The Wolf of Tales – A Dark Retelling of Red Riding Hood

If you are brave enough to tread the wilderness of the world, there is a chance—just a chance—that you might cross paths with the Wolf. But beware: this is no ordinary beast of fang and fur.

No, the Wolf of tales is an ancient, eternal thing. He is the loss of innocence, the shadow that follows every light, the closing of one chapter before the reluctant beginning of the next. He is the moment when childhood ends and awareness begins. Death after birth, night after day—the Wolf is the grim inevitability at the end of all paths.

Some fear him, some hate him. None can avoid him.

On this day, the Wolf hungered.

Spring had come, but barely, and luck had not been on his side. He had walked far, stomach hollow and aching, and now lay sprawled in a sunbeam by a trickling stream. His golden eyes half-lidded, he basked, when suddenly a high, sweet voice came skipping through the air.

A child. Singing.

She entered the clearing, twirling gaily, picking flowers with each step. The Wolf watched her, her blond curls bobbing under a red hood. Her basket swung on her arm, heavy with pies and sausages that made the Wolf’s stomach growl.

Summoning his softest, most pitiful voice, he called to her.
“Child… what is this I smell? Sausages… pies? Might you spare a morsel for a starving creature?”

The girl halted, eyeing the great beast. “Sorry, mister Wolf, but I can’t. These are for my Gran, down the forest road. Mama said not to give anything away.”

“You’d let me starve?” the Wolf whimpered. “No heart at all?”

“Rules are rules,” the girl replied, shrugging her little shoulders. “Mama’s orders.”

A low growl trembled in the Wolf’s throat. He stood, towering over her, his mane bristling with irritation.
“Do you not know who I am?” he demanded.

“Are you… famous?” she asked, peering up at him.

“Famous?” He barked a bitter laugh. “Child, the graves of the world are monuments to my name. I am the Wolf of tales, the end of all innocence.”

She frowned. “Never heard of you, sorry.”

The Wolf stared, dumbfounded. He was no one’s neighbour, no friendly forest dweller! Yet here she was, innocent as a lamb.

“Very well,” he said, licking his teeth. “You’ll give your basket to no one but your Gran?”

She nodded.

“How lucky your Gran must be, having such a dutiful child.”

Pleased with herself, the girl boasted of her frequent trips through the woods. With little effort, the Wolf charmed from her the directions to Grandmother’s cottage. He even suggested she follow the river to find rare flowers for her collection—a clever trick to delay her.

She thanked him. Thanked him! And skipped away.

With a predatory grin, the Wolf vanished into the underbrush.

The path grew narrow and wild, but soon enough it widened again, becoming a dirt track leading to a sagging little cottage. The roof was mossy, the yard overgrown, and the pond green with scum.

Shifting his shape, the Wolf stood upright—a tall, stark man in a heavy fur coat, silver hair wild about his head. Yet beneath the skin, the Wolf remained.

He knocked at the door.
“Grandmother! Open up!”

A thin voice called from within. “Who’s there?”

“A hunter,” the Wolf replied. “I have more game than I can carry, thought you’d like a hare or two.”

“Pull the rope, hunter, and come in.”

The latch clicked open. Inside, by a dim fire, sat the old woman, hunched over her knitting. She was wrinkled and weathered, a crone carved from time itself.

“Where’s your game, hunter?” she asked, squinting.

“Oh, Grandmama,” said the Wolf, stepping forward, “you are the game.”

The crone’s eyes widened, but she did not resist when he grasped her chin and kissed her brow. She collapsed, dead before her knitting fell from her lap.

The old fear death, and yet when it finally comes, it is often met with a resigned sigh.

The Wolf wasted no time. He stripped the old woman, donned her rags, wrapped the shawl about his head. He worked her flesh, drained her blood—it was dry, leathery work, for age spares no tenderness. He brewed her bones into broth, prepared the table, poured her blood into bottles, and waited by the fire, belly half-full but eager for dessert.

Eventually, there came a knock.
“Gran, it’s me! Open up!”

The Wolf, in his best quavering voice, replied, “Pull the rope, child, and come in.”

The girl stepped inside, hair wild, arms full of flowers. She set her basket aside and looked around.

“Gran, you look odd today.”

The Wolf beckoned her closer. “Come, sit. Have some supper—your Gran made stew, and some fine wine.”

She ate. She drank. Her wide eyes watched him as she chewed.

“Gran, what big eyes you have… what strong hands!”

The Wolf smiled, poured her more wine.

“What a big mouth you have!”

At this, the Wolf laughed—a barking, terrible sound.
“All the better to mock you with, little fool.”

His disguise slipped away, rags falling, claws clacking on the table. The girl dropped her spoon, the wine spilled like blood across the wood.

“You didn’t feed me,” the Wolf sneered. “So I fed myself. Your Gran was a tough old bird, but she filled a corner of my belly.”

The girl gasped, horror dawning as she clutched her stomach.
“You… I… I ate—?”

“Indeed.” From the rafters, a bat squeaked, “I saw him kill her!”
From the window, a bird chirped, “And you ate what was left! You little git!”

The girl retched, trembling with rage and grief. She stared at the Wolf, her fear blooming into something else—something older, sharper.

“There it is,” the Wolf said softly. “Your humanity.”

“Why?” she cried.

“Because you’re too old to be blind,” the Wolf snapped. “I begged, you refused. I threatened, you scoffed. You denied kindness, so you earned cruelty. Now you know me.”

He turned to leave. At the door, she whispered, “Will you eat me too?”

The Wolf chuckled, looking back with glittering eyes.
“I’m full, child. But tell your village whatever comforts you—say you cut yourself free from my belly, if you must. All that matters is the lesson.”

With that, he vanished into the dark, leaving the girl sobbing by the fire, a red hood forgotten in the corner.

Moral of the Story

Refusing compassion may awaken cruelty in others. Kindness denied can sometimes come back in darker forms. And sooner or later, we all must face the Wolf.