Red

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It’s a classic tale. For many travelers, the sight of such a light would bring a feeling of relief. Do not be fooled. Many creatures have learned how to lure humans to their doom this way. In cases where abandoned houses have welcoming lights, stay on the path and keep your silver close. There are monsters out there that you do not want to face.

- Traveler, name unknown, before disappearing the next night.

At age seven, Grandma told Red about the Hunter. Red sat by the fire’s warmth, her thick blanket tugged tight around her body. Grandma had claimed the rocking chair. The fire cast deep crags across her face. Eyes glittered from pits of shadow.

She told red about the man who dared to believe that he could beat the woods.

He’d stepped into the woods willingly, ax in hand, unafraid. He killed the thing that turned the river a foul brown-green slick. Another creature, one that stole cattle and drained their bodies dry, fell to his blade. One by one, he ended the creatures that called the forest home.

But in the end, like with all things, the woods won. He fell to a pack of wolves, run ragged by creatures that wouldn’t stay down, brought down himself by their teeth and claws. Yet the wolves weren’t done with him. They stitched him back together with the bones of the things he’d killed. No longer the hunter of monsters, he now hunted human prey alongside the things that made him.

Her tale ended, Grandma had lifted her voice in a shaky wolf’s howl. The sound replayed in Red’s mind for days afterwards. She would fall asleep imagining a chorus outside the window. Sometimes she sat at the edge of her bed, staring out into the night. If she stretched her imagination enough, she could think up of a large man, his body nothing but skin and bones, his ax dyed red with blood and wolves pressed to either side.

The thought would have terrified anyone else. It invigorated Red, bringing a smile to her face. Her heart raced, her blood pounded. The exhilaration was addicting. She found herself staring into the forest more often, wishing, wanting.

Of all the people Red knew, only Grandma wasn’t afraid of the woods.

She lived in them.

Once a year she would walk the path back to the village, her silver tipped cane tapping against the gravel. Her eyes would always be bright. Only age weighed down her shoulders, not fear. For all horrors filled her stories, she never showed scars or proof of brushes with danger. She bargained for her next year of supplies without a shred of worry. The people she hired to help her carry them back always looked small when compared to her bravery. There was something about Grandma that made village life look so dreary, made the world look exciting.

It was because of her that Red stood at the edge of the woods now.

Grandma hadn’t appeared at harvest time, and she hadn’t appeared afterwards either. It was the first time in Red’s eleven years that Grandma hadn’t shown up to collect her supplies. Much of the village wanted to say good riddance and forget the issue, but as winter crawled closer, more sympathetic views rose. If Grandma had been injured, they needed to know. Someone needed to go and find out what had happened before snow closed off the forest path.

Red had seen her chance. She volunteered to go.

There’d been an outcry from her parents, but they were helpless to stop her. No one else in town was willing to travel into the woods, even with the safe path. Her parents couldn’t leave. They had to keep the inn running. The taproom was always so busy in the afternoons that it needed both of them to keep it from falling apart.

Little Red got her wish.

“Remember the stories,” her father had said. His large, rough hand had clasped her shoulder tight. “Don’t leave the path. It’s too dangerous.”

Her mother draped a cloak over Red’s shoulders. She trembled as she did up the knot, and her voice was thick with fear. “To keep you warm. Please be safe, Red. Please.”

Red promised she would be. She would be safe. She would stay on the path. And here she was now, balanced on the precipice between civilization and wilderness.

Red wrapped her fingers tight in her cloak, holding it close to her body. Her breath came out in a rush of fog. Above her, the sky shone clear. No clouds covered the path in shadow. No, all shadows were caused by the trees and the twisted canopy that crisscrossed the air above the gravel. Their shadows spider webbed across the path, stretching from side to side. Winter had stripped the branches of their leaves. The only ornaments that adorned them were the silver charms, glinting softly where they hung.

Behind Red, the path twisted and looped back to the village. In front of her, the path led to Grandma’s house. Shadows coated it. Iron bordered every side. No forms stood between the trees, no eyes watched her from the darkness. The path was clear. She would never get a chance like this again. Blood rushed through her ears. Her heartbeat traveled to the very tips of her fingers.

It urged her on. Forwards, it beat, forwards.

There was no reason to deny it. Red raced forwards. Her feet beat against the path, sound racing against her heartbeat. Soon enough, she was beneath the canopy. The forest closed around her. She could only catch glimpses of the sky between the branches. Barely a few minutes in, and the edge of the forest seemed forever ago.

Red laughed. The sound bounced off the trees, returned to her as if someone else was running by her side, sharing in this exhilarating freedom.

