Into The Backwoods - A Collection of Horror Stories

By Douglas Wright

Previously released in ebook and print as REMAINS. If you bought that version there is no need to buy this book.

A collection of previously magazine published short stories by Douglas E Wright in the Dark Fantasy and Horror genres.

- Soul Mates - A woman searches for a lover only to find him in a haunted house.

- Crimson Hearts - A woman waits for her long-lost love to return so she can capture his heart forever.

- Cassandra's Playground - A child finds graveyard playmates after her mother dies.

- Breathing in the Past - A man mysteriously returns to his teenage years to talk to his missing parents.

- Hooferdog - An abusive step-father gets what he needs in a laundromat.

- Hunger - A creepy monster rises from the floorboards looking for food.

- Uncommitted - A married woman is tired of her life and innocently meets a man in a bar that travels with her to a funeral home.

- Prairie Santa - Santa brings a little girl's wishes to life while body parts drip from his bag of goodies.

- Practise Makes Perfect - Two children homeschooled in their parent's business: the running of a Funeral Home.

- The Last Regiment (Sci-Fi Version) - Two men hide in an underground bunker preparing for a war that has already been.

- Ice Maidens of Rattling Brooke - An artist searches for Newfoundland landscapes to paint, and discovers one iceberg's makeup is far different from the rest.

- Terror Time - Two kids find out that they may have been adopted by more than a mother and father.

- The Glass Cross - A home that is a tough sell bears a cross that shatters people's lives.

- The Storyteller - A man discovers racism is everywhere and no matter where he goes, it's out to hunt him down.

- Grannies - A grandmother comes back from the dead to help her family.

- ROH! - Two teens find there's more happening at a local farmhouse than just Boomers growing pot.

- The Predator - Sometimes Christmas can be dangerous.

- Familiar Strangers - A boy finds that a new schoolmate is more like his grandmother than a friend.

- The Last Regiment - Two men taking cover from war discover more than their enemies.

- Spineless - After a horrific rainstorm, lovers Billy Quinn and Denise Chandlers race to a nearby cemetery to find overturned markers and a silver-dollar-sized hole drilled into the earth beside a charred gravestone.

- Vampyre's Crusade - Israfel Blackstone convinces a friend to travel over Vancouver Island to find a special box that is buried near a Garry Oak tree and bring it home.

- 30-Minute Delivery - Detective Harry Stinger has just received another email message giving him 30 minutes to discover a killing and the killer before another murder occurs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Douglas Wright
• Release date: Nov 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393776444

Douglas Wright

Douglas is a quiet horror writer, whom for thirty years, worked at Canada Post. Over the years, he has traveled and lived in various parts of Canada, from Iqaluit Nunavut to Springdale Newfoundland to Whitehorse Yukon to Victoria BC. From these travels he picked up local lore and created dark stories from the scenery and the people he's met along the way. Douglas writes dark fantasy and supernatural horror, sometimes with a literary bent called quiet horror. His short stories have been published in: Britain's Horror Express, HUB and Thirteen Magazine: USA's Black Ink Horror Magazine, Escaping Elsewhere and Mount Zion Press. He also has stories in the anthologies 'Raw Meat' by CWW Press and 'Enter the Realm' by Larry Sells. His hardback Romantic Suspense novella 'BOOGALOOS', along with his chapbook 'SWEET THINGS' was published by Sideshow Press and sold out in four days in late 2009. His list of influences is extensive. He likes styles of Nancy Kilpatrick to Ray Bradbury, from David Morrell to Kafka and from Joe Hill to Charles Dickens. The films he enjoys are just as diverse. He likes movies and their directors such as Tim Burton's 'Corpse Bride' to Frank Capra's 'It's a Wonderful Life.' Douglas also spends a great deal of time working and tinkering on his website. He likes horror conferences, collecting advanced horror movie posters and signed horror books as well as Aurora horror models.

Book preview

SOUL MATES

First Published ~ 2004 Larry Sells Publishing (USA)

This was one of my first two stories that found a publisher within a matter of days of each other. This one was accepted first; but Ice Maidens of Rattling Brooke was printed first.

