Little Red Riding Hood
The bell tolled three times, rapid and intense, shaking the entire forest.
Men and women clutched their children in dread. Those who were scattered or focused on their labor prudently headed toward the village. A second toll summoned the lazy, and those who told themselves, “I’ll go in a minute.”
The mayor approached the town hall balcony; the planks groaned, clinging to the supports to keep from giving way. With a tired gaze and a broken voice, he raised his right hand, ordering silence. Every word was a crushing weight on the families of that cursed village. Fathers gripped their children, girlfriends hugged each other, and friends clapped backs. Winter hadn’t even arrived, and the first victim had already surfaced.
They were harvesting corn when a cloud of blueflies caught a couple’s attention. As they drew near, a smell of putrefaction turned their stomachs. They believed it was a decomposing animal, but what they found was much worse.
A black cart with a worn cross carried the remains of a flayed boy, whose eyes and tongue had been torn out and his entire body shaved. They placed a huge black flag on the bell tower as a sign of mourning. For the first three days, no one strayed from the village; the harvests were left to their fate, and everyone shared food at large tables where they sat to eat while observing one another, wondering if the killer was seated next to them.
Margó, like any worried mother, tried to prevent her teenage daughter from leaving the house. Only a week had passed since the body’s appearance, and the young, with forgetful minds and hot blood, tried to escape their parents’ sight. Little Red Riding Hood carried a huge basket full of jam, dehydrated fruit, a fresh-baked cake, and a bottle of wine. It was the perfect excuse; her grandmother, who lived past the stream’s path, hadn’t left her house for days and needed provisions.
Margó hadn’t spoken to her mother in years. She always had a good excuse ready, but her reasons were much darker, and guilt returned every winter. When Little Red announced early in the morning that she was going to see her grandmother, Margó felt a knot in her throat that prevented her from speaking. She knew she had raised her daughter with good intentions, and she hoped it would be enough for her to follow the right path.
The girl grabbed the basket and headed for the path that left the village to snake its way into the depths of the forest. The milestones marked the safe trail; it was flat, calm, and the trees grew apart, letting the sunlight filter through the branches; but it was also long and boring. Her grandmother had taught her a direct route to her house, a hidden one that passed around wide trunks and vegetation so thick you could disappear within it.
She liked to relax in a small, sunny glade near the stream, dappled with flowers. In that place, she could truly be herself. She took off her cloak, placed it on the cool grass, and lay down on it. She reached into the basket for a piece of cake. She toyed with it for a moment before bringing it to her mouth.
A scandalous noise, like a clumsy bear searching for berries, startled the girl.
She sat up and looked around, searching for the source of the noise. Instinctively, she reached for her belt where she hid a long hunting knife. A huge stick violently struck the brambles; on the other side was a boy with dark, messy hair. A gray wolf’s tooth hung from his neck. Little Red reclined, and with a smile that spoke a thousand words, the young wolf clung to her feet. There was no greeting, no “How are you?” The hunger was atrocious and devoured them both.
The boy anxiously ripped off the girl’s clothes, as if he were on fire and had to shed them. She did the same with his. With her agile hands, she quickly found what she was looking for and clung to his hardness with desire. The wolf groaned with pleasure as his desperation mounted. When he caressed a soft button of pink skin, he brought it to his mouth to lick, suck, and nibble. It was a pastry to be savored before being devoured.
Which of the two attacked first? A difficult question when hunger bites and bodies consume each other as if they were one. The enormous fabric of the cloak wasn’t enough; their naked bodies crushed the flowers. Their moans drove the birds mad, chirping wildly. They devoured each other relentlessly, again and again, until their legs trembled and their throats were raw from groaning. Of all the boys in the village, only Lobo (Wolf) was capable of making her vibrate repeatedly, the only one with enough stamina to repeat until she collapsed, exhausted and satisfied.
She rose from the cloak, leaving her skin exposed, gathered her hair, and walked barefoot to the stream’s edge. The cold water soothed the heat within her, washed away the fluids that were beginning to dry, and reduced the inflammation of the bites. It was like feeling a tremendous peace after a storm. Lobo lay on the crushed grass, leaving the entire cloak for his beautiful meal. They spent minutes, perhaps hours, caressing each other, talking about promises that would never be kept, although Lobo didn’t know that. For him, she was a goddess reincarnated, a delicacy he wished to savor every day of his life.