The superstition that so heavily coated her hometown couldn’t touch her here. The stories that clustered between and beneath the trees flew away as the wind pressed across her face. All the stories (twists of shadow with hollow eyes, things that crawled on all fours and slipped through iron defenses, the Hunter with his pack of wolves), all the warnings (don’t stray off the path, don’t leave the protection of the iron), they all peeled away to fall to the ground, left behind and forgotten.

Red had existed with these stories since childhood. Farmers, shopkeepers, travelers, and guards talked among themselves in her parents' inn. They filled the air while she played with her dolls, and later when she grew big enough to help rush meals from kitchen to table. Their hum pervaded the taproom, thick, oppressive, always carrying the same message. Don’t go into the forest. Stay on the path, no matter what.

Her favorite story was the one about the Hunter. Of all the ghosts and ghouls that haunted this forest, that one had stuck in her mind the most. The very thought of it brought Grandma’s howl to her mind.

It had her smiling. Her eyes darted, searching for signs of wildlife. If there were wolves, then there would be prey for the wolves. Rabbits, birds, squirrels, creatures that could easily be caught and devoured by hungry jaws. But the forest was empty. There was no chatter, no chirping. Lichen bloomed pale across the base of one tree. The gravel crunched beneath her feet. Of course, there would be nothing. Winter had chased all animals into hiding.

With a frustrated breath, Red glanced at the canopy. The branches scratched against one another, swaying and cracking with the wind. The movement sent the charms clinking and chiming. If she closed her eyes and tilted her head, it sounded like a conversation was going on, the rise and fall of speech in a language she couldn’t understand. They were whispering about the little girl all alone in the woods. But she wasn’t alone. Even without anyone with her, the trees were there and talking.

Her annoyance dissipated. She smiled and gave into the urge to run the next few steps. Dirt and gravel clattered against the path behind her. She could feel the wind on her face, tangling in her hair. It carried the cloying sweetness of decaying leaves, the crisper scent of cold wind. A tang flavored it to smell like copper. Another undertone reminded her of the musk of some animal. It was different from the sweat, mud, ale, and greasy food that marked her parents’ inn.

The clean air was freeing. Red’s smile stretched wider. She sucked in a deep breath, until it burned her lungs.

A howl rang over the trees. Musical, soon joined by a second, then a third.

Red laughed in delight. If she’d been in the village, the sound would have been enough to spark panic. Now it simply sounded like music. To hear this without people freezing like the very sound would kill them was magical. She was glad to have gotten this chance to be brave, like her grandma was.

Red’s run slowed to a skip. The wind had increased, and the cracking of branches was louder for it. The howls were a chorus, folding over one another, again and again. Soon, it was nothing more than background noise.

Yes, she was brave, like Grandma. There was nothing here to be scared off. No creatures had reached between the trees to grab her. The frost that bloomed across the iron stakes held no malevolent faces in their patterns. The only spots of color belonged to the mushrooms that occasionally pushed from the ground, specks of white or gray, a few clusters of orange and yellow that bloomed as brilliant as any flower.

Even in the desolate grip of winter, the forest was pretty. No doubt it would be even prettier in spring or summer, green leaves and golden sun and warm air that didn’t bite the tip of her nose. It was hard to imagine this place being dangerous. It wasn’t scary at all. The only remotely scary thing was the discordant note that resembled a scream, folded in with the howls. That could easily be blamed on the wind echoing through the trees. It was too far and faint to be anything else-

Red froze.

The wind pressed her cloak tight around her form. The trees continued their cracked conversation. Chiming filled the air from the charms. Shadows stretched across the path, broken up by what little sunlight slipped through the canopy. Her heartbeat thudded loud in her ears. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip. Slowly, she tried to slow her breathing into something deeper, quieter.

The wolves had not stopped their howling. They’d been at it for almost twenty minutes, so long that she could skip to them without worrying. That discordant note was still there as well. She could hear it whistling by her as the wind whipped through the forest, a tad harder than before. But there was a new sound now, one that blended all too easily with the wind. This was more like a scream in truth. It lacked the musical note the wolves claimed. It was far too high-pitched, and far, far too shrill.

She pulled her cloak tighter and glanced around. Nothing. There was nothing but the darkness waiting between trunks and beneath branches, the howl of the wolves in the distance. The charms still twinkled faintly. Suddenly the absence of birdsong was painfully clear.

The wind whistled through the trees, but that shrill sound seemed to have died down. She could no longer hear it. Her imagination, probably. She was just overreacting to a larger blast of wind. That was all. There was nothing there.

