Blanche Rider Hood: A Retelling of Red’s Secret

Once upon a time, there was a freckled, red-haired girl named Blanche Rider Hood. Most people in the village simply called her “Red,” not only because of the fiery hair she inherited from her father, but also because of the bright red cloak she wore everywhere—a cloak that once belonged to him before he disappeared.

But let’s drop the third person for a moment. This is my story, and you should hear it in my voice.

The morning I decided to deliver bread and greens to Grandma, the sky was overcast, a restless wind tugging at the corners of the small cottage I shared with my mother, Wilhelmina Rider. She was beautiful, with long golden hair, and looked young enough to be mistaken for my sister. Her beauty had captured my father, Jacob Hood, years ago in these very woods.

As I slipped the red cloak over my shoulders, she appeared in the kitchen doorway, sighing, as she always did when she saw me in the cloak.

“You look so much like your father when you wear that,” she murmured, her eyes shimmering with memories.

“It’s warm, it’s bright, and people can see me in the woods,” I replied, trying to keep my voice light. “Besides, we can’t afford a new one.”

Her lips pressed together, her gaze falling to the floor. “You’re right,” she said softly, “and it reminds me of him too.”

The words I’d been holding back slipped free. “It’s all I have left of him, ever since you made him leave.”

Her head snapped up, eyes glistening. “He had to leave, Red. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“I’m fourteen, Mom! How much older do I have to be before I get to know the truth?”

Another sigh. My mother’s sighs were like the ticking of a clock in our home—constant, heavy, unspoken stories.

“When you return tonight, I’ll tell you everything,” she promised. “But now, you need to go, and you must be back before dark.”

Yeah, right. Another promise to be broken.

I packed the fresh loaves she’d baked that morning, wrapped them carefully, and placed the dandelion roots, mushrooms, and greens we’d foraged over them. She reminded me to bring the towel back and to return before dark because she’d heard the howling again.

“A wolf, Red,” she said, her eyes shadowed. “Or I’m not your mother.”

“Yeah, well, who knows?” I muttered under my breath as I stepped outside, pulling the red hood over my head.

The forest swallowed me in a hush of dark branches and damp earth. The path was familiar, worn by years of my footsteps, but the weight of the cloak and my mother’s words pressed against my shoulders. Every rustle of leaves and snap of twigs seemed louder, sharper.

Halfway to Grandma’s, I paused, hearing a low whimper in the distance. I shook it off, tightening my grip on the basket, and continued. But then, standing on the path ahead, was a wolf.

Except it wasn’t just any wolf. It was standing on its hind legs, wearing patched overalls, and holding an axe in its paw.

I froze, my breath caught in my throat. “Hello, wolf,” I managed.

“Hello, Red,” it replied, its voice rough but clear. “What a bright cloak you have. You know it’s dangerous to be in these woods at night.”

It threw its head back and howled.

I screamed and ran, my basket swinging wildly as I stumbled through the underbrush. My feet knew the path to Grandma’s house better than I did, guiding me through the darkening woods.

Grandma’s cottage appeared ahead, warm light spilling from the windows. I didn’t stop to knock. I pulled the latch-string and rushed inside, slamming the door shut behind me.

And there, in Grandma’s bed, was another wolf.

This one wore Grandma’s nightgown and glasses, sitting upright with its claws folded neatly over the quilt.

“Oh, Grandma,” I stammered, “what big ears you have.”

“The better to hear you with, my dear,” it replied, its voice eerily familiar.

“And what big eyes you have.”

“The better to see you with, sweet Red.”

“And what big hands you have!”

“The better to hug you with.”

My heart pounded in my chest as I looked into its golden eyes, eyes that looked too much like Grandma’s.

“Oh, Grandma, what big teeth you have!”

The wolf sighed, and in that sigh, I heard the truth.

“The better to tell you the truth with, my granddaughter.”

I stared, shaking. “Grandma?”

The wolf nodded. “I am a werewolf, Red. Every full moon, I transform, but I have learned to keep my mind, to stay myself. But I must stay inside, away from the forest, or I might lose control.”

Tears blurred my vision. “Is that why Dad left?”

She nodded again. “Your father couldn’t control it, not like me. He left to protect you, to protect your mother.”

A howl shattered the moment as another wolf burst through the door, its fur matted, eyes wild. I screamed, but Grandma stepped forward.

“Jacob, calm down,” she commanded.

The wolf paused, its breathing ragged. “I am calm, Mom,” it said.

Dad.

I stepped closer, tears running down my cheeks. “Dad?”

When he looked at me, the wildness in his eyes faded. “Red,” he whispered, “you’re the only thing that keeps me human.”

Grandma placed a paw on his shoulder. “She grounds you, Jacob.”

“Can you come home?” I asked, my voice trembling with hope.

Dad looked between us, his wolf face softening. “Maybe, if I’m with you during the full moon, I can stay myself.”

Grandma nodded. “It’s worth a try.”

We left together that night, the three of us, under the full moon, crossing the forest toward home where Mom stood waiting on the porch. She didn’t scream. She just opened her arms, and we fell into them.

That night, we talked. About everything. And although the path ahead was uncertain, for the first time in years, our family was together.

Not perfect, but together.

And that was close enough to happily ever after.

Moral of the Story

Sometimes, the truth is scarier than the lies we’re told to protect us, but facing it together can bring a family back home.