Once upon that same time, a little girl went into the woods.

Little girls go into the woods all the time. They go there to pick berries or to dangle their feet in cool, clear streams. They go there to play hide-and-seek, though they can’t say who they are hiding from or what they are seeking. They go there to make a burrow for themselves and find special hidden places where they think they could maybe live forever. Little girls go into the woods because the woods are wild places, and little girls are told they must never be wild.

But the woods like wild things, and so little girls like the woods. Woods keep the secrets that adults force little girls to have. And many little girls know, deep in their darkest heart space where no one else can ever see, something no one else does:

They are actually monsters.

There’s nothing wrong with that. But it can be hard to be a monster when everyone tells you that you are the opposite. All the monster parts of you—the anger, the wildness, the hunger for more—are parts you have to keep hidden.

And so little girls go into the woods. Sometimes they leave their little heart monsters behind in their burrows in the woods, and come out again to grow up and be exactly what they are told they are.

Sometimes they are consumed by their little heart monsters and never really come out of the woods again. People cluck their tongues and whisper about the tragedy, but they don’t really mind because there are enough nice, quiet, proper little girls to comfort them.

But sometimes, a little girl goes into the woods with a secret heart monster, and she comes back out a monster with a secret little girl heart.

I think those are the best kind, don’t you?

And at this particular time, in this particular forest, the little girl going into the woods wore a long red cloak. It fastened with a ribbon bow around her neck, and had a hood that went up over her hair and draped her face in deep shadows. She loved that hood. It made her feel mysterious. Peering out through it at the world, she pretended she carried secrets in her basket.

What she actually carried was far more boring than secrets. Some bread, some cold chicken, a bit of cake, a cork-topped glass bottle of lemonade, and some porridge from the stupid castle. Surely a castle could send better food than porridge.

“Now, Jill, take it straight to your grandmother,” her mother had sternly cautioned. “Stay on the path. And no dillydallying about! You are still in a lot of trouble for what you did to Jack, young lady.”

The little girl pulled her cloak down lower over her face. Jack hadn’t gotten in trouble for kicking her out of her own bed and making her sleep on the floor. Jack never got in trouble for climbing on things, or shouting, or knocking all the heads off the flowers with a stick. Jack never got in trouble for bragging or spitting or pushing.

She was not one bit sorry for pushing him into the well. And that was part of why she was being punished so much. You and I know that parents want to see that you feel bad for what you did. If she could have worked up some remorseful tears or written a flowery apology letter, she would probably have been off the hook. But she just couldn’t do it.

She was always in trouble anyway, for something ridiculous like talking too loud, or eating too much, or laughing too brightly. Even her face got her in trouble for looking too smart, or too mean, or too sullen.

She liked being too. She didn’t want to stop.

Her stomach growled. She growled back at it.

And then the woods growled, too.

Startled, she stopped. The path stretched ahead of her. It was clear and precise, bordered by a heavy wall of trees on both sides. The branches crowded overhead, clawing at the sky over the path. The trees seemed to hint that they would love to grab the path and drag it away. And the little girl thought she’d like the woods better with no path.

The little girl looked to her right. The gloom of the forest hung heavy and green, impenetrable after a few feet. But, over to the left, past snaking roots and between massive trunks, the sun broke through to illuminate a small clearing filled with flowers. A large flat rock was in the center. Nature had prepared for a picnic.

“Don’t ever leave the path,” her mother cautioned in her memory. “It’s too dangerous.”

But the little girl liked too.

She clambered over the roots, tugging her cloak free when it snagged on a branch. She could still see the path from the clearing. She was still safe.

Or so she thought.

She seated herself on the flat rock, then took out her grandmother’s food and examined it. The cake couldn’t be eaten without leaving evidence. She had no fork, and bite marks would show. Same with the chicken. It was so neatly sliced that even tearing a piece off would be obvious. The bread was a whole loaf, which would also give away her crime.

She was really very angry with her mother.

But the porridge …

She didn’t have a spoon. The porridge was a big glop in a bowl with a cover on it. She stuck her finger in the middle experimentally. When she pulled it out, the porridge slowly settled back to fill it in.

(Oh dear. Please don’t, little girl.)

She smiled, took a huge handful, and shoved it in her mouth.

(I feel a bit sick, don’t you? I wish she knew what we know about that porridge.)

It was … not good. Really not good. (So much worse than not good, poor thing.) She gagged, but she had eaten it so fast she accidentally swallowed some. She thought it must have gone bad, which would explain why the castle had given it out for free.

Angry that her rebellious picnic had been ruined, she slammed the lid back on the bowl. She couldn’t even open the lemonade to try to get the taste out of her mouth. So she was understandably quite annoyed when a wolf stepped into the clearing with a growling sneer.