She took a breath, let it out, and shook herself. Forcefully, she let go of her cloak and took fistfuls of her skirt instead. It was fine. She was a big girl, eleven, and there was nothing in the woods to be scared of. They were just tales. That was all. She took another deep breath, let it out, and stepped forwards.

And stopped.

Just beyond the iron stakes, a patch of fallen leaves had been disturbed enough for reddish mud to shine through. It was small, so small that Red’s eyes had nearly skipped over it. No doubt that would have happened if it weren’t for the footprint.

It sat there in the middle of that patch of mud, as if made explicitly for the purpose of drawing her attention. Not a wolf’s, or a deer’s, or a raccoon’s. It was larger. Solid and blocky. A boot print that pointed away from the road and into the woods.

Her heart leapt into her throat.

Someone had been in the woods. Someone had done what she wished too, had stepped beneath the boughs and into the darkness. They had walked beneath the canopy, unafraid of the dangers. Free. Their life was full of adventure. They’d have their own stories, had come out hale and whole without the horrors that had befallen so many others.

The realization made her head spin. It was possible to step off the path without facing the consequences. Someone had done it before, and she wanted to do it too.

Red forgot about the wolves and monsters. She forgot about the stories and warnings, the promises she had made to her parents. She stepped forwards. One step, two, until she was balanced on the edge of the path and leaning over.

There was another footstep. The shape of it could barely be seen for the leaves, making it fuzzy and indistinct. But it was there, proof that this person hadn’t just taken one step off the path and regretted their decision. Proof that they had really stepped forwards into the unknown.

Red scanned the woods. There was nothing between the trees. The wolves had stopped howling. The world held its breath.

For the briefest moment, Red remembered a childhood game. A furrow dragged into the dirt, one she’d had to stay on even when others pushed and prodded and wheedled to get her off. The goal of that game was to stay on the line from beginning to end. The name of the game was Path, and should the child be dragged off, they were ruthlessly tickled until they couldn’t breathe.

Red had never been good at playing Path.

She stepped forwards, and her foot sunk into the mud. The clay stained the sides of her shoes red. She began to walk, past the first footprint, past the second, past the third pressed into a bed of moss. Further and further until the path was nothing but a distant memory, until the silence of the woods swallowed the clinks and chimes of the charms. She kept on walking until the wolves began to howl again. Closer. Louder. Once more, something sung above the howls. A higher, shriller sound that made her ears ring.

It was definitely not the wind.

Something primal lit in Red, the wild urge to get away. She ran until her lungs burned, and every inhale was fire. Her small feet thudded against the ground. Every time she thought about turning back, something got her attention. A footprint. A scrap of cloth, a splash of red illuminated by a beam of light. There was no way she could stop now. She could only keep running, keep following the trail. Her breath stuck in her throat. She felt faint.

She fell.

Her foot snagged on the curve of a root, sent her tumbling across leaves and rocks. She hit the ground with a painful thump. All the air burst from her chest, leaving her dizzy and stunned.

The howls were closer, that shrill scream louder.

She lay there, panting. Black dots floated across her vision. Her breath wheezed and whined in her ears. There was a dull thud in her ankle, a throb that twined with her too fast heartbeat.

All at once, she remembered the people back home waiting for her. Mother and father. Her few village friends. They were counting on her to return home. She had to get up. She couldn’t let whatever was hunting get to her. Get up, get to the path, get home. Get up.

Her hands scrambled across the detritus. The leaves were slimy and wet against her fingers, hard to grip as worms were. Finally, she found some purchase. With a grunt of pain, she started to push herself up.

Too late.

Something heavy slammed against the middle of her back. The solid wedge of a heeled boot pressed hard through the fabric of her cloak. She cried out. The howls cut out. Leaves shifted and crunched nearby. Something sniffed her hair, rustling the strands. Something else splattered wet against her cheek.

She couldn’t move. She watched, frozen, as a thing pulled itself out between the trees.

It was no wolf, even if her mind screamed wolf louder than anything it had ever screamed before. Stitching shone at every joint, skin, and fur pulled tight and connected by flashes of white. In the gaps glistened wet, red muscle. Blood matted the fur a rusty color. There were hollows where the eyes should have been.

The jaw cracked open. Its teeth – what remained – shone just as bright as the thing that made up its stitches.

Red stared. Her breath caught. The thing snuffling at her hair pulled away from her. The weight of the boot at her back increased. Wavering, the thing padded up to her. She watched numbly as the head lowered. Then the teeth met flesh, and Red found she had the breath to scream.