Bailey approached her old homestead and climbed the wooden steps to the top of the porch. The verandah groaned as she stepped across its weathered planks. Carefully, she slipped past the torn screen door and stepped over the decaying threshold. Inside the foyer, strips of wallpaper hung like paper nooses off the ceiling and dripped from the walls. She drew a breath and slid into the bowels of the abandoned house. Bailey eased into the living room where bits of furniture; shards of glass, collapsed plaster ceiling, beer cans and cigarette butts littered the room. Scattered on top of the hardwood floors, broken panes of glass crunched like breath-mints beneath her feet. A dilapidated rocking chair wobbled in the breeze in front of a smashed window while mice scurried through broken walls. It seemed hard for her to imagine she had escaped this prison. She had once been sentenced here, when the walls were her sole companions and colorful printed drapes listened to her dreams.

BAILEY TOSSED HER HAIR over her shoulder and continued her walk about the house. After she browsed the remnants of its past life, she stood at the bottom of a stairway. She raised her head and stared up to the next level. The images of her fiancé’s fists reverberating off her skull flickered in front of her. Then, she recalled the night they stuffed her into an ambulance before committing her to a secured padded room.

She closed her eyes.

The mental pain and vision of her fiancé’, Alcoholic Andy, vanished. His image and hypothetical jealousies all dissipated.

Bailey inched up the stairway to the second floor and strolled through the corridor that funneled into the master bedroom.

This is where it all began. This was the room where she fell madly in love. Now, all it held was a water-stained mattress blanketing a warped pine plank floor. The room’s grungy window kept most of the autumn sunshine at bay while confusing memories prickled her flesh.

She flashed back to that lonely night. The one far from present day.

The sky had grown inky black while a raging rainstorm stretched its electric white branches across the heavens. Andy had been drinking as usual. After quickly extracting sex from her, he left her abandoned and sullen.

She lay silently on their bed, her eyes flushed with tears. Again, her spirits had been doused and her body bruised. This was one of those times she wished his love had not been so violent. Yanking tear-soaked pillows from behind her head, she hugged them close to her battered frame. After a few minutes in the dark, she became silhouetted in the glow of a flickering screen. Her body resembled a damaged porcelain doll bathed in computer light.

Suddenly, a disembodied voice crackled through the air.

You okay?

The voice stunned Bailey. She scrambled for a blanket and pulled it over herself while tears of pain streamed down her cheeks. With reddened swollen eyes, she scanned the room for the intruder. She hiccupped and gasped for breath. Fear wrenched her soul.

Wh -wh- who . . . or what are you?

I’m not really sure, it answered.

The monitor blinked with every syllable it uttered. She watched its electronic blue font dance across the screen. Its voice spilled from cheap computer speakers. Its voice didn’t speak in conjunction with its bold typed text.

Bailey pulled herself to the head of the bed. Then, as inconspicuously as possible, she made sure she was out of its vision. Stretching out, she yanked her robe from a chair next to the bed. She draped it over her naked body and tried to make sense of the computer-generated voice.

Come here, it cracked.

Cautiously, she crawled from her bed and snuck to the painted press-back chair in front of the desk. Bailey peered through its bars into the monitor’s face. The words on the screen disintegrated. A flashing haunted house screensaver popped up. Its animated windows and doors swung back and forth while pencil-thin bats fluttered about the screen emitting high-pitched shrieks.

Suddenly, a delightful face replaced the image.

Hello.

Jesus! Bailey jumped back. What’s happening here?

The voice paused for a moment.

Wanna touch my keys? it asked.

Her fingers involuntarily slipped above the keyboard and then she slammed her index finger against the ‘ENTER’ key before jumping back. Her hands melded themselves into a stiff ball against her chest as she watched the screen. She swallowed a breath and held it deep inside her lungs as the face continued to speak. With every word, the voice became clearer. Its sentences leapt across the top of the screen with single syllable jabs.

The image’s lips barely moved. Call me Cheen.

Bailey moved the chair and pushed her face toward the computer to examine the entity. Its ghostly image shimmered while illuminating the darkness around her. Her hands gracefully floated over the electronic effigy. She traced the outline of its face.

