Coraline – Neil Gaiman

When Coraline Bennett’s family moved into the old Carver House on the edge of town, she wasn’t scared—just bored. Eleven years old, smart beyond her age, and curious to a fault, Coraline had a habit of exploring places she wasn’t supposed to. Her parents were too busy renovating their “dream home” to keep much of an eye on her. And so, left to her own devices, Coraline explored.

The Carver House was a sprawling, creaking beast of a building—two stories, attic, cellar, and enough shadows to hide an entire town. The locals warned her family it had a “history,” but Coraline’s parents had dismissed the talk. "Just small-town superstition," her father said.

On the second day, Coraline discovered the small door.

It was hidden behind a tall bookcase in the den, covered in dust and cobwebs. Barely three feet tall, it was more like a cupboard entrance than a door. It had no knob, only a tiny brass keyhole.

That night, Coraline dreamt of whispers. Soft, strange whispers. The next morning, she found a small, antique key in her dresser drawer. She didn’t remember putting it there. She wasn’t even sure the dresser had drawers the night before.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she placed the key in the hole. It fit perfectly. The door creaked open.

Behind it was a narrow brick wall.

Disappointed but intrigued, she closed the door—but kept the key. That night, the whispers came again. Louder this time. The next morning, the brick wall was gone.

Instead, behind the small door was a dark tunnel—round, dirt-lined, and impossibly long. It smelled like rain and old wood. Coraline hesitated only a moment before crawling in.

The tunnel led to… another Carver House.

At first glance, everything looked the same. But brighter. Warmer. There were no boxes, no dust. Her parents were in the kitchen, smiling and cooking her favorite meal—lasagna and garlic bread.

But something was wrong.

Their eyes.

Black buttons.

Sewn into their faces.

“Hello, darling,” her Other Mother said with a perfect smile. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Coraline froze. She stepped backward, but the Other Father appeared behind her, button eyes twinkling. “Don’t be scared. This is your real home. Stay with us, and we’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

She ran.

Through the tunnel, back to her world. She slammed the little door shut and locked it tight.

She didn’t tell her parents. They were too busy. Too distracted. She convinced herself it was a dream. A very strange, very vivid dream.

But the whispers came again. And again.

Days passed.

Then, one morning, Coraline woke up to find her parents gone.

The house was cold, dark. Their phones were still charging, their shoes still at the door. But no sign of them. Nothing but silence.

And a note—scrawled in ink on the bathroom mirror:

“Come back to us. Forever.”

The small door was wide open.

Coraline didn’t want to go back. But she had no choice. She crawled through the tunnel once more, trembling.

The Other Carver House was even brighter this time. Almost… too bright, like sunlight that hurts your eyes.

Her Other Mother sat at the table, sewing something into a doll’s face.

Her real mother’s face.

“Where are they?” Coraline demanded.

The Other Mother smiled. “With me. But you can have them back… if you stay. Just one small thing. Let me sew these onto you.” She held up two black buttons.

Coraline shook her head, heart pounding. “No.”

The Other Father appeared beside her. “Then they stay with us. Forever.”

Coraline ran, dodging their grasp. She dashed through the house, searching. In the basement, she found the truth.

Her parents—trapped in glass jars, their eyes blank, faces pale.

“This is where all the lost ones go,” whispered a voice behind her.

She turned to see other children—transparent, ghost-like. All with hollow eyes. “She feeds on love,” one said. “She makes you feel safe. Then she takes you.”

Coraline’s mind raced. She remembered something her real mother once told her: “Things only have power if you give it to them.”

She took a deep breath and screamed:

“This isn’t real. I don’t believe in you.”

The walls shook. The floor cracked. The Other Mother screeched, her face melting into something twisted and monstrous. The house began to unravel—like a stage being pulled apart.

Coraline ran, grabbing the jars, clutching her parents to her chest. The tunnel collapsed behind her as she crawled through. Dirt scraped her arms. The whispers turned to screams.

And then—silence.

She woke up on the living room floor. The little door was shut. The key was gone.

Her parents were beside her, groggy and confused but alive. “We must’ve fallen asleep,” her mother mumbled.

Coraline didn’t correct her.

They sold the Carver House a week later.

Years later, Coraline still sometimes dreams of the tunnel. Of the buttons. Of the whispering that seemed to come from inside the walls.

But she never went near a small, locked door again.

Because some doors?

Not every door should be opened.