Little Red

We all know the story of little red riding hood, but this last summer I heard a stranger tale. We were sitting around the fire, and as the storyteller relayed it, she gestured with an antler she'd found earlier in the underbrush.

The story was one of girls and red hoods and forests that at first appeared familiar. A child went to her grandmother's house in the woods. She was sent there by her parents after a string of terrible nightmares. They told her to listen to her grandmother's words. She journeyed over the river and through the- well you know.

Once she heard growling, and a snarling beast approached, but it stopped, cocked its head and sniffed. As if alerted by a scent of easier prey, it took off through the trees.

The little girl arrived at her grandmother's house and approached the well-etched door. Deep grooves crossed it and the frame it sat in. A strong door, thought the girl. One which kept the wolves at bay. It was ajar, so she pushed inside.

The room was dark and strewn with broken furniture and fur. On the floor near her scraps of cloth fluttered in the fresh breeze. She knelt and gingerly touched one. Calico, with lace. Her grandmother's dress, or one of them.

A wet slapping sound and a snap jolted her. The animal was still there. Then from the shadows a huge furred beast approached, far larger than the wolf on the road.

"Ah pup, you're just in time for dinner. The dreams have started, haven't they?"

As the little girl's eyes adjusted to the gloom she saw the ruined form of a stag behind the beast.