She spoke into the microphone chip. Human, you’re human.

He smiled and answered, I guess you’re right.

Night after night Bailey met with her electronic friend. They discussed their dreams and what the future held for them. Bailey wanted to be a songstress and he was going to write the ‘Great American’ novel. There were nights when tales spilled from his lips like a spring bubbling over the edge of an artesian well. And other nights, Bailey strummed acoustic love songs and sang about love to her new friend.

Time dripped away like melting ice on a mountain stream. Then, late one winter night Bailey offered a gift to her computer-generated friend.

Cheen, I’ve written a something for you.

Enveloped in a shadow, she picked a few chords and softly sang to his wavering image. His eyes swelled with tears. Then, for the very first time, his face pushed out of the monitor. He became three-dimensional. Cheen’s words no longer graced the screen. They floated through the air as a whispering echo.

That’s so beautiful, he wept.

She stopped and moved closer. What’s wrong?

His smile crinkled the corners of his lips and tears dribbled down his face. No one has ever done anything like this for me, he said, nothing quite as beautiful as the sound you’ve just sung. His blond hair ruffled as if a breeze had breathed across his face. The computer started to pulsate.

Bailey’s bedroom grew misty, the frost on the windowpane melted and snow slid off the outside ledge. A dusty mauve light embraced the room.

Footsteps lightly crept toward her. A soothing sensation sank into her soul. She retreated to her bed. An image faintly appeared nearby. Its feathered edges began to fill and soon the profile of a man towered over her.

The closer he came the less frightened she felt. He bent over and slid his hand underneath the strap of her silk negligee. It slipped off her shoulder. His hand glided to hers and with a firm grip he reeled her up from the bed.

Their chests brushed against each other’s as he lightly placed a finger under her chin and tipped her face upwards. A chilled wind blew. Her waist length hair swirled around them. His lips pressed into hers. Bailey’s fuchsia nightie slid down her legs and pooled around her ankles.

His loving arms encompassed her and as he lifted, her petite frame folded into his. Cheen’s slate-grey eyes drank her in; then he gingerly laid her on the bed as they became lost in each other’s kisses. Sweat rolled from his body. Their wet naked figures shone in the moonlight.

She savored the sweetness of his lips, the gentleness of his fingers and the taste of his breath. The sensation of his stroking swept her into a heavenly cloud as she heard his last loving words. Someday, you’ll be mine.

WHAT IN THE NAME OF God are you doing? screamed Andy.

Bailey’s eyes burst open. The fog was gone, and a small pile of snow pushed heavily against the windowpane. The computer light twinkled in the dark. Springing up on the mattress, Bailey glanced about the room. She saw her nightie crumpled on the floor. Her face froze in the light of the flickering computer screen.

Bailey searched the room in terror.

Cheen. Come back. I love you, she screamed.

Suddenly, a flurry of drunken fists pummeled her until she finally succumbed. Blood and pain consolidated with her tears, streaming down her cheeks until her body could feel nothing more.

THE MEMORY OF THAT night was as clear as a northern lake. Her dreams were much like her past. They all had long vanished.

She dropped onto the mottled mattress with strange thoughts. The soft music of Jim Croce floated in her mind. And as she lay on the threadbare mattress, she imagined Cheen carrying her off in the moonlight.

Like a Hawaiian beach, warmth soaked her soul.

Then, a noise of shattering glass filled the house. She rocketed upward. She surveyed the darkening room. It fogged from November grey to midnight black. Snow fell, piling against every windowpane. Once again, Cheen’s hand reached toward her out of the haze. She grabbed it; he pulled her close. Their hearts began to beat in unison. Bailey’s eyes probed the shadowy room. Nothing had changed. It was as if life had stood still. She plopped her head against his chest.

What’s going on? she whispered.

Someday has arrived, Cheen said.

As his ghostly shape solidified, she felt his sensation of love spread over her. Bailey realized straight away they both were alive. In some odd way, they both were alive, and their hearts fluttered like dead leaves in a winter breeze.

Her soul mate, her lost love had returned.

