What will you do if fate twisted your destiny? Would you run, or walk the bloody path?
Children's tales are often thought to be innocent stories for bedtime—a lullaby for the imagination. But Little Red Riding Hood is no fairy tale. Beneath its charming façade lies a twisted truth soaked in blood and terror.
It began in the 1800s when Little Red Riding Hood became a sensation. Heilbert Forester Jr., the story's author, was a genius, his words captivating audiences across Europe. The tale of a girl, a wolf, and a savior seemed harmless, a reflection of morality wrapped in a thrilling narrative.
But as its fame spread, so did its influence. Children were enamored. They wore red hoods, played in the woods, and whispered the wolf's name as if calling to something unseen. Then, the vanishings began.
One by one, children disappeared. Three days later, their bodies were found mutilated beneath the gnarled oak tree in the woods.
Skin flayed clean from arms and legs.
Fingers snapped backward, claws etched into the dirt.
Empty sockets where eyes once glimmered.
Chests hollowed, hearts missing.
Each child was draped in a crimson hood, soaked in their own blood a haunting mimicry of Heilbert’s story.
The town's suspicions turned to the Forester family, their mansion looming over the cursed village. Heilbert denied any connection, claiming he merely wrote stories. But unease grew into fury when a maid fled the mansion, screaming of horrors hidden within.
The maid spoke of a basement beneath the estate
Bloodied hooks dangled from the ceiling.
Shelves lined with jars of severed fingers, small hearts, and lifeless eyes.
A metallic altar, etched with runes, its surface slick with fresh blood.
She described Heilbert cradling a severed head, whispering to shadows about "feeding the wolf."
The maid's words were her death sentence. The night she fled, her mutilated body was found hanging from the oak tree, intestines spilling from a jagged wound. Her red hood was nailed to her skull, a grim crown atop her lifeless face.
Fueled by terror and rage, the villagers stormed the Forester mansion. The grand doors shattered under their assault. Inside, the stench of rot and blood permeated every corner.
They found Heilbert in the basement, standing before the altar. Six children's bodies lay around him, their small forms desecrated, their blood pooling at his feet. Heilbert’s eyes glowed with madness as he turned to the mob.
“I wrote their stories!” he bellowed. “Their fear gives life to the wolf! It must be fed!”
Before the villagers could seize him, Heilbert plunged a dagger into his own throat. Blood sprayed across the altar as he collapsed, choking on his final laugh.
A guttural howl tore through the room, shaking the walls. The villagers fled, dragging the children’s remains behind them. They burned the mansion to the ground, hoping to bury the evil.
But evil does not burn so easily.
The killings continued. Decades later, children still vanished, their bodies found beneath the cursed oak tree. Each bore the same wounds, each wore a crimson hood.
Hunters spoke of a hulking beast in the woods, its red eyes glowing like embers. Travelers whispered of ghostly laughter, of shadowy figures in red hoods that vanished into the trees.
A century after Heilbert’s death, his unpublished manuscripts were uncovered. The pages described rituals to summon "The Devourer," an ancient wolf-like entity that thrived on pain and terror. Heilbert had not created a tale—he had uncovered a truth.
The oak tree became a monument of fear, its roots soaked in the blood of innocents. To this day, it stands as a warning.
If you dare to venture near, you might hear whispers in the wind. A child’s giggle, sweet at first, then guttural and malevolent. You might see small figures in red hoods, their hollow eye sockets oozing blood.
And if you stand too close, you’ll hear a voice a growl, low and guttural.
“Little one… the wolf is hungry. Will you stay and play?”
"This is no bedtime story. This is Little Red Riding Hood, the bloody path you were never meant to walk." - Xhel
