Page 88 of Little Red Riding Hood
A massive stone hearth dominated the left wall, its flames casting wild shadows across rough-hewn wooden beams. The air held an odd sweetness—like rotting fruit mixed with burning herbs—and Red fought the urge to cover his nose. Dried plants hung from the ceiling in dense clusters, their shapes unfamiliar and twisted. Scattered around the room stood wooden tables laden with glass jars containing things that made Red’s stomach turn: eyeballs floating in murky liquid, what looked like human teeth, and writhing shadows that seemed alive.
Wim leaned in to whisper, “Stay close,” his breath warm against Red’s ear.
A creaking sound drew their attention to the far corner. There, barely visible in the flickering firelight, a rocking chair swayed back and forth. Red could make out a figure seated in it, but darknessclung to them like a second skin, refusing to reveal more than a vague outline.
He couldn’t shoot that—he had no idea of where the heart lay.
The floorboards beneath their feet gave soft groans of protest with each step. As they drew closer, the sweet-rot smell grew stronger.
The figure in the chair continued its gentle rocking, paying them no mind. Yet Red felt watched—studied—as if countless invisible eyes tracked their every movement.
“Come closer, my dears.” The voice slithered through the air like oil on water.
Red’s fingers tightened on his bow as he took another step forward, the golden arrow trained steady. His palms felt slick with sweat, but the countless hours of practice would keep his aim true.
A cackle burst from the rocking chair—a sound that raised every hair on Red’s body. It pierced his ears like broken glass, echoing off the cottage walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.
The figure sprang up with unnatural speed, and Red’s breath caught in his throat. She stood before them, a woman whose age seemed to shift with each blink. Her grey hair writhed like living smoke around a face that appeared both ancient and ageless. Her skin reminded Red of old parchment—thin and yellowed—with strange symbols that seemed to move beneath its surface. But it was her eyes that made his blood run cold. One was completely white, like fresh snow, yet somehow fixed directly on him.
Those unseeing eyes studied him with an intensity that made his skin crawl. Her head tilted at an impossible angle, a predatory bird examining its prey.
This is it.The moment he’d travelled so far for. The Queen’s words echoed in his mind…“Straight through the heart.”
Red drew back his bowstring. No hesitation. No doubt. The golden arrow gleamed in the firelight as he aimed directly at her heart.
Now, Red!
Old Oma threw back her head and erupted into hysterical laughter. The sound bounced off the walls, not the malicious cackle of an evil witch, but the sound of someone who’d found something very, very funny.
But Red steadied his aim, finger tensing on the bowstring. The golden arrow yearned to fly, its metal surface catching the firelight in mesmerising patterns.
“Wait!” Wim’s hand shot out, pushing Red’s bow toward the ground.
Red spun to face him, rage bubbling up. “What are you doing?” Had Wim changed his mind? Did he want to eat her heart after all?
“Wait!” Wim’s eyes were wide, darting between Red and the witch. “Look at her eyes.”
“What?” Red blinked, confusion replacing his anger. “What do you mean, her eyes?”
But even as he protested, Red found himself taking a step closer to Old Oma.
He saw it, then—her mismatched eyes.
One as white as snow, the pupil bleached to nothing, like looking into a frozen lake.
The other, a deep, hazelnut brown, flecked with the smallest hints of amber.
The pair of them fixed on him with an intensity that made his breath catch. The longer he stared, the more familiar that brown eye seemed, like looking into a mirror that showed only half his face.
Old Oma’s laughter grew more hysterical, her entire body shaking with it. She wheezed, clutching her sides, tears streaming down her weathered cheeks. The sound filled every corner of the cottage, bouncing off walls and echoing in Red’s skull until he could barely think.
Without warning, she lunged forward. Red’s bow slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor as her bony fingers clamped around both his arms. She shook him hard enough to make his teeth rattle, her face inches from his own.
A deep growl ripped through the cottage. “Take your filthy hands off him!” Wim thundered, the words echoing off the walls.
But Old Oma paid him no mind. She released Red’s arms only to grasp the edges of his cloak, running the fabric between her fingers with a reverence that made his stomach twist. Her weathered face transformed as wonder bloomed in her eyes.
“My son! My son!” She pressed the red fabric to her face, inhaling deeply. “My baby!”
