Bloody Red Riding Hood

More about Bloody Red Riding Hood

(in the way of Stephen King)

After killing the wolf, she was different.

She came back with her red cloak soaked in blood, but it wasn’t just his. Something darker had seeped in — something that didn’t wash out. She spoke less. She smiled less. Her eyes gleamed too cold, too clear.

The forest grew quieter. Animals vanished without a trace. Sometimes only bones remained, arranged like warnings.

She carried a black, curved knife. The one she said she had stuck into the wolf’s belly. It hummed when the wind touched it. No one else could hold it without blistering.

The children followed her into the trees. She told them stories. When they returned, they were silent, changed. They stared too long. They laughed too little.

She stopped entering the chapel. The air there made her nose bleed. She said it reeked of old lies.

Those who questioned her disappeared one after the other. Later, their belongings hung from her neck — rings, buttons, broken crosses.

Then she vanished.

Rumor has it she lives in the forest now. She whispers to the trees. And they lean toward her to whisper back. The wind moves when she breathes. And out of her, something new is growing. Something with sharp teeth.

No one calls her by her full name anymore. The villagers just say “Bloody Red.”

And when the howling begins, they don’t dare sleep.

They listen. And they wait.