      Elsa eyed the bagel and lox, glanced up at the encouraging look on her father’s face, looked back down at the bagel, then reluctantly picked it up, brought it to her lips, and bit down.

      She couldn’t believe it.

      The flavor that burst into her mouth wasn’t salty, briny, or fishy like she’d been dreading. No, it was watermelon, ripe, juicy watermelon. Not fake watermelon, like the kind in chewing gum that lasted thirty seconds if you were lucky, but real summer-barbecue-spit-out-the-seeds watermelon. Her eyes went wide, which made her father burst into laughter.

      You see? he said. I told you! A few of us have been working on it down at the plant. The flavoring takes over whatever you spray it on. Works on everything. Well, at least everything we’ve tried. Even made Bill’s wife’s egg salad edible.

      "Leonard, came Mrs. Batiste’s voice from the kitchen. You know Elaine tries very hard."

      Tries... Mr. Batiste whispered to Elsa, ...but fails.

      Elsa’s father worked in the Research & Development department for a national grain corporation, creating flavors for the new line of cereals the company released in supermarkets across the country every year. Often he brought his work home to test it out on Elsa, who by now considered herself quite the cereal connoisseur, which was a nicer way of saying guinea pig.

      You like the fork? said Mr. Batiste as Elsa inspected it closely. Simple device, really. Just hollowed out the inside and slipped in a tiny syringe for the hydraulics. That way, no one even notices you’re squirting the stuff onto their horrible meal, and no one gets offended. Should come in handy next time we go over to Aunt Maudie’s for dinner.

      "I heard that, Leonard!"

      Elsa giggled and returned to her bowl of Choco-nana Clusters, the mill’s latest brand of sugar-infused cereal. Her father had a crate of it in the pantry, which was why she had been eating it for breakfast fifty days straight and counting.

      With a cheerful mewing, Jones announced his entrance to the dining room and rubbed his head against Mr. Batiste’s leg. Mr. Batiste bent down and lifted him into his lap. The plump orange tabby circled twice before he curled up and closed his eyes, purring like a lawnmower. Just for a minute, Jonesy, said Mr. Batiste. We have to get Elsa to school soon. He scratched Jones behind the ears and pointedly ignored both Elsa and the remaining, unopened box.

      Elsa wasn’t having it. What’s in the other one? she demanded, leaning toward the third box with enough curiosity for three Joneses. She placed her hand on the box and looked expectantly up at her father.

      I thought you’d never ask, said Mr. Batiste. You’re not afraid of scorpions, are you?

      Elsa jerked her arm back, but her father held up his hands and laughed. Just kidding, Els! Here, have a look. And he lifted the cover off the third box.

      It’s perfect! Elsa squealed, snatching up the camera. She felt its weight in her hands (Heavy, she thought. Really heavy) and peered into the viewfinder. She panned across the dining room, left to right, already imagining the photos she’d take with the device she had absolutely no idea how to use.

      Mr. Batiste tapped his forefinger on the camera. I saw this beauty at a garage sale down the street yesterday, and your mother and I figured you’d been asking for one long enough, so...Merry Christmas.

      But Christmas was two months ago.

      Okay then, Little Miss Technical, Merry Presidents’ Day.

      Elsa ran her fingers over the scuffed black plastic encasing the body of the camera. The label on the front read INSTAMATIC. It looks really old.

      That’s because it is, said her father. Over forty years old, in fact. And this uses real film, Elsa. Your photographs will look stunning if you plan your shots properly. You have to consider the subject you’re photographing, the light, the focus. It’s a lot to learn, but the best way to do that is to just get out there and start snapping away. He hoisted Jones into the air, and the cat looked none too pleased to have his nap interrupted. And what better subject than good ol’ Jonesy here? Go ahead, Els, there’s film in it now. Just hit the little button on top and leave the rest to the camera.

      Elsa held her new camera up to eye level, framed Jones’s less than amused glare in the viewfinder, and pressed the round silver button on the top of the camera. A flash of light filled the room, and the little blue cube sitting on top of the camera rotated one quarter-turn. Jones closed his eyes, shook his head as if to dislodge the bright light that had just invaded his pupils, and hopped down irritably from Mr. Batiste’s lap.

      When you finish off the roll we’ll have it developed and see how your pictures turn out, said Mr. Batiste, trying to soothe Jones with a scratch behind his ears. I know it’s not the best camera in the world, but we thought you’d be better off learning the basics on something that wasn’t so complicated that it’d drive you bonkers trying to figure it out.

      Thanks, Dad. She turned the camera over in her hands. I’m going to start with some pictures of that old bird’s nest in the backyard. There’s been a squirrel sleeping in it for a week.

      I look forward to seeing that. But don’t just thank me. It’s from your mother, too.

      Thank you, Mom!

      You’re very welcome, dear, said Mrs. Batiste, untying her apron as she emerged from the kitchen. "Time to go! You know how bad the traffic gets downtown this time of day. Are you done with your breakfast, Els?"

      Elsa gulped the last of the chocolaty milk from her cereal bowl and handed it over to her mother. I just need to get my books!

      She ran to her bedroom down the hall, shoved her new camera into her backpack, swung it over her shoulder, then rushed back. Her father was straightening his tie in the mirror by the front door while her mother gathered her things into her purse. Jones curled around her father’s legs until he knelt down and stroked the cat’s fur. All right, Jonesy, said Mr. Batiste. You’re in charge of the house. No wild parties, no girls, no bad TV, got it?

