I Left Shadows in the Woods

By Joan De La Haye

The Woods Hold a Darkness, and Revenge Can Be a Brutal Game.

The dense canopy of the sprawling nature preserve swallows the sunlight, casting long shadows that conceal a darkness. Whispers of disappearances have become a chilling reality. Looking for answers to her own brutal attack, Sloane Mackenzie stumbles upon a hidden clearing littered with the skeletal remains of his victims. Dubbed "The Woodsman" by the media, the killer sets his sights on someone close to Sloane in retaliation for her actions.

In order to stop The Woodsman, Sloane must shed the cloak of the victim and embrace the role of the hunter. The line between predator and prey blurs as Sloane delves deeper into his twisted game, the woods tightening around her with each step. Can she stop the madman before he claims another life, or will the cycle of violence consume her completely?

"I Left Shadows in the Woods" is a relentless first-person thriller that weaves through the chilling heart of vengeance. Dive into a gripping tale of survival, where Sloane becomes the hunter in her pursuit of justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joan De La Haye
• Release date: Jun 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227171153

Joan De La Haye

Joan De La Haye writes horror, dark fantasy and some very twisted thrillers. She invariably wakes up in the middle of the night because she's figured out yet another freaky way to mess with her already screwed-up characters. You can stalk Joan on her website: www.joandelahaye.com

Book preview

I Left Shadows in the Woods

By

Joan De La Haye

For my Tribe

Without your constant support, I wouldn’t have been able to do any of it.

You guys keep me going.

Thank you for always being just a message away!

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 by Joan De La Haye

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise).

www. joandelahaye.com

Cover art by Joan De La Haye

1st Edition May 2024

Also by Joan De La Haye

Standalone Books

Requiem in E Sharp

Fury

Oasis

Burning

The Diabolical Series

Shadows

The Veil

The Oubliette

The Race Series

The Race

Training Days

Besieged

Retribution

Consequence

The Patron

The Eternally Cursed Chronicles

Bound by Betrayal

Short Story Collections

Sliced and Diced

Sliced and Diced 2

Sliced and Diced 3

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Joan De La Haye

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

Be a Freaky Darling

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Requiem in E Sharp

Shadows

Fury

Oasis

Burning

The Race

Sliced and Diced

Sliced and Diced 2

Sliced and Diced 3

Bound by Betrayal

1

These woods have always been my sanctuary, my safe space. They were where I went to get away from everything and everyone. I ran here to escape my problems. My ex-husband, my family, my career. I ran here to deal with the end of yet another bad break-up. I loved listening to the birds chirping in the tree canopy. The feel of the air against my skin just after the rain. The majestic beauty of the deer hiding in the woods and poking their heads out from behind the trees as I jogged past. They didn’t judge if my breath was laboured or if I ran slowly when I tried to think my way out of something.

I even enjoyed seeing some of the other runners, hikers, bird watchers and families who regularly visited the nature preserve. There was PJ, or that was what I thought of her as since she would amble through the woods in her pyjamas and gown, wearing crocks instead of hiking shoes or trail running sneakers. There were the rugby boys who ran as one unit behind their coach. Then there was the running duo, a married couple who were super fit and seemed to be working on their marriage by trying to outrun each other on the trail. Then there was the striped shirt guy who always wore the same red and white striped shirt every Saturday morning and did two loops around the park. 

We knew each other by sight. Even though we didn’t know each other’s names or have any conversations, we would greet and make way for each other to get past on the narrow trail. It was all so cordial, so civilised. It was so easy to forget that there were predators in the world stalking their prey.

I don’t remember much from that morning when he shattered my world. I remember stopping to admire the doe and her fawn crossing the trail. I remember the sound of the river trickling over the rocks. I remember the sound of the twig snapping. I remember seeing the rock held by a large, gloved hand and then nothing.

I remember waking up covered by branches and my clothes torn. I remember the pain and the blood on the leaves. I remember crawling out of what had been my safe haven and his hunting ground.

I don’t remember who found me. I was told the security guard at the gate had come looking for me when my car was the only one left in the parking lot at closing time. He tried calling my cell number, which he’d taken down that morning when I entered the preserve, and when there’d been no answer, he came looking. He found me unconscious two kilometres from the main gate. No one knew where he’d attacked me. None of the other visitors to the preserve had seen or heard anything. The afternoon rain had washed my blood and any sign of him away.

My friends and family kept telling me that I’d shown great strength to crawl as far as I had, as though it was some badge of honour. They kept saying things like how lucky I was that I’d survived and that at least he used a condom. It could all have been so much worse. I know they were trying to process what had happened to me in their own way. They meant well. Their platitudes only served to make me angrier. No one should be happy merely to have survived an attack. It should never have happened to me in the first place.

They don’t understand how much he took from me that day. He didn’t just violate my body; he invaded every part of my life; every conversation and every look from someone in my life had his presence etched into it. Cuts and bruises might have begun to heal, but every time I saw the pity and discomfort in their eyes, I felt that rock hitting me again and again, and I had to crawl out of the forest once more. They would never see me the same way again, but I wasn’t the same woman who had entered the woods that day. 

