Covered in Red: A Dark Retelling of Little Red Riding Hood

I have an old memory that creeps into my mind when the wind howls through the pine needles, echoing like voices I thought I had forgotten. It began when I was twelve, on a cool spring night, under the sagging porch roof of my grandmother’s house deep in the forest’s edge.

“Grandma,” I asked, tugging at the heavy red hood that slipped over my eyes, “why must I wear this hood?”

She looked at me, eyes the color of winter frost, her hair a silver halo in the dim lantern light. Her fingers, thin but warm, pressed against my flushed cheeks. “Because, my dear, you are not like the others,” she said softly, her voice trembling like leaves in a breeze. “You are special. And sometimes, special must be hidden.”

Her hands moved to my hair, brushing it away from my face, and I leaned into her touch, closing my eyes as her scent of pine soap and wood smoke wrapped around me.

The next morning, as dawn cracked across the treetops, I followed the pattern I had known all my life. Grandma and I would sweep the creaky wooden floors, dust the shelves lined with dried herbs, and scrub the iron pots until they shone in the morning sun. The scent of cinnamon and apples would fill the air as Grandma’s pie baked in the wood stove, the golden crust rising and browning as it cooled on the windowsill.

The children from the village would creep near, their dirty hands itching for a slice of our pie. I was not allowed to play with them, Grandma’s rules were clear, but I was allowed—expected—to guard the pie. I would patrol in front of the window, a thick branch I called “my bat” in my hand, my red hood casting a shadow over my eyes as I stomped back and forth.

And they would come, as they always did.

“Little Red,” they would taunt, their voices thick with hunger and mockery, “why don’t you give us a bite?”

They smelled like sweat and dirt, their grins crooked, their eyes small and mean. My hands tightened around the branch as I stepped forward, my hood swinging low over my brow.

“You stinky boys will get what’s coming to you!” I yelled, charging forward.

They laughed, dodging as I swung the branch wildly, heavy in my small arms, the cloak tangling around my legs as I tripped in the tall grass. They laughed harder, rolling in the dirt as I panted, rage and shame mixing in my chest like fire.

Then I swung the branch with all my strength, hitting the biggest boy in the stomach. He let out a choked sound, doubling over. The laughter died.

“You’ll pay for that!” one of them hissed.

They tackled me, the air rushing out of my lungs as we hit the ground. I clawed and kicked, tasting dirt and tears as I fought. One of them pulled a small pocket knife from his pocket, its blade glinting in the sunlight. He slashed at me, cutting through my red cloak, shredding the fabric as it tangled around us.

A sharp pain bloomed across my arm as the blade cut skin, warm blood dripping down my elbow, staining the grass below. I screamed, a sound that tore through the air, up to the windows of Grandma’s house.

I heard her shouting, heard the hurried thump of her feet on the wooden stairs as she screamed my name. “Dear? Dear!”

The boys froze, blood smeared on their hands and my cloak. The biggest boy smirked, eyes narrowing as he looked at me.

Something inside me snapped.

I tore the shredded cloak from my shoulders and lunged at him, teeth bared, fingers curled like claws. We fell into the dirt, biting and scratching, growls ripping from my throat as the taste of iron filled my mouth.

The back door slammed open, and there was Grandma, switch in hand, her eyes wide and wild. She screamed for them to leave, threatening to whip them raw if they ever returned. But the damage had been done.

They ran, but the rumors did not.

They told the village that Grandma’s pie was baked with the help of a wolf girl, that I had howled and snarled, my red cloak dripping with blood as I bit them, that my teeth were sharp as a beast’s, that Grandma had adopted a monster.

They whispered about us in the market, in the church pews, and around their hearths at night. They said I had yellow eyes, that I was cursed, that Grandma had raised a wolf in girl’s clothing.

The fear turned to hate, and hate turned to danger.

One cold morning, Grandma packed our few belongings into baskets. We left before dawn, slipping into the shadows of the forest as the village slept. The trees swallowed us whole, their branches closing around us like arms, hiding us from the world.

In the forest, we found a small clearing near a brook, where the moss was soft under our feet and the pines whispered at night. We built a home from fallen logs, Grandma’s pies still baking in the stove, the scent of cinnamon and apple filling the crisp forest air.

At night, I would listen to the wolves howl in the distance, their cries a song that made the blood in my veins hum. Sometimes, I would pull the red cloak from the chest where Grandma had hidden it, running my fingers over the shredded fabric, the stains of that day still dark along the seams.

I am older now, but I have not forgotten.

They called me Little Red, but they never knew who I truly was.

In the forest, I learned to move without sound, to hunt, to watch. The wolves became my family, and the night my home. My teeth are no sharper than they were before, but I know how to bare them now, how to defend what is mine.

And when the moon is full, and the wind howls through the trees, I remember the warmth of Grandma’s hands on my cheeks, and I remember the way the boys’ laughter died in their throats.

They say there is a wolf in the forest now, wrapped in a cloak the color of blood, watching from the shadows.

They are right.

Moral of the Story:

Those who judge what they do not understand will never see the strength that blooms in the wild.