Page 84 of Little Red Riding Hood
Together, they stepped across that invisible line. The forest swallowed them whole, ancient branches creaking overhead like old bones. Their footsteps fell silent on the thick carpet of needles. Even the birds ceased their songs, as if recognising intruders in their midst.
Red pressed closer to Wim, their shoulders touching. Neither spoke. What words could capture the finality of this moment? The knowledge that every step forward brought them closer to choices neither wanted to make.
The darkness wrapped around them, suffocating. Red’s chest ached with each breath, heavy with unspoken confessions andpromises he couldn’t keep. Beside him, Wim’s jaw clenched, his eyes fixed ahead with desperate determination.
They were no longer travellers sharing a path, but star-crossed souls bound by fate’s cruel design. The Dark Forest had claimed them, sealing their separate destinies with each step deeper into its shadows.
“I have a second map,” Red said, his voice very small.
He brought out the crumpled, aged parchment with the map of the Dark Forest inked on it, and unfurled it, the crackling of the yellowed map joining the eerie chorus of the forest. Wim leaned closer, his breath warm against Red’s cheek as they studied the inked trails snaking across the page.
There, nestled between twisting pathways, was a tiny sketch of a cottage. Red’s fingers traced the delicate cursive beneath it—The Witch’s Abode. Despite the miniscule rendering, he couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that simple drawing inspired.
“Doesn’t look too far,” Wim murmured, but the furrow in his brow betrayed his doubt. This forest could easily play tricks on one’s perception—the massive trunks and endless canopy dwarfing any distance marked on paper.
Red’s gaze followed the primary route highlighted in faded red ink. “We head southeast for half a mile, then veer west at… this marking.” He squinted at the strange symbol, a series of slashes that could have indicated anything from a creek to a landslide. “After that, it’s just over a ridge, and we should be able to see Oma’s cottage.”
“Ready?” Wim’s voice was low, the roughness in it betraying his own trepidation.
Red swallowed hard and gave a tight nod. Tucking the map back into his cloak’s inner pocket, he forced his feet to move forward, following the barely visible trail stretching before them.
The simplicity of the directions belied the arduous journey lying ahead. They soon found themselves in an atmosphere so steeped in darkness, it seemed to cling to their skin. Red found himself clutchingthe map tighter, as if the fragile parchment could somehow shield him from the oppressive force surrounding them.
With each step, the world shifted continuously. The towering pines sharpened into twisted silhouettes, their branches gnarled claws scratching at the shadowed sky. Underneath the thick blanket of needles, Red’s boots crunched over fallen twigs and scattered bones—whether animal or otherwise, he couldn’t tell, and didn’t want to know. The forest seemed to breathe around them, inhaling and exhaling with sinister purpose.
Red’s fingers found Wim’s sleeve, gripping the fabric in a white-knuckled hold. He stared resolutely ahead, fighting the urge to glance over his shoulder at whatever terrors lurked behind. Only the solid warmth of Wim’s presence kept his feet moving, one faltering stride after another, into the heart of this cursed wood.
The deeper they ventured, the more Red felt the weight of unseen eyes upon them. The sensation crept up his spine like icy fingers, every hair on his neck standing on end.
“Do you feel that?” Red whispered, his voice barely audible.
Wim’s nostrils flared, his posture stiffening. “We’re being watched.”
A rustling sound came from somewhere to their left, too deliberate to be the wind. Red’s hand instinctively moved to his bow, but before he could nock an arrow, something darted between the trees—a flash of movement in the shadows.
“What was that?” Red hissed.
Wim’s hand shot out, pulling Red behind him. “Stay close.”
The forest floor seemed to writhe under their feet as thick, ropey vines slithered from beneath the carpet of needles. One snaked around Red’s ankle, its grip surprisingly strong for something so seemingly innocuous.
“Wim!” Red gasped, stumbling as the vine tightened.
With a snarl, Wim drew his knife and slashed at the offending tendril, which recoiled with an unnatural hiss. More vines emerged from the shadows, reaching with questing fingers toward them.
“Move!” Wim commanded, slicing through another vine that had wound its way up Red’s calf.
Red’s heart lodged in his throat as they sprinted forward, dodging the grasping vegetation that seemed intent on ensnaring them. The vines retreated after several yards, but the sense of being stalked only intensified.
As they pressed onward, the canopy thickened, steadily choking away the meager light that filtered through.
“Look,” Red whispered, pointing upwards.
Silken strands glistened in the dim, murky twilight that somehow penetrated the dense canopy, stretching from branch to branch in intricate patterns. Not the delicate webs of ordinary spiders, but massive, rope-thick tapestries that hung like ghostly curtains across their path.
“Don’t touch them,” Wim warned, voice low and tense.
The darkness above them shifted, and as Red’s eyes adjusted, he saw them—dozens of tiny pinpricks reflecting what little light remained, like malignant stars scattered across a black velvet sky. Not celestial bodies, but spiders the size of dinner plates, their segmented legs twitching with anticipation. One descended on a silken thread, dangling just above their heads, mandibles clicking wetly.
