and over again; at first, neat and tidy, like a coiled rope, and then, later, pushed into the paper, breaking it like a neck as
Alice’s writing changed, as the story went beyond her control.
‘The Hangman is a character from your story?’ I said incredulously .
Alice nodded, her greasy hair veiling her face like a curtain. ‘He’s not the only one. There are others. I’ve seen them. They’re looking for me . . .
looking for this!’ She brandished the notebook.
‘But . . . what do they want?’ I shook my head, bewildered. ‘They want to know how it ends?’
‘That’s just it,’ Alice whispered. ‘There is no ending! That’s why they’re here. Because I don’t know how to finish their
story.’
‘So . . . they want to . . . ?’ I struggled to understand.
‘To take control of it. To make their own endings . . . unless I can figure it out first.’
I blinked the memory away and found I was holding the notebook very tightly. A different notebook, a different story, but with one similarity: it was long, just like the story
with the Hangman had been. I began leafing through it. Pages and pages of Alice’s writing. Months and months of work. This was not a collection of little stories like Alice usually wrote: it
was one big story and the list at the front was a list of chapter titles.
It was a novel. A proper, full-length book . . . although it wasn’t yet finished.
Unexpectedly, a lump came into my throat. ‘I knew you could do it,’ I whispered proudly. ‘I knew you’d write one someday.’ I could almost see it now, a fat hardback
with Alice’s name on the cover. I had no doubt that at some point she would get her stories published. That they would be in bookshops everywhere. That Alice would be famous and I’d be
the luckiest brother anyone had, because I’d get to read all her stories first.
I flicked to the start, past the character notes and a few pages in. There it was. Chapter One: The Storyteller .
I began to read.
Every day, hundreds of people sit down and begin to write a story. Some of these stories are published and translated, and sold in bookshops all over the world. Others
never make it past the first chapter – or even the first sentence – before they are given up on. And some stories are muddled, and half-written, and struggled with until eventually
the writer stuffs their creation under the bed or into a drawer. There it lies, forgotten for months or years . . . or perhaps for ever. Even if it could have been the most
magical adventure that anyone would ever read.
But what happens when stories with real magic, that were supposed to be finished, never are? What becomes of the story’s heroes . . . and its
villains?
And what would happen if they were disturbed from their dusty hiding places, woken from their slumbers? And collected and put on display for the world to see?
This is the tale of a museum.
The Museum of Unfinished Stories.
I stopped reading, the warm feeling from moments before slipping away. The pancakes in my stomach suddenly felt stodgy and unwelcome and there was a bitter taste in my mouth
that I knew wasn’t from the lemons I’d squeezed over them.
My talented, brilliant sister, who was obsessive, almost scared , about leaving a story incomplete, was writing about unfinished stories. Now she was gone and somehow at least two of the
characters from that story had been unleashed. They were here, in our world . . . but were they heroes or villains? What would they do to Alice, the creator of their story, if they
found her? Could they have found her already?
‘Alice,’ I whispered to her empty room. ‘Where are you? What have you done?’
5
The Other Alice
I LEFT ALICE’S ROOM AND dressed quickly, pulling on my smartest jeans and the least scuffed trainers I could find. I
emptied my rucksack and placed Alice’s notebook and purse inside it and, after hesitating, a pair of Dad’s old glasses
Alice’s writing changed, as the story went beyond her control.
‘The Hangman is a character from your story?’ I said incredulously .
Alice nodded, her greasy hair veiling her face like a curtain. ‘He’s not the only one. There are others. I’ve seen them. They’re looking for me . . .
looking for this!’ She brandished the notebook.
‘But . . . what do they want?’ I shook my head, bewildered. ‘They want to know how it ends?’
‘That’s just it,’ Alice whispered. ‘There is no ending! That’s why they’re here. Because I don’t know how to finish their
story.’
‘So . . . they want to . . . ?’ I struggled to understand.
‘To take control of it. To make their own endings . . . unless I can figure it out first.’
I blinked the memory away and found I was holding the notebook very tightly. A different notebook, a different story, but with one similarity: it was long, just like the story
with the Hangman had been. I began leafing through it. Pages and pages of Alice’s writing. Months and months of work. This was not a collection of little stories like Alice usually wrote: it
was one big story and the list at the front was a list of chapter titles.
It was a novel. A proper, full-length book . . . although it wasn’t yet finished.
Unexpectedly, a lump came into my throat. ‘I knew you could do it,’ I whispered proudly. ‘I knew you’d write one someday.’ I could almost see it now, a fat hardback
with Alice’s name on the cover. I had no doubt that at some point she would get her stories published. That they would be in bookshops everywhere. That Alice would be famous and I’d be
the luckiest brother anyone had, because I’d get to read all her stories first.
I flicked to the start, past the character notes and a few pages in. There it was. Chapter One: The Storyteller .
I began to read.
Every day, hundreds of people sit down and begin to write a story. Some of these stories are published and translated, and sold in bookshops all over the world. Others
never make it past the first chapter – or even the first sentence – before they are given up on. And some stories are muddled, and half-written, and struggled with until eventually
the writer stuffs their creation under the bed or into a drawer. There it lies, forgotten for months or years . . . or perhaps for ever. Even if it could have been the most
magical adventure that anyone would ever read.
But what happens when stories with real magic, that were supposed to be finished, never are? What becomes of the story’s heroes . . . and its
villains?
And what would happen if they were disturbed from their dusty hiding places, woken from their slumbers? And collected and put on display for the world to see?
This is the tale of a museum.
The Museum of Unfinished Stories.
I stopped reading, the warm feeling from moments before slipping away. The pancakes in my stomach suddenly felt stodgy and unwelcome and there was a bitter taste in my mouth
that I knew wasn’t from the lemons I’d squeezed over them.
My talented, brilliant sister, who was obsessive, almost scared , about leaving a story incomplete, was writing about unfinished stories. Now she was gone and somehow at least two of the
characters from that story had been unleashed. They were here, in our world . . . but were they heroes or villains? What would they do to Alice, the creator of their story, if they
found her? Could they have found her already?
‘Alice,’ I whispered to her empty room. ‘Where are you? What have you done?’
5
The Other Alice
I LEFT ALICE’S ROOM AND dressed quickly, pulling on my smartest jeans and the least scuffed trainers I could find. I
emptied my rucksack and placed Alice’s notebook and purse inside it and, after hesitating, a pair of Dad’s old glasses
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