Coraline by Neil Gaiman

made of velvet night, and a grey sweater the colour of thick smoke with faint and tiny stars in the fabric which twinkled.
    She pulled on the jeans and the sweater. Then she put on a pair of bright-orange boots she found at the bottom of the cupboard.
    She took her last apple out of the pocket of her dressing gown, and then, from the same pocket, the stone with the hole in it.
    She put the stone into the pocket of her jeans, and it was as if her head had cleared a little. As if she had come out of some sort of a fog.
    She went into the kitchen, but it was deserted.
    Still, she was sure that there was someone in the flat. She walked down the hall until she reached her father’s study, and discovered that it was occupied.
    ‘Where’s the other mother?’ she asked the other father. He was sitting in the study, at a desk which looked just like her father’s, but he was not doing anything at all, not even reading gardening catalogues as her own father did when he was only pretending to be working.
    ‘Out,’ he told her. ‘Fixing the doors. There are some vermin problems.’ He seemed pleased to have somebody to talk to.
    ‘The rats, you mean?’
    ‘No, the rats are our friends. This is the other kind, big black fellow, with his tail high.’
    ‘The cat, you mean?’
    ‘That’s the one,’ said her other father.
    He looked less like her true father today. There was something slightly vague about his face – like bread dough that had begun to rise, smoothing out the bumps and cracks and depressions.
    ‘Really, I mustn’t talk to you when she’s not here,’ he said. ‘But don’t you worry. She won’t be gone often. I shall demonstrate our tender hospitality to you, such that you will not even think about ever going back.’ He closed his mouth and folded his hands in his lap.
    ‘So what am I to do now?’ asked Coraline.
    The other father pointed to his lips. Silence .
    ‘If you won’t even talk to me,’ said Coraline, ‘I am going exploring.’
    ‘No point,’ said the other father. ‘There isn’t anywhere but here. This is all she made: the house, the grounds, and the people in the house. She made it and she waited.’ Then he looked embarrassed and he put one finger to his lips again, as if he had just said too much.
    Coraline walked out of his study. She went into the drawing room, over to the old door, and she pulled it, rattled and shook it. No, it was locked fast, and the other mother had the key.
    She looked around the room. It was so familiar – that was what made it feel so truly strange. Everything was exactly the same as she remembered: there was all her grandmother’s strange-smelling furniture, there was the painting of the bowl of fruit (a bunch of grapes, two plums, a peach and an apple) hanging on the wall, there was the low wooden table with the lion’s feet, and the empty fireplace which seemed to suck heat from the room.
    But there was something else, something she did not remember seeing before. A ball of glass, up on the mantelpiece.
    She went over to the fireplace, went up on tiptoes, and lifted it down. It was a snow-globe, with two little people in it. Coraline shook it and set the snow flying, white snow that glittered as it tumbled through the water.
    Then she put the snow-globe back on the mantelpiece, and carried on looking for her true parents and for a way out.
    She went out of the flat. Past the flashing-lights door, behind which the other Misses Spink and Forcible performed their show for ever, and set off into the woods.
    Where Coraline came from, once you were through the patch of trees, you saw nothing but the meadow and the old tennis court. In this place, the woods went on further, the trees becoming cruder and less tree-like the further you went.
    Pretty soon they seemed very approximate, like the idea of trees: a greyish-brown trunk below, a greenish splodge of something that might have been leaves above.
    Coraline wondered if the other mother wasn’t interested