The cops had no clue who he was or how he got on to the preserve. It’s a large area, and he could have gotten in through any gap in the fence. They didn’t think he had entered via the main gate because they checked the men who had entered and whose details had been taken down by the guard when they arrived. However, there have been a few occasions when I’ve entered without having to sign in with the guard because he was off having a bathroom break, and the Parks Board doesn’t have the manpower or the budget to have more guards stationed at the gate. So, they can’t be sure how he got in, and he didn’t leave any physical evidence behind on my body.

With the high crime rate in the city, the lack of evidence, and the fact that I couldn’t identify my attacker, the case ended up at the bottom of a very high pile. The investigator assigned to the case gave me his card, but I soon forgot his name. Not that I’d been capable of paying much attention when he introduced himself when he visited me in the hospital to take my statement, but he subtly let me know there wasn’t much hope. He was polite about it and managed my expectations. He also let me know I wasn’t the only victim. Some of the others weren’t as lucky as me. One girl died of exposure. Her body had been found on the other side of the park, close to the river, a few days after she’d gone missing. Another committed suicide a few months after she’d been attacked. I could tell the investigator felt bad, but there wasn’t much he could do for me or the other women, especially with a city full of other predators whom he might have a better chance of catching.

No matter what my family and friends said, I was alone. They hadn’t experienced what I had. They wanted me to move on, heal, and get over it. I survived, and they wanted or needed me to act like it. They wanted me to put a smile on my face and pretend for them, but I couldn’t.

My mother insisted I see a therapist the moment I got out of the hospital. The therapist wanted me to join a survivor’s group so I could talk to other women who had been through what I’ve been through, but I didn’t want to talk about it. I wanted it not to have happened to me, but that’s impossible. I wanted the police to find him and punish him, but they couldn’t seem to do that either. I wanted to run in the preserve without screaming whenever a twig snapped, or I heard a man’s voice. I wanted not to be afraid anymore, but as long as he was out there without a name and a face, I would never be able to live without that fear.

I tried running on the streets of my neighbourhood, but it wasn’t the same as running in the woods, and I hated it. I kept running even though every part of my body hurt. I ran on the streets because I couldn’t let him take that away from me as well. I went to the boxing gym up the road from my apartment so I could kick and punch something and imagine the bag was the man who did this to me. I ignored the stares from the people who couldn’t take their eyes off my bruised face. I did pushups in the middle of the night because I couldn’t sleep, and I had this rage inside me that I couldn’t get rid of. I could only sleep when I was too exhausted to think; only then did the nightmares leave me in peace.

2

My first day back at work was awkward, to say the least. I could have handled the staring if it hadn’t been accompanied by the looks of pity and those questions lurking behind some of those stares. The whispered conversations suddenly stopped the moment I walked into a room.

I made the mistake of hiding in the ladies' bathroom only to have those conversations follow me. I hid in the stall with my feet up so they wouldn’t see my shoes when I heard what they really thought.

I think Sloane made it all up? Sandra, the bitch from accounting, said.

What about the bruises? Senzi, one of the girls from reception. You can’t fake that.

She probably had a bit of a rough one-night stand and is now crying rape.

I don’t think she would make that up.

How well do you know her?

Not that well, I guess.

She’s a stuck-up bitch, and I wouldn’t put it past her. She probably asked for it, too. Begged him for it.

I don’t know. I mean, she might not be the friendliest, but what about the hospital? She was admitted and everything.

Trust me on this; I know the little bitch. She wasn’t attacked; even if she was, it wasn’t unprovoked.

The sound of one of them flushing the toilet drowned out the sound of me smothering a cry. I listened to their retreating heels clicking on the bathroom tiles. Their voices had faded before I managed to step out of the stall. I had to take a few long breaths before I could look in the mirror. My nose was pink, and my eyes were bloodshot. There was no way I could hide that I’d been crying.

I thought about running to my car and just driving off. I also imagined putting Sandra’s head through her computer screen, but that wouldn’t change anything. So I turned on the taps, washed my hands, and silently willed myself to face it and them. I took a few deep breaths, squared my shoulders and left the bathroom, only to slam right into ‘Call Me Al’ Albert, the handsiest man in the building. The man had never met a woman whose breasts hadn’t been ogled or commented on. He was a walking HR nightmare.

Hey, Sloanie, Al said as he stood a little too close. His breath stank of cigarettes. I was going to tell you this rape joke, but then I realised you wouldn’t have given me consent.

I tried pushing past him, but he barred my escape.

I’ve got another one for you, Al said with a laugh. What can you say to make a rape victim feel better?

Please get out of my way, I said as I tried to escape him.

Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon, he guffawed again and didn’t move. Get it?

I shoved past him and tried not to run. I refused to give him the satisfaction of getting under my skin.

Oh, come on, he shouted. Learn to take a fucking joke.

I resisted the urge to flash him my middle finger. It would only serve to encourage him. I tried not to walk faster, even though all I wanted to do was run. I pretended to check my watch as I reached the open-plan section of the office and ignored the stares that followed me to my pigeonhole of an