When I was little, it was normal that we changed houses constantly, many were old, others I did not know, but all were forgettable, all except one. I was nine when my father took us to live in a big house, located in the middle of nowhere
In that house the nights were cold and lonely, if I close my eyes, I can still hear the trees moving with the wind, the owls hooting, the crickets rubbing their paws over and over again, and the cries that were always heard at the same time. far
For a long time, they used to tell stories about goblins, witches and how many horrible monsters we could imagine, even ghosts that prowled trapped in old buildings, with nothing better to do than torture those who still live and inhabit them
I remember that I have memory, my favorite story had been Little Red Riding Hood, I'm not sure why, even taking into account my fear of the forest, it always caught my attention, I remember that my father used to sit on the edge of my bed , night after night to tell me that story until I fell asleep, no matter how tired I was, he always accompanied me at night, or at least he used to do it until he left, then it was me who told me the story
I will never forget my first day in that lonely house, that day I met a girl, who had been the previous occupant of the place, I remember that I sat next to her on the sidewalk in front and that was when she told me the most terrible story ever counted
That night I did not sleep, attentive to any noise from outside, to the screams that were heard in the distance. Not a day passed for the beast to come close to the house, the next morning my mother sent me to collect the eggs that the chickens had left, but when I arrived there was nothing, not even chickens, only claw marks on all the walls.
And so night after night he dressed her, he came back devastating whatever crossed his path, I remember seeing his shadow reflected on the wall one night, it was the shadow of a great wolf, with large and sharp teeth like fangs and large claws, his eyes were brown, but you could see the blood in them, I slept little, that made it difficult to differentiate reality from nightmares, even so I know that fear was real, even more real than me.
In my memories my mother is always like a centered and calm woman, always with her feet on the ground and very rational in her way, I remember one morning, when I entered my room, I was crying in a corner, there were days when that the panic was bigger than me, in which the presence of the beast felt closer, she sat next to me, placed my head on her lap and while she stroked my hair she told me "calm down, the wolf is not the only animal that lives in the forest "
Not a single night passed for the beast to attack again, this time, it was through the corridors of the huge house. The next morning I woke up full of mud and blood, I got up and saw a path that went from my bed to the outside of my room, they were large wolf tracks full of blood and dirt, at that time I could not do more than begin to cry ... who said that the true monster does not live in us?