Once dressed, Little Red followed the path her grandmother had taught her, while Lobo struggled not to approach her and devour her once more. He told himself that the farewell was the promise of a return.
Her grandmother’s house was made of ancient stone, so old that the shape of an ancient dolmen could be discerned. The woman claimed it was a sacred place where the women of the forest held their feasts. Even so, she had no qualms about using it as her dwelling.
Little Red opened the wooden door without knocking; for her, that was her true home. Her grandmother indulged her, pampered her, and instructed her in the manifold uses of plants and living things. A woman with long brown hair and small white streaks observed her from head to toe. She hugged her tightly, kissed her cheeks, and said, “Your cloak smells like sex; throw it in the wash while I bring you another.” They both laughed in unison. There was nothing the woman didn’t know; she was her most faithful accomplice. If her mother found out what she did in the forest, she wouldn’t let her leave the house until the day she died.
The grandmother always wondered how her daughter, Margó, could be so sanctimonious. She had taught her everything she knew about herbs, ointments, bloodletting, and how to use them to her advantage; but instead of following in her footsteps, she went to the village to work as a healer. She found peace in the fact that her granddaughter was following the path she had shown her.
They ate the rest of the cake, uncapped the jams, drank all the wine, and celebrated the approaching winter. Every year, grandmother and granddaughter performed a ceremony full of fire, liquor, and sex. This year, she had promised her something very special, a celebration that would mark her life.
Little Red’s father was a well-known wolf hunter, though this time he had been called to search for a killer. Surely a sorcerer, some tongues murmured. Every year, as winter approached, someone disappeared. They were usually victims of wolves or bears; but sometimes, a flayed child appeared, and that was no animal’s doing.
When the old people were young, the legend said a being from the forest came out when the rains began to feed on the unwary. Many traps were set, and very strict rules were created, but nothing stopped it. Little Red’s father and his group of hunters didn’t believe in fairy tales: “Someone was taking advantage of the fear to delight in their cruelty.”
When misfortunes occurred in the village, her mother became invisible, as if a black shroud covered her face. She pressed her lips tightly as if she feared her voice would say something inappropriate. She didn’t leave the house and needed her daughter’s help. With the arrival of the cold, people complained more about their aches; illness and melancholy descended upon the people.
Little Red was suffocating; she was a caged animal and needed to feel the stream’s water on her feet, the smell of damp earth, to ride whomever she wanted wherever she desired, to let her soul scream in the middle of nowhere, where everyone heard her. She got up before the rooster crowed, climbed out the kitchen window, and waited for the neighborhood patrol to move away. She hid between the houses until she reached the edge of the forest. She carried her basket full of food; if anyone stopped her, she could say her grandmother was sick and she was bringing her provisions. She followed the zigzag of the stream until she reached the forest glade. She would have liked to sit and enjoy it, but the ground was wet from the downpour of the last few days. Nevertheless, she took off her shoes and felt the softness of the grass on her soles, letting the stiffness in her body disappear.
She breathed deeply; the smell of damp earth penetrated her lungs. She was so focused on sensing her body that she didn’t realize someone was next to her.
Lobo watched her with penetrating eyes. He placed himself behind her and grabbed her waist. Before she could escape, he kissed her hard. She was about to push him away, but she recognized the taste of his lips.
“What are you doing here?” He kissed Little Red’s neck with desire and concern.
“My grandmother is sick,” she gasped.
“If I were the killer, you’d be dead.” He bit the base of her neck.
“Since you’re not, we can stay a little longer.”
“No.” It was the first time she had been told that word; at first, she wasn’t sure she understood it correctly. But when Lobo’s body moved away from her, she understood he was serious.
“No?” she repeated as she unbuttoned her neckline, showing firm, round, taut breasts.
“In a few minutes, your father, mine, and more men will be here,” he sighed, holding back his urge. “If you’re going to your grandmother’s house, I’ll go with you, so I’ll know you get there safely.”
Little Red tried to persuade him, but seeing Lobo’s protective attitude, she knew she wouldn’t manage to change his mind. They followed the grandmother’s path, a path Lobo observed carefully. They were entering the heart of the forest, a place forbidden by several unwritten laws. Something stirred inside Lobo, something called instinct. Since he was a child, he paid attention to that leech that inhabited his core. Thanks to it, he had escaped many misfortunes. Now that leech was writhing and pounding, tearing up his guts.
