Page 85 of Little Red Riding Hood
Red stifled a cry, pressing himself against Wim’s side as they carefully navigated beneath the arachnid sentinels. The creatures tracked their movement, rotating in unison like macabre puppets on invisible strings.
“They’re herding us,” Wim muttered, his free hand resting on his knife. “Driving us deeper.”
“Deeper toward what?” Red’s voice trembled despite his efforts to steady it.
The answer came in the form of a low, wet squelching sound from the path ahead. The forest floor undulated, not with vines this time, but with pale, bloated forms—maggots the length of Red’s forearm, their translucent bodies pulsing as they feasted on something large and recently deceased.
The stench hit them a moment later—the unmistakable reek of putrefaction. Red gagged, pressing his sleeve against his mouth as they skirted the writhing mass. On the ground lay what had once been some sort of animal, now unrecognizable beneath the undulating carpet of scavengers.
“The forest is feeding,” Wim observed grimly. “And we’re trespassing at dinner time.”
A particularly massive maggot raised its blind head toward them, sensing their warmth. It lurched in their direction with surprising speed, leaving a glistening trail of slime in its wake. Wim’s boot came down hard, crushing it with a horrible wet sound. The rest of the brood stirred, disturbed by the death of their kin.
“We need to move,” Wim urged, pulling Red away from the increasingly agitated swarm. “Now.”
They quickened their pace, weaving between the trees as more vines attempted to snare their ankles. The forest was alive with malevolence, each element working in concert to impede their progress or drive them into greater danger.
A low moan echoed through the trees—not wind, but something that mimicked human suffering with chilling accuracy. It was joined by another, then another, until a chorus of phantom wails surrounded them from all sides.
“Ignore it,” Wim growled, his grip on Red’s hand tightening. “This forest plays tricks on the mind. It feeds on fear.”
But Red couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder, half expecting to see ghostly figures pursuing them through the gloom. Instead, he spotted movement at ground level—more of the bloated maggots, following their trail in a grotesque procession.
Red poured all his energy into staying close to Wim, matching each of his quick strides with a wide step of his own. Thank goodness Wim was here with him, that he wasn’t going through this alone.
But with each unsteady breath, with each sidelong glance at Wim, anticipation built within Red.
At what point was their game of ‘pretend’ supposed to end? Was Red going tofinallyget to the house after all this time, only for Wim to push him to the ground then tie him to a tree?
If he made to attack, Red would have to shoot him.
As if you could really do that, you fool.
Red swallowed, clutching Wim’s sleeve even tighter.
Only moments left until you lose him.
Wim must have been thinking the same thing—he tugged Red’s hand off his shirt sleeve to interlace their fingers, squeezing their hands tightly together.
Red squeezed back so hard his joints ached, pouring every unspoken word into that desperate grip. Their fingers remained locked together as they navigated deeper into the Dark Forest’s belly, speaking only in hushed murmurs when absolutely necessary. The forest pressed closer, darker, colder with each step.
They followed the winding path marked on Red’s map, occasionally forced to detour around massive spider webs or pulsating colonies of maggots. Twice more, the sentient vines attempted to ensnare them, Red having to dive and duck out of their reach while Wim slashed at the more persistent tendrils.
The forest constricted around them, the trees growing closer together until they had to turn sideways to slip between the massive trunks. The air grew thick with spores that drifted like snow, coating their clothing in a fine, ashen powder that smelled of grave dirt.
What felt like hours passed in that horrible silent march through the darkness, until a rough, cobblestone path emerged before them—a narrow strip of dead earth winding between rows of black-spotted toadstools. The mushrooms oozed a viscous purple fluid that pooled in the divots of exposed tree roots.
They pressed onward, trusting the path to lead them. The vines grew thicker here, pulsing with a life of their own, retreating just enough to allow passage before closing ranks behind them.
And then, suddenly, the path widened. The oppressive canopy parted just enough to allow a single shaft of sickly green light toilluminate what lay ahead. Bones and trinkets hung from branches on tattered ribbons, clicking together in the stale air like macabre wind chimes.
And at the end of this grotesque gallery…
There it was.
Old Oma’s house:The Witch’s Abode.
The cottage was a hunched, twisted thing with moss-covered walls and a chimney belching dark smoke into the perpetual twilight. Windows like hollow eyes stared back at them, and Red’s stomach lurched at the sight of what looked like bloodstains where a doorstep should have been.