…

A scream filled the air, sharp, and shrill. High-pitched, terrified, the death cry of a rabbit that had come out of its hollow and fallen dead to a monster’s bite. It was a sound that Agatha had heard many times before. As soon the scream died, the sound of the wind pressing against the planks of her house rose up again. Wood creaked and groaned. Agatha’s ears, like the cry of the rabbit, were numb to strained nails.

Although some days that felt less like being used to it, and more like old age. That was more dangerous than anything that lurked in the forest. With old age creeping up on her, stealing her senses one by one, it was hard to recognize the shift in color or the faintest shape that signified something hidden.

For the first time since coming to these woods, Agatha found herself spending more time in her house than not.

It was the right move, safer, but it galled her nonetheless. She didn’t want to be like the people in the village. She didn’t want to hide behind these walls, scared of what lurked beneath the canopy. They were right to do so – the woods were terrifying – but there was a difference between waiting to be slaughtered and facing the unknown. Agatha was a firm believer of the second choice, but right now, it felt like she was ascribing to the first.

But she hadn’t survived as long as she had by being reckless. Sometimes it was better to retreat for a time.

Lips pursed, Agatha returned her gaze to the hearth. The fire sent shadows dancing in the nooks and crannies of the room, gilded every curve with soft gold light. The soup that bubbled above the flames helped fill the air with a cozy smell. Cooking meats and spices, a recipe guaranteed to warm anyone’s empty stomach while using as little food as possible. Agatha had been too sick to travel to the village, so she would ration through the winter.

Winter could be cruel, especially in this forest, but she would survive. She’d always had before. It was better than living in the village, where fear orchestrated every motion, from sleep cycles to meals. That terror choked off everything, laughter, love.

But there was one bright spot in that village. Red, her granddaughter. Red was like Agatha, unafraid and fed up with the village’s stifling air. She soaked up the stories Agatha told her like they were just that, stories, and nothing more. Agatha had seen her staring at the trees in longing many times. She was a child after Agatha’s own heart.

One day, Agatha would give Red this house, this legacy. She would get the chance to build her own life away from the village, away from the fear.

Something knocked on the door, loud, insistent, desperate. The reverberation of it rattled the silver charms that lined the wood. No one could mistake it for anything else than it was: a plea to be let in.

Agatha looked up, frozen by the fire’s edge.

Knocking wasn’t unusual, but normally it came from the back of the house, a trick by some clever creature that had managed to reach beyond the iron and silver fence. This was from her front door and the path that led towards the village. The monsters couldn’t get close to the path thanks to the protections. It had to be someone from the village.

“Grandma?”

Red’s voice, weak and trembling. Fragile as any baby bird left broken on the ground. Agatha’s reservations melted. If that brave girl had traveled here on the village’s behest, then Agatha couldn’t leave her there for the woods to snatch. She stepped away from the hearth, her cane tapping against wood. “Come in, dear.”

The door cracked open, letting in long shafts of golden light spill across the floor boards. It was that particular color sunlight always turned when the world was going cold, an orange that promised false warmth. And in that light stood red, her body framed by it. It flashed across the edges of her silhouette like fire. Her cloak hung heavy over her head. Shadow coated her face, except for the pale triangle of her chin. Knots decorated the few curls that slipped out from under her hood.

“I made it, Grandma.”

Something in that voice made Agatha’s instincts ring. Red sounded out of breath, as if she’d been running. Her shoulders might have been rising and falling too fast, but Agatha could barely make out the movement. There was no blood on her, no trace of struggle. She looked to be alright, just possibly out of breath.

“I can see that, dear. Are you alright? You seem tired.”

“I was just running. I like running.” Red’s voice was stilted. She stepped forwards, stumbled. Her hand hit the door frame to stabilize herself.

Agatha nearly stepped forwards to stabilize her, but Red seemed to manage. She straightened, her hand disappearing within her cloak again. Still, she wavered. It was probably the run, exhaustion setting in.

“I'd be impressed if you managed to run the whole way here. Would you like some soup? Some water?”

Red’s head dipped lower, till her hood covered everything. “I’m hungry.”

“Soup it is, then. It will be a bit before it’s finished. Take a seat, dear. Are you sure you don’t want any water?”

“No.”

Agatha hummed. For a moment, she watched Red. The girl had taken another step and now firmly stood within the house. She’d left the doorway open, and the light turned the wooden door frame red. It was hard to believe that she wasn’t thirsty … but Agatha wasn’t going to push. She returned to the soup to give it another stir.

Her cane, she kept in her hand.