“Something’s not right.” He sniffed the air.
“It’s the age of the trees; they’re older than us.” She touched the mossy trunk of one. “They’ll still be here when we are gone.”
She walked on resolutely, ignoring Lobo’s pleas. She had been walking her grandmother’s path all her life; she wouldn’t turn back for a boy who was afraid of the authentic, of ancient nature, of the truth hidden behind beautiful lies.
The grandmother’s house was hypnotizing. Lobo felt so intimidated that he didn’t know whether to continue or run away; the place made his hair stand on end. The enormous stones pointing skyward seemed like living entities.
Little Red entered as always, as if it were her own house. Behind her, a small wolf with his tail between his legs looked around. The girl called out for her grandmother several times, but no one answered. She sat down at the kitchen table and offered her companion a seat.
She tore the bread on the table to share it.
“I think someone’s back there.” Lobo pointed to the deepest part of the house. He was sure he had heard a brief moan.
Little Red took a bite of her bread and got up, signaling him to follow. The house looked very large from the outside but was very small inside. The kitchen was the heart of the house; three rooms, two of them abandoned, the third was the grandmother’s, full of life and color. In the deepest part, where the orthostats almost touched, there was an entrance to a cellar. It was the first time Little Red had seen that hole, as dark as a troll’s throat. She noticed a heavy stone to one side; it must be the trapdoor that concealed the cave. The murmur turned into a faint whimper, as if a tired kitten was begging the void for help.
Both young people descended a wooden staircase without thinking of their own safety. In Little Red’s imagination was a dying grandmother; in Lobo’s, someone badly hurt to be rescued.
A few candles and a lit lantern revealed a circular cave. To one side was a wooden table with a cloud of insects devouring the remnants of blood and flesh on bowls, razors, and a strange ceremonial knife. On the other side, on a huge horizontal stone, lay a semi-naked girl whose body hair had been completely shaved.
Lobo ran towards the girl; she was so weak she couldn’t stand. As he grabbed her, he noticed she was smeared in oil; his hardened hands seemed to burn at the touch of that grease. He grabbed the dagger and cut one of the ropes that held her captive.
“She’s already dead,” said a voice from the mouth of the cave.
Someone was coming down the stairs.
“Come on,” he told himself as he cut the massive ropes. The girl’s eyes watched him like someone seeing a miracle.
“Hello, dear.” Little Red was paralyzed. “Aren’t you going to give your grandmother a hug?”
Lobo turned his head and saw a beautiful woman with long hair and white streaks, the only thing indicating she was older than him. Her face was soft and serene. Her body was full of curves he had never seen in women from his village. It was impossible that she was the grandmother; at most, she would be the older sister.
Little Red ran toward the woman, who was a few centimeters taller and slenderer. She clung to her neck and sobbed in fear. All this must have an explanation, one of those that, when well explained, makes you realize how obvious it is.
“It’s a gift for you.” She wiped her face. “You didn’t think we’d always use animals, did you? This is the great lesson.”
Lobo looked at Little Red, waiting for her to react, to tell him that this woman wasn’t her grandmother, that she wasn’t guilty of the disappearance of the village pets, that all of this was wrong.
“The great lesson?” she murmured, as she remembered. As her eyes opened and she understood. Her mind cleared, and all the questions she had asked her grandmother throughout her life now had an answer, and it was this, exactly what she was witnessing at that moment.
The grandmother left her granddaughter to ponder. She walked toward Lobo, who placed the knife in front of him. He didn’t know if he was doing it to threaten or to protect himself. She approached and struck him so hard that his body fell onto the table on the other side of the cave. The young man howled as he touched his ribs. He slowly got up, badly wounded. The stairs were within reach of his hand; he yelled at Little Red, hoping to break her trance. The grandmother stretched out her hand and placed it on her granddaughter’s head, demonstrating she was her property, just another object in that grotesque scenario.
He climbed the stairs as fast as his aching body allowed. He was halfway out when a claw dug into his right calf. He screamed so loudly he thought his throat would tear, but instead, it was the ligaments in his leg that were ripped. He managed to get up, and the sunlight showed him the exit door, but he couldn’t abandon Little Red and the girl. If he went out for help, both would be dead before he encountered another human being.
