Page 42 of Little Red Riding Hood (The GriMM Tales #1)
Eighteen
T he following days blurred together like watercolours bleeding across parchment.
Each morning, Red woke tangled in Wim’s arms, savouring the warmth before they packed up camp.
They walked for hours through dappled sunlight, sharing more stories of their lives—Wim’s tales of pack gatherings around bonfires, Red’s memories of sneaking extra tarts from the palace kitchens.
Their laughter echoed through the trees, masking the growing weight in Red’s stomach.
Nights brought Wim’s cooking, the aromas of herbs and roasted meat drawing them close around the fire.
Red found himself mesmerised by Wim’s hands as they chopped vegetables or stirred stews, imagining those same fingers trailing across his skin.
But neither of them pushed for more than gentle touches and shared warmth as they lay beneath the stars.
Perhaps they both knew that crossing that line again would make their inevitable parting even more unbearable.
Wim’s feral sickness continued to threaten to emerge, and Red couldn’t help but notice the gap between his episodes seemed to be shortening.
Red tried not to show his fear when Wim leaned his arm against a tree, breathing deeply while his body trembled.
He’d always try to order Red to move away from him, but Red refused, and would grab Wim’s knuckle-white fist, unfurl it, and slip his hand into his .
Often, holding Red’s hand for a short period would be enough to keep the monster at bay, but on one occasion, Wim left him for an entire day, returning with haunted eyes and blood-soaked hair.
As the forest grew darker and older around them, Red caught Wim inventing reasons to pause their journey.
“Look at these mushrooms—perfect for tonight’s soup.
” Or, “The light’s hitting those leaves just right, let’s rest here a moment.
” Red played along, pointing out interesting birds or claiming his boots needed adjusting.
Collecting flowers for their basket, which he swung as they walked.
Each delay was precious, each moment stored away like treasure.
On their final morning, they came across an absurdly tall tower, stretching into the sky like a giant’s needle piercing the clouds. Dark stone, weathered and ancient, wrapped in thick thorny vines. The tower was surrounded by a circular stone wall, moss-covered and crumbling in places.
They walked the perimeter, searching for an entrance that was not there. On the far side, partially hidden by long grass, a body lay crumpled on the ground. Red rushed forward before Wim could stop him.
“Don’t—” Wim growled, but Red was already kneeling beside the corpse.
It was a drained husk, skin grey and paper-thin, stretched over hollow bones like old parchment. The victim’s mouth gaped in a silent scream, eyes sunken so deep they were barely visible.
“Dark sorcery,” Wim muttered.
As they hurried away, Red stared at the tower’s highest window, but saw no flicker of movement in the darkness.
With the ancient trees of the Dark Forest looming ahead, they moved at a snail’s pace.
Red spotted a blue-winged butterfly and insisted on following it, while Wim discovered three different types of berries that simply had to be sampled.
Neither mentioned how their five-minute breaks stretched into half hours, or how their usual chatter had dwindled to weighted silence .
The trees changed without warning. One moment, Red walked through familiar forest—oak and birch with their welcoming branches.
The next, ancient pines towered overhead, their trunks wider than the palace’s pillars.
Thick, dark moss draped every surface like an infection.
The air grew heavy, tasting of decay and secrets.
Red’s steps faltered. “This is it, then.”
Wim’s fingers brushed against Red’s wrist, a ghost of contact that sent shivers down his spine. “The Dark Forest.”
They stood at the threshold, where vibrant greens faded to muted greys and browns. Even the sunlight seemed hesitant to pierce the canopy overhead, creating a stark line between light and shadow. The border between their journey and its end.
Red’s throat tightened. He reached for his mother’s cloak, clutching the fabric between trembling fingers.
All those nights spent imagining this moment, planning his triumphant march into these feared woods—none of it had prepared him for the reality.
Not just of the forest’s oppressive presence, but of the man beside him.
The way Wim’s warmth called to him like a beacon, even as duty pulled him forward into the darkness.
“We could—” Wim’s voice grew raw. He cleared his throat. “We could rest here. Just one more night.”
Red shook his head, though every part of him screamed to agree. “I couldn’t bear it.”
Together, they stepped across that invisible line. The forest swallowed them whole, ancient branches creaking overhead like old bones. Their footsteps fell silent on the thick carpet of needles. Even the birds ceased their songs, as if recognising intruders in their midst.