The End

CRIMSON HEARTS

First Published ~ 2005 Horror Express (UK)

This is one of my favorite stories. It seems to confuse people, but I have no idea why. It’s very plain for me to see. The POV is something I do not like about it though. Rarely do I use this POV.

A cool mist holds slightly above the earth outside, darkness breaks away, early morning melts through her windows.

She awakens, her eyelids flutter, a shaft of multicolored daylight embraces her as it streams through the stained-glass window near the foot of her bed.

A slight dry cough rises in her throat. She yawns and wonders. Am I free? Am I still free?

Her tomb holds the dampness like a sponge. As the summer heat squeezes, its moisture leaks away. The sweaty warmth has revitalized creatures that live in her ancient room. Their faint clicks and squeals reverberate inside her head.

At the top of her small bed, an open window oversees a stony field. She slips up to the glass, peers out and smiles as pink sunlight ignites the sky. Mossy trees appear partially leafed and the fragrance of ocean fog dissipates as the sun rises over the flanking distant hills.

She turns and glances across the room to a faded American Woman touring poster. It shares the flowered-wallpaper with a thread-worn Canadian flag. His favorite, she thought. A smile crinkled her parched lips. Beneath the poster, on her dresser, two dusty restaurant-sized pickle jars glint as their crimson contents become saturated by the early morning sunlight.

Where is he? she thought. How come he hasn’t come to take me away? We should be together now that we can.

She tiptoes to her closed door and slowly cranks its rusty knob. The door creaks, as it swings open. The stench of rot fills the hallway. She inches down the narrow wainscoted-corridor and presses her ear against her parent’s unlocked door. It pulls away from the frame. She pushes her face into its slight opening. Dusty morning light coats their dark-stained sheets while a couple of humps lie silently beneath. She eases the door shut and backs away, being careful not to disturb their slumber.

She wanders into the bathroom at the head of the stairwell; a mirror greets her. Rolling streams of sunshine echo her age. She braids what’s left of her thinning gray hair until she looks like an older version of Pippy Longstocking. She smiles at the wisdom lines creased across her face, quietly leaves, and descends the sixteen steps down to the main floor. She looks about, searching for someone, but no one other than herself lives in this house.

She sneaks into the kitchen, picks up a butcher knife, an empty pickle jar, a loaf of newly baked bread and some molded cheese from the refrigerator, and then she eases into the foyer.

There, she hoists her nightie and slides on a pair of rain boots, snatches a winter parka off a coat hanger and drapes it about her shoulders. Carefully, she passes over the threshold of the front door, crosses the veranda, draws in a breath of humid air, and then climbs down its steps.

Insects buzz around her face as she stumbles over a field of dried clumps of earth, where her father used to plant corn crops.

After walking some distance, a dilapidated boathouse appears suspended over the ocean’s pebbly beach.

Inside, she waits for the man who made love to her a long time ago under a shade tree. She looks out above the surf. I’ll capture his heart and keep it with me for always, she says, while unscrewing the lid off the pickle jar.

He’ll come back. I know he will. He must. Last thing I told him was that we’d always be together. He knows better than to leave me here. Alone.

The End

CASSANDRA’S PLAYGROUND

First Published ~ 2005 Thirteen Magazine (UK)

This magazine published this story and one other I wrote. For Exposure. Something I will never do again. You and your work are only worth what you think they are.

Outside of Brockville Ontario, there’s a cemetery that has a section put aside just for dead children. I thought it odd, keeping the kids separated from their parents for eternity.

Cassandra’s father peeked between the set of curtains drawn around the hospital bed. You awake sweetheart?

The little girl slightly turned her head. A tiny smile emerged. It had been a while since she managed to show happiness. Cuts on her face stung as her lips turned upward. A breath of fresh summer air swept in from an open window by her bed.

The death of her mother affected more than her life; it affected her state of well-being. She barely remembered the accident. Shattering glass, collapsing metal and the smell of gasoline dripping into their overturned car had been fuzzily etched into her young, delicate mind. Since that day, Cassandra became less social than she was in her previous life; before the car slammed into the rock cut.

Past friendships really did become part of her past. She no longer saw a future. Life became a chore not worth living.