“What do you want?” she snapped.

The wolf was taken aback. He was not used to that sort of greeting. “Augh!” he got a lot. “Oh no!” was quite common. “Watch out for the arghhguggleunghhhhh” was one of his favorites. But “What do you want?” was not something he had a ready answer for.

“That isn’t how a little girl says hello, now, is it?” the wolf asked in his friendliest voice. It was about as friendly as a chain saw, but he did try.

“Well, I’m a little girl, and it’s how I said hello, so I guess it is exactly how a little girl says hello.” She crossed her arms and glared at the wolf. He was long and lean, with a great bushy tail and large yellow eyes.

He laughed. It sounded like the garbage disposal catching on a spoon. And when he finished laughing, he licked his big, sharp teeth. They were nearly as yellow as his eyes. “I suppose you are right. What’s your name?”

The little girl did not want to tell him her name. She didn’t even particularly like her name. The only thing her mother had ever given her that she liked was her cloak. So she said, “My name is Red Riding Hood.”

The wolf laughed again. It was not meant to be a joke, and Red Riding Hood was indignant. Also, her stomach was beginning to hurt.

“Well, Little Red Riding Hood, where are you off to on this fine day?”

“I’m going to visit my grandmother.”

The wolf’s eyes widened and his tongue lolled out, long and delicately pink. He was a very lean wolf, as I had mentioned. And he was hungry. Very, very hungry. For some reason all the little animals in the forest had been missing lately. And he kept finding odd tracks on the ground, like something … slithering around. He had never eaten people before, but he was getting desperate. One little girl would make a fine meal, but one little girl and one grandmother would make a better one, don’t you think?

Well, I hope you don’t think so. You shouldn’t be eating little girls or grandmothers. It was a rhetorical question the wolf was asking himself, so you shouldn’t answer it. But he definitely did think so.

“And where does your grandmother live?” he asked.

Red Riding Hood gestured irritably down the path. “That way.” Her stomach felt very bad now, and it was starting to radiate outward. She thought she might throw up, but she didn’t want to do it with an audience. Especially a wolf audience.

“Listen,” she said, annoyed and in pain. “Are you going to eat me? Because I think I’m going to be sick and I don’t want to sit around chatting.” She took out the glass lemonade bottle and smashed the bottom off against the rock. It left a jagged edge, and she held it between herself and the wolf’s teeth. Her mother would have said it was too aggressive.

The wolf considered it. He could almost certainly still win. He was a monster, after all, and she was just a little girl.

But it wasn’t ideal. If he ate Little Red Riding Hood now, he’d have a very full stomach. That would make the run to her grandmother’s house decidedly uncomfortable. And she might succeed in injuring him, which was something predators avoid at all costs. He really wished she were just a little girl like she was supposed to be, instead of too much more.

But the old woman was in a nice, comfy house, and she was expecting a visitor. So she would be very likely to open the door without a fuss. He could eat her at his leisure, and then have a cushy resting place while he awaited Little Red Riding Hood.

And Little Red Riding Hood certainly wouldn’t be armed when she went into her beloved grandmother’s house.

The wolf sat on his haunches and scratched innocently at his ear with his back paw. “Oh, no, I would never eat such an ill-mannered little girl. You’re much too feisty for me.”

“I like being too,” Red Riding Hood grumbled.

“Have a lovely day.” The wolf swept his head low like he was bowing to her, and then trotted off into the trees. As soon as Little Red Riding Hood could no longer see him, he changed direction.

You know where he’s going and what he’ll do when he gets there, so let’s stay to keep poor, sick Red Riding Hood company.

Red Riding Hood leaned over and threw up, splattering the stone that had been such a charming picnic table.

Well, gross. On second thought, let’s skip forward a bit.

Hmm. She’s still throwing up.

Still … wait, no, I think she’s done now!

Oh dear, I spoke too soon.

Skipping forward a bit more, Little Red Riding Hood was back on the path where she should have been all along. She stumbled instead of skipped now. Her sour stomach had turned to a sort of icy numbness that was spreading through her whole body. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead beneath her cloak, and she shivered.

It was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. She had even forgotten the picnic basket, left behind in the clearing. Her thoughts were sluggish and unfocused. Grandma’s house, she repeated to herself over and over. She knew she needed to get to Grandma’s house, and then things would be okay.

She was too tired, and too sick, and too woozy to think of anything else. She didn’t like these toos at all.

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 noticed she had bitten him. He scrambled away from her, looking in horror at the no-longer-secret monster she was. “But you’re just a little girl!” he shouted. “This can’t be happening!”

People are always underestimating little girls in the woods. He ran back in to pick up the ax, but his steps got slow and heavy as the bite mark throbbed and turned cold.

It was already too late.

Little Dead Riding Hood still loved too.