31 Red Riding Drive



 Three furry fingers, thick and matted with blood, curled around the frame of the kitchen door. The nails on each finger tapped rhythmically, purposefully, as though it knew the sounds would bring prey.



 Outside the wind had settled to no more than a light breeze. The snow had been heavy at first, but now it came down only in flurries every few minutes or so.

 The kitchen door eased open. Those long, startling fingers trailed like spiders over the key and slipped it off, dropping it to the tiled floor with a resounding clatter.

 The little girl came down the stairs, her footsteps muffled by her pink bunny slippers. The kitchen lay no more than thirty feet away, and once she crossed the hallway there would be no way back.



 The kitchen door is pushed all the way open, creaking on its old hinges. If the little girl had kept the backdoor locked like she promised, the creature now lurking behind it would not be inside, just behind the glass panelling.

 ‘Hello?’ the little girl says into the darkness.

 The creature’s ears prick at the sounds. It stops and listens.

 ‘Who is it?’ the little girl asks, and takes a tentative step inside the kitchen.

 She is a brave child, born strong willed and honest; curiously she is also blind.

 If the creature knew this, would it attack? It could smell her now, her sweet scent drifting invisibly from her body into its mouth and snout. It caresses the beast’s desires for blood and a long line of drool hangs down from its open mouth.

 ‘I’m not afraid of you!’ the child says. ‘I can’t see you but I don’t fear you, either.’ She takes another, more confident step into the kitchen.

 ‘If you kill me, you kill me,’ she says. ‘But if you leave now, no one loses.’

 This is not true of course; the creature’s belly is empty. It growls.

 ‘Stay where you are!’ the girl demands. ‘I am not afraid of you!’

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> The beast moves into frame, though the little girl sees only blackness. But she can smell it, that foul rotten stench of death and decay.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> The thing looks like a wolf, and she knows this by the way it sniffs around the room. Her eyes do not work, but her ears work better than most. The slapping of the beast’s long tongue against its furry chin, the way its tail swishes from side to side, knocking against the island in the middle of the kitchen. She hears its harsh breath, almost like a dog, but less kind, more threatening. She hears its feet, hard and rough on the tiles, its long pointed toenails scraping across the floor.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> When it growls a second time, she is convinced this thing before her is a werewolf. Her heart sinks, but she shows no clear terror to this intruder. Instead she laughs at it.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> The werewolf halts, lowers its jowl and opens its long, snouted mouth. Rows upon rows of razor teeth glisten in the moonlit kitchen, but the little girl sees nothing. She imagines its nothing more dangerous than a puppy.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt">

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> The werewolf howls, a blood-curdling sound so intense the little girl shivers. At six years old she is suddenly acting very mature.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> The thing grabs her by the nighty and lifts her up until she is flat against the ceiling, her legs dangling down, left foot brushing against the monster’s pointed, hairy ears.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> ‘Kill me then,’ she whispers, tears forming in her eyes.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> A flash of light.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> The girl sees nothing.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> Suddenly she is on the tiles, her face smacking down hard as she lands.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> The light switch behind her has been flicked, she hears. Footsteps rushing through the house, a gunshot, a howl.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> A window smashes somewhere in the house, probably the living room. Then silence falls over her, washing away all other sounds.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> The little girl is still lying on the ground when a man comes into the kitchen. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> ‘Yes,’ she says softly.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> ‘It got away,’ the man says.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> ‘I know,’ the little girl replies.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> ‘Did it bite you?’ the man enquires, and she hears him reload the gun he must be holstering.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> ‘No,’ she says.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> The man sounds relieved. ‘That’s good. You’re parents have been contacted, they’ll be here soon.’

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> The little girl nods and hopes the man sees it. She stands, turns in the direction of his voice and asks, ‘Was it a werewolf?’

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> ‘I don’t know, honey. We never really saw it.’

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> She nods. She knows it was a werewolf.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> The man takes her up to bed and leaves her in the bedroom.

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt"> She lay awake most of the night. The same thought recycles through her mind over and over again and now she trembles with fear:

<p style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt">'' It has my scent. It will come back. ''