Look what I brought you, her father said, as he sat on the edge of the bed. Grasped in his hands were two plastic bags. One from Wal-mart and the other a Dominion store grocery bag. He opened the grocery bag and pulled out a handful of hand drawn cards and dropped them on the bed. See, your classmates made get-well cards. One had been drawn in black and white; it had images of tombstones littering a skeletal forest. At its bottom, scribbled in crimson, were the words ‘WAITING FOR YOU.’

Cassandra’s puffy eyes drifted up to the Wal-mart bag. Her father smiled. I thought you’d rather have this, he said. He opened it and poured the contents onto Cassandra’s bed. The little girl’s eyes lit up. You knew I’d like them, didn’t you? she said, her voice wispy and raw.

CASSANDRA PARTIALLY zipped her jacket before she placed a wide sheet of tracing paper against the cold granite. She fastened it in place with masking tape, then slid her rear-end back over a mound of dying grass. She had to see from a distance if the paper was hung just right. Smiling at a job well done, she then dug out different grades of charcoal sticks from her Ottawa Senators’ duffel bag.

A cool breeze blew, pushing the sun’s warmth away from her skin. Brightly colored leaves fluttered above her, cloaking the mossy surroundings with a layer of rosiness that seemed inappropriate for this place. A sensation of calm and the feeling of happiness dominated her soul. It had been a while since she felt so much at home. Most of the summer Cassandra just felt plain ugly. Except here, she had no reason to feel misunderstood and rejected. She found that when she came to do the rubbings, her mind found solace. The last time Cassandra recalled feeling such joy was the preceding spring, as she and her mother painted a canvas for the last time. The scene portrayed life, a picture of melting snow with a stream threading through greening tufts of grass until finally pooling around a budding berry bush.

She closed her eyes. A memory flashed behind her eyelids. A picture of a funeral home; a portrait of a young woman lying silently in a polished casket, her mother’s face emitting an ethereal glow. She opened her eyes. A cold breeze swept over her fragile shell. That and the freshly dug autumn graves sent a chill through her delicate soul. Lacy, tree-dappled sunlight glided over her.

She knew peace and serenity filled her now as much as it did before the accident. The only difference between now and then was her location and her mother’s death. Today, Cassandra found herself kneeling in front of a headstone recording the moment of death rather than sitting in the middle of a spring field painting the dawning of life.

Cassandra quietly rubbed the wide charcoal stick over the paper until its image began to poke through. She felt delighted by what she saw peering back.

Suddenly, twigs crunched from the brush beyond the stone. Her hand stopped in mid-swipe. She strained to listen. Her imagination transported her to a thought that something unholy might be creeping through those bushes. She cautiously peeked over the marker only to see still strands of raspberry cane beneath the seasoned oak and maple trees. Their colorful canopies shadowed the graveyard from above. Nothing near her moved; everything stood as motionless as the ancient tombstones that freckled the landscape. She settled back down and looked at a partial shaded face, which now stared at her through the tracing paper.

The thing smiled at her. Then a voice floated through the air. A dead branch snapped behind her back. She twisted around. Nothing there. She slowly returned to the rubbing. The paper-stranger's stare permeated her soul.

Do you wanna play? it asked.

The voice spoke no louder than a breeze tickling the autumn leaves. A specter’s breath grazed the nape of her neck while the sun dipped out of sight. Cassandra shivered. She zipped up her jacket. She turned her head and squinted her eyes to see over the multitude of tall white stones. Her eyes locked onto the thicket behind the gravestone. An ethereal hand slipped into hers and gently tugged. Nervously, she looked at her hand. A grey shadow floated overtop. Without any acknowledgment, she allowed herself to be led through the raspberry cane until she reached a clearing, a clearing where small children frolicked in a spectral playground. They ran in circles, playing games of tag, playing hide and seek and kick the can. Cassandra could not contain herself; she had to join the kids. She wanted to participate in their games. She played with the little ones and talked about life with those closer to her own age. It wasn’t long before daylight faded and as the shroud of night enveloped the grounds, each child gradually melted into the earth. By the time full darkness had evolved, Cassandra saw only tiny white markers dotting the neatly