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She had been shambling along without paying attention to where she was, and her grandmother’s house appeared in front of her so quickly that she bumped into the door. But now that she was here, she remembered she wanted to go inside.
She knocked.
“Come in,” a rough voice called. Something about it was wrong, but in her hazy, sick brain she couldn’t quite figure out what it was. So she opened the door and went inside.
The house was dim, all the shutters closed. The fire was out, too. If Red Riding Hood weren’t so sick, she would know that meant something was wrong. Her grandmother liked to keep the cottage a few degrees below roasting. Once, a chicken wandered in from the yard, and by the time it walked to the table, it was almost fully cooked.
But Red Riding Hood was cold. Very cold. She kept her cloak on.
“Come here, my child,” a voice crooned from her grandmother’s bed, which took up the whole center of the cottage.
It was so dark, and her eyes weren’t working quite right. But Red Riding Hood knew, deep in the part of her brain that was still functioning, that something was … different. Grandmother had always been thin and tiny, but now her body stretched too far beneath the cover of her quilt. Her knit cap fit strangely, with two large ears sticking out. And she held the blanket up over her nose and mouth.
But it wasn’t the way her grandmother looked that was so troubling. It was that tantalizing smell …
“Why, Grandma,” Red Riding Hood said, her voice low and creaking like old rotting wood crunching beneath a foot, “what big eyes you have.”
“The better to see you with, my dear.”
“Why, Grandma,” Red Riding Hood said, her mouth beginning to water for some reason, “what big ears you have.” She shuffled forward until she hit the edge of the bed.
“The better to hear you with, my dear.” Her “grandmother” let out that garbage-disposal laugh, then covered it up by pretending to cough. Very soon the wolf knew Red Riding Hood would comment on his teeth, and then he’d get to be clever and well-fed. This was the best day of his life.
“Why, Grandma,” Red Riding Hood said, leaning much too close over the bed, “what delicious brains you have.”
“The better to—wait, what?” The wolf sat up, dropping the blanket. “No, that’s not what you’re supposed to say. You’re supposed to notice my teeth, and then I’m going to say, ‘The better to eat you with,’ and then you’ll scream that delightful little-girl scream, and I’ll gobble you up.”
“Gobble,” Red Riding Hood said, a thin stream of drool escaping her mouth.
“Yes, that’s right, I’m going to eat you, but first I’d like—”
“Eat you,” Red Riding Hood said.
“Yes, I know, you can stop repeating everything I say, it’s getting annoying.”
“Eat you,” Red Riding Hood said again. Her hood fell back and a shiver went down the wolf’s spine.
He swallowed nervously. “My, little girl, what red eyes you have.”
Red Riding Hood said nothing.
“My, little girl, what gray skin you have.”
Red Riding Hood said nothing.
“My, little girl, what sharp nails you have.”
Red Riding Hood said nothing.
“My, little girl, what strong teeth you have!”
The better to eat you with, my dear, I say as we turn away from the horrific scene of gore and gorging that followed. But you can still hear a wolfish scream cut short, bones crunched, and finally, the particular squelching sound a brain makes when it is being eaten.
The front door burst open. A tall, strong woodsman stood, framed in the light, with an ax at his side. “I’m here to save you!” he shouted.
He rushed to the bedside and grabbed Little Red Riding Hood, carrying her out of the house and setting her on the ground. “You shouldn’t be in the woods! Little girls don’t belong out here.” He posed, hands on hips, the sunlight behind him lighting his lustrous hair in shining chestnut shades. He looked like an advertisement for paper towels. She didn’t seem to appreciate it, and he frowned, annoyed. “And you should smile when I talk to you, and say ‘thank you.’ I saved you.”
It was then that he
