Red Riding Hood

Table of Contents

The warm, sweet scent of fresh bread and pastries drifted through the little village every morning, curling into every home and coaxing people toward the small bakery at the center of town. The sign above the shop, painted in cheerful reds and golds, read simply: Red’s Oven. It was a name that carried decades of trust and comfort, though most villagers knew it as the place where the girl with the bright red scarf worked.

That girl was Red, real name Clarissa, but almost no one called her that anymore. The scarf had been her grandmother’s, a gift from before she could even remember, and she wore it every day, no matter the weather. She wasn’t the baker—that was her parents’ craft. Her role was deliveries and errands, a job she had taken on at the age of ten. Now, six years later, she could navigate every winding path, hidden alley, and shaded woodland trail within miles of the village without a second thought.

Everyone liked Red. She was polite but not timid, diligent but never arrogant. The villagers often waved when she passed, sometimes pressing coins into her palm with a whispered request to

“just bring me a little extra something with the usual order.”

She never failed them. That morning was no different—except for one thing. The shop bell jingled, and in walked a young man the locals called Wolf. Nobody knew if that was his real name or a nickname, but the moniker suited him. He had a certain sharpness about him—angular cheekbones, dark eyes that studied people a little too intently, and a slow, easy smile that seemed to promise mischief. Some people liked him; others avoided him without being able to explain why. He leaned on the counter, tapping it idly with long fingers.

“A dozen blueberry pies,”

He said, his voice smooth and almost lazy.

“For my grandmother. She lives right at the edge of town.”

Red’s mother, kneading dough at the back, called out that the pies would be ready by tomorrow morning. Wolf didn’t haggle or ask for anything strange—he just pulled a handful of coins from his pocket, placed them on the counter, and smiled.

“Tell the girl in the scarf to bring them,”

He said, his eyes flicking briefly to Red before he turned and walked out.

The next day dawned clear, the air warm with the faint promise of summer. Red’s deliveries were packed in two neat baskets: one with the dozen blueberry pies for Wolf’s grandmother, and the other with various breads, rolls, and sweet pastries for the rest of her customers. She began with the ones in the village, knocking on doors, exchanging pleasantries, and occasionally staying for a brief chat. By late afternoon, only one delivery remained. She slung the second basket over her arm and began the walk toward the forested edge of town, where Wolf’s grandmother’s cottage supposedly stood.

On the outskirts, she spotted a familiar figure—broad-shouldered, with a woodcutter’s axe slung over his back. It was the woodsman, a quiet man in his thirties who often stopped by the bakery for tea cakes.

“Afternoon, Red,”

He greeted.

“Where you headed?”

“To Wolf’s grandmother’s cottage,”

He said, smiling. He frowned slightly but didn’t comment, simply saying,

“I’m headed that way for firewood. We can walk together.”

The forest canopy filtered the sunlight into long, dappled streaks. They walked in companionable silence until the trail split. The woodsman nodded toward a dense thicket.

“I’ll cut through here. Cottage is just ahead stay safe.”

Red waved and continued down the path until she saw the cottage: small, weathered, and leaning slightly, with smoke curling from the chimney. The front door was ajar. She knocked lightly.

Wolf appeared almost immediately, smiling in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Red,”

He said warmly.

“Grandma’s out in the backyard, tending to her garden. Come in, just set the basket on the table. She’ll be so happy to see these.”

Something about the way he stepped aside made her hesitate—but she was used to trusting people. She stepped inside. The cottage smelled faintly of herbs and something metallic. The table was bare, save for a single unlit candle. She moved toward it, adjusting the weight of the basket.

Then, without warning, a hand shoved hard against her shoulder. She stumbled, the basket tipping, pies tumbling across the floor. Wolf’s voice was no longer warm.

“You know,”

He said softly,

“you shouldn’t walk into people’s homes so easily.”

Her stomach knotted in fear as his shadow fell over her. He moved quickly, grabbing her by the scarf and pulling her toward the wall. She gasped, twisting, but his grip was iron. Inside, Red’s heartbeat thundered in her ears. Wolf forced her to the ground, his intent horrifyingly clear. She fought, clawing at his hands, kicking, but he was stronger. His breath was hot against her cheek when. A crash. The door slammed open so hard it struck the wall. The woodsman stood there, axe in hand, eyes blazing with fury. He took in the scene in a fraction of a second. Red screamed his name.

Wolf turned, but too slowly. The axe came down in a blur of steel and rage. It struck Wolf with such force that it split him cleanly, the sound wet and final. For a moment, the only sound was Red’s sobbing. The woodsman dropped the axe and crossed the room, pulling her gently to her feet. She clung to him, trembling, the scent of blood heavy in the air.

“Come on,”

He said, voice low but urgent.

“We’re leaving.”

They walked back through the forest in silence. Red’s scarf was stained, her hands shaking too much to hold the basket. The woodsman carried it instead, though most of the pies were ruined.

By the time they reached the village, word had already begun to spread. The woodsman went straight to the bakery with her, ignoring curious stares. Her parents rushed forward, pulling her into their arms, demanding to know what happened. The woodsman told them in blunt, unsparing words. Her father’s face darkened. Her mother’s hands clenched into fists. They thanked the woodsman over and over, but he only shook his head.

“No thanks needed. Just… be careful. People aren’t always what they seem.”

That night, Red lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The events replayed in her mind, each detail sharp: the look in Wolf’s eyes, the smell in the cottage, the sudden swing of the axe. She should have felt safe now—but she didn’t. The forest path, once familiar and welcoming, felt different in her memory. Darker. More dangerous. She wondered if Wolf’s grandmother had ever existed at all. And somewhere, deep down, she knew one thing: she would never walk alone to the edge of town again.