B.R. and the Big Bad Wolf (a fairytale in five shots)

Deep in the Dark Woods, Bonnie Rouge stumbles across a dead body. Having heard the stories, she recognises it instantly as the Bad Wolf.
Thank goodness, he’s dead. She races back to the path.

What if he’s not dead? What if it’s fake? What if he follows my tracks in the snow? The puffs of her panting breath fly into the naked branches of a copper beech. Should she go back and check? She pulls the collar of her red hoodie over the numb tip of her nose. So the snuffle won’t make icicles on my love potion.

Heart pounding, armpits sweaty despite the wintery frost, B.R. bends down and picks a couple more flowers, those snowdrops Granny loves so much. Picking flowers calms the nerves. Should I leg it to Granny’s house? Would be the sensible thing to do.
On the other hand, what to tell Granny? Old, mad, scared, in her bed, alone. In her little house in the Big Dark Woods.

‘We don’t want to scare Granny unnecessarily,’ mum always says. ‘Better not tell her everything.’
What if he is dead? There’d nothing to worry about then. I could tell Granny the truth. Nobody would need to be scared ever again.

B.R. retraces her footprints through the snow. Crunches under her feet. An owl
cackles in the crown of an oak. Rustling of small feet in the shuddering understorey.
Her tracks end, and. No marks of a dead body. No hint there even was one.
Did I imagine the BBW in the shadows of the ancient rootweb? Am I going mad, like Granny?