“Did you have a good trip?”

“I heard wolves.” The words were a mumble. Red took a few more tottering steps forwards. “But they’re not singing now.”

“They must have found their prey. You’ll get used to the sound,” Agatha replied, but she was distracted. Had the howls sent Red running? It seemed odd. Red had always been fascinated by wolves, unafraid.

“Grandma.”

“Yes, Red?”

“I’m hungry.”

Agatha’s thoughts vanished. She let out a breath, and began to turn. “You’re going to have to be-”

Red’s hand fell on Agatha’s arm.

She froze, breath caught in her throat, gaze falling to that hand, child sized and all the more horrific for it.

Red’s fingers smeared her namesake all over Agatha’s sleeve. The joints were wrong, skin pulled too tight and held together by something white. It was more obvious what held her together at her wrist. Shards of bone stitched her joints together. Her sleeve hung off her arm like loose flaps of skin. Blood painted the expanse beneath.

Somewhere, a wolf howled. Or maybe it was Red, a child’s imitation of that powerful, musical sound.

Oh, god. Agatha couldn’t understand how. Red, one of the Hunter’s creations. Red, standing within Agatha’s home, despite all the barriers that guarded her home. Somehow, she’d found a gap big enough to wiggle through. Agatha had done the rest. She had opened the door to let the wolf in.

Outside, the wolves were singing a chorus for their new pack mate. Their cries mingled with the wind and the Hunter’s scream, a noise ripped from a throat long ruined. At the edges of her fence, the shadows gathered, pressed hard against the protections of woven and silver and iron.

Red struck. She yanked Agatha off balance, tossed her to the ground. Agatha wasn’t ready. With a crash, she fell upon the floor, her breath driven from her, vision painted white. The soup ladle bounced away. The cane skittered against the ground. Then her vision came back, just in time for Red to spring.

She landed heavy on top of Agatha. Her hand dug into Agatha’s arm, pinning it to the ground. Another pressed painfully into her shoulder. She couldn’t move. Every brought shards of pain ricocheting through her ribs. Red’s face loomed in her vision, plunged down.

Teeth in her shoulder, sawing through fabric and into flesh. Agatha jerked, cried out. Her hands scrambled against the ground. Her fingers brushed against the silver cap of her cane. Red ripped her head back, and something tore. Agatha screamed again. Blood spattered hot against her chin.

It was all she could think about. The pain. Her scream. Her granddaughter chewing on her flesh. The wolves outside and the Hunter’s cry.

Then her fingers snapped properly onto her cane, wrapping tight around the worn wood. Screaming, Agatha twisted, jammed the silver tip into Red’s side.

It was a bad blow. The wrong angle, not enough strength, Red’s cloak and dress as armor. It was just enough to knock Red off of her. Agatha rolled, ignoring the agony in her shoulder, the blood on her face, and brought the cane down again. A clawing hand deflected the strike. Silver skidded against the wood, useless.

Agatha tossed herself on top of her granddaughter, knees pressing against her arms. Broken fingernails scrabbled at her legs, her waist, ripping fabric. Agatha lifted her cane in both hands.

Red stared up at her. The hood had fallen back, her hair spread across the floor, leaves tangled in the strands. Those eyes used to be bright blue. Now they were hollow sockets. Her lips pulled back, Agatha could see every tooth in her mouth. They were not the teeth of a little girl.

They belonged to a wolf.

This was not Red.

Agatha brought the cane down, her body screaming at the action. The silver tip crashed into Red’s skull with enough force to send it slamming against the ground. Blackness bloomed from the silver’s touch, spreading across Red’s forehead and curling her skin back to show bone beneath. Her twitching stilled. Her hands fell to the floor. Those blank sockets stared up at Agatha, accusing.

Slowly, Agatha pulled herself to her feet. She pulled the cane out, began to hobble away, leaning against the wood heavily. Blood plastered her shirt to her chest and shoulder. Outside, the woods still sang it's horrible song. Something crashed. Metal jangled, a painful sound. Her defenses, no doubt, finally giving into the onslaught.

It didn’t matter anymore. She reached the bedroom door, opening it with shaky hands.

This was supposed to be her last defense against the forest. It was a room she had never wanted, had almost never built in the first place, but practicality had won over stubbornness. So, she’d built her bedroom with the thought of survival in mind.

She closed the door behind her, stared, blank. The silver and iron on the walls glinted in the darkness. The solid shape of a storage box sat by the end of her bed. The first aid kit would be in there. She could not move to get it. All she could do was sag against the door and listen as the woods finally broke in.