The kitchen, the heart of the house—the long knife Little Red had used to cut the bread minutes earlier was there. He thought about hiding, but the trail of blood from his leg betrayed him. He heard the stairs; someone was coming up. He grabbed a cloth that seemed clean to tie over the wound. He hid the knife in his belt and grabbed the iron poker from the stove. He prepared to attack when he saw a figure ascend through the hole. He felt a knot in his stomach, and a wave of relief, when he saw Little Red appear. She moved slowly, as if she were a sleepwalker, eyes wide open and mind very asleep.
“Come on!” he yelled at her, limping toward the door. “Let’s get out of here!”
“Lobo,” she murmured as she shuffled toward him.
“Let’s get out of here!” he shouted, extending his hand. She took it.
Lobo took a step forward, pulled her toward him, and hugged her tightly, trying to wake her from the daze she was in. The girl clung to him as if he were an anchor in a world of madness. Lobo heard a noise coming from the back of the house; the grandmother was approaching. He grabbed the young woman by the shoulders and tried to push her toward the outside. He didn’t see the red hood move, nor the shining blade that plunged into his ribs.
A group of men heard bloodcurdling screams coming from the thickest part of the forest. A desperate, heart-wrenching voice was crying for help. They responded as one, tearing their skin on the brambles before reaching a clearing. On the ground were two people, a boy and a girl. Little Red’s father ran toward her. The girl’s hands and clothes were stained with fresh blood. She screamed desperately as she stabbed the knife into Lobo’s corpse again and again. The image was grotesque.
“He ate them!” She turned her head toward the men while pointing to a hole in the roots of a tree where, at first glance, there was a bloodied bowl, the missing girl’s hair, and small bones.
The father hugged his daughter in a reassuring embrace, while the others kicked the young man’s bloody body. They gathered the evidence and headed to the village. Between sobs, Little Red narrated that the young man had dragged her there and tried to kill her.
If people hadn’t been so desperate to find a culprit, if they had only focused on the bloodstains, the tear in the boy’s ankle, or the location of the fatal wound, they would have realized the lie. But that was a maddened mob looking for a scapegoat.
Margó washed her daughter’s bloody hair. She observed her skin, her moles, the dirt on her hands. For having fought for her life, she didn’t have a single bruise or scratch. What truly disturbed her was the location where she had been found; it was not an unfamiliar place to her.
When the police arrived in the village, they took Lobo’s desecrated body to display it in the main square, as if they had been the saviors who located the terrible delinquent.
As spirits calmed, Little Red returned along the path. The plants still held putrefying blood residue; it hadn’t rained in those days, and flies were feasting on the clots.
She entered the grandmother’s house, called for her, but she didn’t answer. The cave entrance was open, like a huge stone mouth waiting for its meal to enter by its own will.
She took a breath and prepared for her great test, the one she had been trained for. She had spent years benefiting from her grandmother’s wisdom, cursing her enemies, getting expensive gifts, and seducing whomever she fancied. Everything she had done until that day, from gutting animals to stealing human bones, was for the great lesson, the one that would grant her the power of her lineage.
She descended the stairs and realized the candles were out; only a small lantern cast elongated shadows. On the main stone, there was no one; the girl had disappeared. She felt a pang, an insecurity she had never felt.
“This is the path you have chosen,” she heard a familiar voice from above.
“Mother!”
Before she finished speaking, something heavy wrapped in a red cloak fell into the cave. The fall caused the fabric to shift, revealing part of what it hid. The girl screamed as she recognized the dry, twisted body of her grandmother. The skin was glued to the bones, the eyes popped out of their sockets, and the mouth was open, showing an agonizing pain.
“There will be no more Little Red Riding Hoods.” The entrance was stained red as hundreds of red cloaks fell, some so old the color was unrecognizable, others had golden clasps, embroidered flowers, all different and all with the same meaning.
The stone that sealed the cave began to move. The young woman ran over the mountain of cloaks; each one seemed to tangle around her ankles. The light disappeared as she climbed the steps. She managed to pull her right hand out of the hole, and as she pulled out her left, she felt her mother’s claws.
She used her last caress as she hurled her back into the cave.
The light disappeared.
