Coraline

tricky.’
    ‘But it’s not fair ,’ said Coraline, in her dream, angrily. ‘It’s just not fair . It should be over.’
    The boy with the dirty face stood up and hugged Coraline tightly. ‘Take comfort in this,’ he whispered. ‘Th’art alive. Thou livest.’
    And in her dream Coraline saw that the sun had set and the stars were twinkling in the darkening sky.
    Coraline stood in the meadow, and she watched as the three children (two of them walking, one flying) went away from her, across the grass, silver in the light of the huge moon.
    The three of them came to a small wooden bridge over a stream. They stopped there, and turned and waved, and Coraline waved back.
    And what came after was darkness.
    Coraline woke in the early hours of the morning, convinced she had heard something moving, but unsure what it was.
    She waited.
    Something made a rustling noise outside her bedroom door. She wondered if it was a rat. The door rattled. Coraline clambered out of bed.
    ‘Go away,’ said Coraline, sharply. ‘Go away or you’ll be sorry.’
    There was a pause, then the whatever-it-was scuttled away down the hall. There was something odd and irregular about its footsteps, if they were footsteps. Coraline found herself wondering if it was perhaps a rat with an extra leg  . . .
    ‘It isn’t over, is it?’ she said to herself.
    Then she opened the bedroom door. The grey, pre-dawn light showed her the whole of the corridor, completely deserted.
    She went towards the front door, sparing a hasty glance back at the wardrobe-door mirror hanging on the wall at the other end of the hallway, seeing nothing but her own pale face staring back at her, looking sleepy and serious. Gentle, reassuring snores came from her parents’ room, but the door was closed. All the doors off the corridor were closed. Whatever the scuttling thing was, it had to be here somewhere.
    Coraline opened the front door and looked at the grey sky. She wondered how long it would be until the sun came up, wondered whether her dream had been a true thing while knowing in her heart that it had been. Something she had taken to be part of the shadows under the hall couch detached itself from beneath the couch and made a mad, scrabbling rush on its long white legs, heading for the front door.
    Coraline’s mouth dropped open in horror and she stepped out of the way as the thing clicked and scuttled past her and out of the house, running crab-like on its too-many tapping, clicking, scurrying feet.
    She knew what it was, and she knew what it was after. She had seen it too many times in the last few days, reaching and clutching and snatching and popping black beetles obediently into the other mother’s mouth. Five-footed, crimson-nailed, the colour of bone.
    It was the other mother’s right hand.
    It wanted the black key.

 
    It made one triumphant, nail-clacking leap on to the centre of the paper tablecloth.

Chapter 13
    Coraline’s parents never seemed to remember anything about their time in the snow-globe. At least, they never said anything about it, and Coraline never mentioned it to them.
    Sometimes, she wondered whether they had ever noticed that they had lost two days in the real world, and came to the eventual conclusion that they had not. Then again, there are some people who keep track of every day and every hour, and there are people who don’t, and Coraline’s parents were solidly in the second camp.
    Coraline had placed the marbles beneath her pillow before she went to sleep that first night home in her own room once more. She went back to bed, after she saw the other mother’s hand, although there was not much time left for sleeping, and she rested her head back on the pillow.
    Something scrunched gently as she did so.
    She sat up and lifted the pillow. The fragments of the glass marbles that she saw looked like the remains of eggshells one finds beneath trees in springtime: like empty, broken robins’ eggs, or even more delicate, wrens’ eggs, perhaps.
    Whatever had been inside the glass spheres had gone. Coraline thought of the three children waving goodbye to her in the moonlight, waving before they crossed that silver stream.
    She gathered up the eggshell-thin fragments with care and placed them in a small blue box which had once held a bracelet that her grandmother had given her when she was a little girl. The bracelet was long-lost, but the box remained.
    Miss Spink and Miss Forcible came back from visiting Miss Spink’s niece,