Red pressed closer to Wim, their shoulders touching. Neither spoke. What words could capture the finality of this moment? The knowledge that every step forward brought them closer to choices neither wanted to make.
The darkness wrapped around them, suffocating. Red’s chest ached with each breath, heavy with unspoken confessions and promises he couldn’t keep. Beside him, Wim’s jaw clenched, his eyes fixed ahead with desperate determination.
They were no longer travellers sharing a path, but star-crossed souls bound by fate’s cruel design. The Dark Forest had claimed them, sealing their separate destinies with each step deeper into its shadows.
“I have a second map,” Red said, his voice very small.
He brought out the crumpled, aged parchment with the map of the Dark Forest inked on it, and unfurled it, the crackling of the yellowed map joining the eerie chorus of the forest. Wim leaned closer, his breath warm against Red’s cheek as they studied the inked trails snaking across the page.
There, nestled between twisting pathways, was a tiny sketch of a cottage. Red’s fingers traced the delicate cursive beneath it— The Witch’s Abode . Despite the miniscule rendering, he couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that simple drawing inspired.
“Doesn’t look too far,” Wim murmured, but the furrow in his brow betrayed his doubt. This forest could easily play tricks on one’s perception—the massive trunks and endless canopy dwarfing any distance marked on paper.
Red’s gaze followed the primary route highlighted in faded red ink.
“We head southeast for half a mile, then veer west at… this marking.” He squinted at the strange symbol, a series of slashes that could have indicated anything from a creek to a landslide.
“After that, it’s just over a ridge, and we should be able to see Oma’s cottage. ”
“Ready?” Wim’s voice was low, the roughness in it betraying his own trepidation.
Red swallowed hard and gave a tight nod. Tucking the map back into his cloak’s inner pocket, he forced his feet to move forward, following the barely visible trail stretching before them.
The simplicity of the directions belied the arduous journey lying ahead.
They soon found themselves in an atmosphere so steeped in darkness, it seemed to cling to their skin.
Red found himself clutching the map tighter, as if the fragile parchment could somehow shield him from the oppressive force surrounding them.
With each step, the world shifted continuously.
The towering pines sharpened into twisted silhouettes, their branches gnarled claws scratching at the shadowed sky.
Underneath the thick blanket of needles, Red’s boots crunched over fallen twigs and scattered bones—whether animal or otherwise, he couldn’t tell, and didn’t want to know.
The forest seemed to breathe around them, inhaling and exhaling with sinister purpose.
Red’s fingers found Wim’s sleeve, gripping the fabric in a white-knuckled hold.
He stared resolutely ahead, fighting the urge to glance over his shoulder at whatever terrors lurked behind.
Only the solid warmth of Wim’s presence kept his feet moving, one faltering stride after another, into the heart of this cursed wood.
The deeper they ventured, the more Red felt the weight of unseen eyes upon them. The sensation crept up his spine like icy fingers, every hair on his neck standing on end.
“Do you feel that?” Red whispered, his voice barely audible.
Wim’s nostrils flared, his posture stiffening. “We’re being watched.”
A rustling sound came from somewhere to their left, too deliberate to be the wind. Red’s hand instinctively moved to his bow, but before he could nock an arrow, something darted between the trees—a flash of movement in the shadows.
“What was that?” Red hissed.
Wim’s hand shot out, pulling Red behind him. “Stay close.”
The forest floor seemed to writhe under their feet as thick, ropey vines slithered from beneath the carpet of needles. One snaked around Red’s ankle, its grip surprisingly strong for something so seemingly innocuous.
“Wim!” Red gasped, stumbling as the vine tightened.
With a snarl, Wim drew his knife and slashed at the offending tendril, which recoiled with an unnatural hiss. More vines emerged from the shadows, reaching with questing fingers toward them .
“Move!” Wim commanded, slicing through another vine that had wound its way up Red’s calf.
Red’s heart lodged in his throat as they sprinted forward, dodging the grasping vegetation that seemed intent on ensnaring them. The vines retreated after several yards, but the sense of being stalked only intensified.
As they pressed onward, the canopy thickened, steadily choking away the meager light that filtered through.
“Look,” Red whispered, pointing upwards.