      Jones yawned and sauntered off to his basket to resume his morning nap.

      Outside, clouds hung low in the sky, thick and dark and threatening to erupt. Her father hadn’t driven two blocks before the clouds burst and the rain poured down, big fat drops that splattered against their little sedan and ran in rivulets across the windows. Mr. Batiste flicked a lever on the steering column and the wipers went screeck screeck across the windshield.

      Here, Els, he said, passing Elsa the fork he’d shown her at breakfast over the back of his seat. Use it at school. Let your friends think you’ve got an iron stomach when the lunch lady serves you lukewarm turkey à la king.

      Elsa took the fork and turned it over in her hand. With a glance down at the floor, she spotted an old potato chip she must have dropped there ages ago, covered in dirt and lint and garnished with a few black hairs. For a moment she flirted with the idea of squirting the flavoring on the chip, but then thought better of it. I’m not eating garbage no matter how good it might taste.

      They came to a stoplight, and when the light turned green they made a left turn onto the highway. This part of the journey to school usually took about ten minutes, depending on how late they were running on any particular day. Today’s traffic seemed to be moving at a decent clip, which thankfully meant Elsa wouldn’t receive another verbal warning from her teacher about what she called her unrelenting tardiness. She didn’t know why her parents insisted on driving her to school every day, but it wasn’t something she was about to question. School buses were cold, dirty, and noisy, and bus drivers were the crankiest people in the world. Or so she had been told by the other kids in her class, the poor saps whose parents didn’t drive them to school.

      Behind her, the sound of something squealing made Elsa turn around in her seat. She saw a pickup truck several hundred feet back, weaving in and out of traffic on the rain-slick city streets like a slaloming skier.

      Elsa set the fork on the seat beside her, unzipped her backpack, and brought out her camera. I think I’ll call this one ‘Road Rage,’ she said quietly to herself as she framed the erratically moving truck in the viewfinder. She snapped a photo of the truck just before it came to a screeching halt at a red light a block behind them.

      Elsa, are you buckled in? said her mother.

      Yes, Mom. There was this truck back there driving like a maniac, so I had to take a... But Mrs. Batiste had already gone back to her conversation with Mr. Batiste the moment Elsa confirmed that she wouldn’t fly through the windshield if her father should happen to slam on the brakes or plow into a brick wall.

      Bored with the too-familiar drive as she so often was, Elsa pulled out a sheet of notebook paper from her backpack and thought about drawing something, perhaps a turtle, or maybe a walrus in a tuxedo. Her classmates always liked her walruses. Then her eyes fell upon the fork resting next to her, and a bizarre idea popped into her head.

      She picked up the fork, aimed the tines at the sheet of paper, and pressed down on the end of it like her father had done earlier. Clear liquid shot out in four tiny streams onto the corner of the sheet. Within seconds, the wet patches on the paper disappeared, leaving it dry and unmarked.

      Elsa tore off the corner, sniffed it (Hmm...smells like paper, she thought), then slid it between her lips. Sure enough, the taste of fresh, delicious watermelon sang in her mouth. Unfortunately, it still had the texture of paper. But she was very impressed that her father’s invention worked even when you didn’t spray it on food. Where else can I try this?

      Elsa spat out the soggy wad into her palm, then stared at the fork in her other hand as the corners of her mouth slowly tugged up into a grin. This...is...incredible. As her father slowed the vehicle to a stop at a red light, she told him, Dad, you’re a geniu—

      An explosion of sound, horrible and deafening, split the air directly behind Elsa, a shrieking of metal on metal accompanied by an impact of terrifying power that jerked her whole body forward like a rag doll in the hands of some demonic child. For a split second stretched twenty times over, everything moved in slow motion. She saw her mother’s coffee splash across the inside of the windshield in a steaming cascade, glistening brown droplets sailing through the air in every direction. She saw her father’s glasses launch from his head and bounce off the dashboard like a rubber ball then ricochet off the ceiling. And she saw her camera, her new Instamatic, fly into the front seat of the car and collide with the radio, changing the station from the morning’s news to a sad country song.

      But the last thing Elsa saw as her neck snapped forward was the head of her father’s amazing hollow fork, clenched so protectively in her fist, as it rushed up to meet her eye.

      Chapter 2

      Nine in the morning and it was already eighty degrees outside. Somehow today would be even hotter than yesterday, which Elsa didn’t think was even possible. But there it was. The thermometer hanging on the hook outside her bedroom window didn’t lie.

      Standing at the bathroom counter, Elsa turned the bad side of her face toward the mirror and rubbed the lotion over the scars as she did every morning just after waking and every night just before bed. She made sure to trace the lotion with her finger down every shallow trough where the glass of the shattered window had cut her, exactly how the doctor showed her, then cover that with a coating of sunscreen. With both layers in place, she slipped the black eyepatch over the hole where her eye used to be, adjusted the elastic band so that it wrapped itself through her hair instead of on top of it, then nodded with approval at her reflection. She was looking better every day. At least that’s what her parents told her. She didn’t see it.

      The driver of the vehicle that had slammed into the back of her family’s car told the police that

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