Alene and the Wolf: A Dark Retelling of Red Riding Hood

Alene was tired of their stares. Of the way mothers clutched their children and men leered when they thought no one would notice. In this cold, grey village, every red cloak was a stain—an unspoken reminder of the bargains struck in shadows and the debts paid in flesh.

She wore her red cloak like a brand, a curse, and a promise all at once.

These cloaks marked the girls owned by the Wolf. They were trained in persuasion, in deceit, in everything the Wolf demanded, until they became ghosts of themselves, their innocence smothered beneath crimson fabric. The Wolf took everything they earned, using their coins to buy more girls, or stealing them from warm cottages deep in the woods when the money ran dry. In return, he offered food and shelter—a prison dressed as mercy.

Alene had not chosen this life. She still remembered the warmth of her grandmother’s cottage, the crackle of the fire, the way the rocking chair creaked as her grandmother brushed Alene’s long auburn hair each night. She remembered the way her small wooden horses clattered against the pinewood floor, and the way she felt safe.

She remembered the night the Wolf came.

Silent as frost, the Wolf crept into their home. Before Alene could scream, he clamped a bristly paw over her mouth and snatched her away. Her grandmother never saw her go, and Alene often wondered if her grandmother believed she had run away, or if she had died of grief searching for a child who would never return.

Ten years had passed since then.

By day, the town spat on her. By night, its men sought her out, using her as they pleased before turning away, pretending she was nothing. Alene lived for the moments in her mind when she could return to her grandmother’s cottage, to the warmth and the fire, to the quiet creak of the chair and the soft songs that made the world gentle.

But memories could not save her.

The Wolf’s claws were everywhere. Girls who tried to escape were dragged back, or found dead in the thorns that bordered the town. Still, Alene planned. Each beating, each cold stare, each night spent surviving rather than living only sharpened her resolve.

Tonight was her chance.

She traded assignments with another girl, slipping into the poorest, darkest district of the town where guards rarely patrolled. There, the walls were old and crumbling, and the watchlights had long gone dark. The girl she traded with didn’t question her desperation—no one cared enough to ask why a girl like Alene wanted a darker corner of the world.

As she stepped toward the door, the Wolf stopped her, his sharp teeth inches from her face, breath thick with rot.

“You’re working the south end tonight, are you?” he growled. “Why?”

Alene forced herself to meet his yellow eyes. “More customers there,” she lied, her voice calm. “They like me there.”

The Wolf snarled. “They like you because you’re cheap.” He spat at her feet. “Go, then.”

She left, her heart pounding as she walked toward freedom.

Behind an abandoned barn, she found the loose floorboard and pulled free the rope she had made, knotting together scraps of torn red cloaks collected in secret. She hid it beneath her robes and limped toward the south wall, moving like every step was routine.

The old torch sconce waited at the top of the crumbling wall, a promise of escape. Alene tied her makeshift rope and threw it upward, her hands trembling each time it fell back. On the fourth try, it caught.

She pulled, testing the knot. Secure.

Hand over hand, foot over foot, she climbed. The stones were slick with frost, her shoes slipping as the rope dug into her palms, burning them raw. At the top, she collapsed, gasping for air, eyes stinging with sweat and cold.

That’s when the rope jerked.

She looked down, and her heart froze. The Wolf’s eyes gleamed below, filled with murderous rage. “You,” he growled, sinking his claws into the stone as he began to climb.

There was no time to think. The rope tore free, and Alene leapt.

Pain exploded through her ankle as she hit the ground, a scream tearing from her throat. She felt the bone snap, but there was no time to stop, no time to cry. She tore off the red cloak that snagged on every thorn and forced herself to stand, teeth clenched against the agony as she fled into the black woods.

Behind her, the Wolf howled.

The world blurred, branches tearing at her skin, thorns scratching bloody trails across her arms and face. She stumbled, crawled, and forced herself upright again, the moonlight weaving through branches to light her path. The howls faded, distant, swallowed by the thick, wild forest.

Ahead, a clearing appeared, bathed in pale moonlight. The brambles grew thinner, the branches less cruel, but darkness still lay ahead, deep and endless.

She paused, clutching her side, sucking in frozen air that turned to clouds as she exhaled.

She thought of her grandmother’s fire, of the rocking chair’s gentle creak, of warm hands brushing her hair.

She looked back once, but the town was gone, hidden behind walls of thorns and shadows.

Before her lay a path into darkness.

It did not matter what lay ahead. Whatever it was, it could not be darker than what she had left behind.

Alene took a breath.

And she stepped forward.

Moral of the Story

Even in a world of darkness, hope can guide your steps toward freedom.