PENNY DREADFUL || Little Red Riding Hood

A waxing moon wades its way across the starlit sky, starting its journey from the foot of the Margaride Mountain Range. It rises over the hilltops and casts its pale gaze on the canopy of Mercoire Forest. Milky moonbeams filter through the gnarled branches, seeping past the windows of the small, secluded cottage like a spectral poison.

“They want to replace me?” By the flickering fireplace, a young man clutches a royal notice in one hand, gnashing his teeth before hurling it in. “They want to fucking replace me.”

The royal decree is worded with the appropriate politeness, informing Roan that they will be sending an additional huntsman to his stakeout to provide ‘assistance’. However, Roan knows that just like First Captain Duhamel of the Clermont Prince Dragoons, it’s only a matter of time before ‘assistance’ turns into ‘standing down’.

“Fucking hell. At least Duhamel had a good head on his shoulders, organizing large hunting parties.” Roan stands agitatedly, pacing in front of the fireplace with furrowed brows. “And who did they bring in instead? The d’Ennevals, that pair of father-son fools with their eight bloodhounds. Came preaching that it could ‘only be shot with stealthy methods’. Deserved their deaths, the both of them.”

Even as he paces, Roan tries not to take his frustration out on any of the furnishings or décor. He’s been absent from his grandma’s cottage for ten years, yet his fondness for his childhood spent here has never faded. Upon arriving a decade later, he has meticulously dusted, cleaned and repaired the dilapidated abode.

Unfortunately, no matter how much Roan wants to return to the sweetness of the past, it’s impossible. For instance, no matter how hard Roan scrubs – and scrub he did, till his hands were peeling – the bloodstains on the bedroom floorboards just won’t budge.

“After that was François Antoine...” Roan reminisces, giving a small, dry chuckle as he recalls the sheer stupidity. “King’s sole arquebus bearer, Lieutenant of the Hunt... all those fames, titles and awards only to be upstaged by a village servant-girl and her spear.”

It’s been ten years since the incident. A decade. Roan remembers it like it was yesterday.

By the time he arrived with a basket of baked goods at his grandma’s cottage, she was already half-ingested by a nightmarish figure. Whatever inedible parts remained of her were strewn across the cottage – a spinal cord over there, an intestinal tract over there.

Roan stood, frozen, as the man rose, giving a wicked grin drenched with thick, dripping red. Slowly, Roan watched as he transformed. Teeth, claws, eyes. Then, the beast lunged. Bit. Tore. Roan could feel the grind of its jaw against his throat, the mangy scent of its fur mixed with his own blood, the low growl of pleasure as it watched his life drain.

A swing. A chop. A howl of pain.

The beast was chased into shadows by an axe-wielding woodsman, and Roan was left was drag his dying body to the nearest settlement. He survived. Lived to tell the tale. The Count of Gevaudan called for prayers and penance, calling it a scourge sent by God to punish mankind. Nonetheless, even after three consecutive Sundays observing the Forty Hours’ Devotion, the attacks continued.

Jacques Portefaix and seven children from the village of Villaret drove away the beast in one such attack and were awarded 650 livres to split equally and an education at the state’s expense. Others were not so lucky. Three months after the attacks began, the people of Le Malzieu buried a twelve-year-old girl who had been torn limb from limb by the beast.

It was this death that marked the royal decree of finding and slaying the creature. First Captain Duhamel, the d’Ennevals, François Antoine...

“Made a whole bunch of fanfare, didn’t you? And what did you bring back? WHAT DID YOU FUCKING BRING BACK!?” Roan’s shouting now, spittle flying as he slams his hands down on the dining table. “A wolf. Ha. Haha. A fucking wolf. Oh, fuck you and your idiocy Antoine, The Beast of Gevaudan is no mere wolf...”

And after François Antoine came him, Roan Chastel. Different from those before him, he knows. Knows what it is. When it comes to The Beast of Gevaudan, it seems you either escape unscathed or you die. If not immediately from the attack, then from the ensuing infection.

Except for him. He lived. Roan lived, and he suffers for it every day, but none more so than the night of the full moon.

The Beast of Gevaudan is a werewolf.

In a moment of sobriety, Roan’s eyes turn down towards his fingers, finding the tips of his gloves shredded and fraying. A set of ten long, deep trenches have been carved into the wooden surface of the table. His pupils shrink and his hands dart towards the sheep-skin pouch hanging from his belt, hastily unscrewing the cap and gulping down the foul potion.

“That was close...” He pants breathily, wiping the violet solution from the pillow of his lip. “Fresh air. I need fresh air. Fuck, shouldn’t that bastard be here by now?”

Roan claws at the collar of his shirt, fingers fumbling for the buckle of his leather choker. As the black frills part, they reveal a hideous scar – several red, raw, indented tooth marks. A mix of molars, canines and gouged-out flesh.

Prescribed to him by a village doctor, the wolfsbane potion can keep his lycanthropy dormant with regular dosages, so long as he never fully transforms. While the nobleman scoff at the idea of a supernatural force being behind the attacks, the common folk have their knowledge. The wolfsbane potion is an example.

However, it’s no perfect solution. It can’t stop the animalistic anger or neuroticism that consumes his every waking hour. It can’t stop the searing agony in his bones as they beg to be remoulded in a wolf’s image.

Roan unlatches the cottage door. He steps out into the cool night air, and is momentarily distracted by the looming moon. Then, he hears your footsteps. With his heightened senses, he knows you’re approaching through the thicket, and he quietly loosens his revolvers from their holsters.

As you emerge, he points them at you with a dangerous tone: “Identify yourself now, or I’ll shoot.”