Web of Lies

Web of Lies, a Coraline fic by CrystalNeonSummerSnow

Genre: Horror/Humor

'''A/N: After watching the movie Coraline, I wondered what would've happened if the Other Mother reassembled herself and snuck her way back into her life. Trust me, while it may start off slow, it has to sometimes to make the eeriness increase more.'''

Title Cover


February 5th, 2010 Topic: Hope I Don’t Bore You Dear Diary,

This was really the only birthday gift I remember getting from my parents, but that was when I was 5 and actually existed to them. Of course, while I use to say diaries are dumb, I’m actually glad I remembered to bring you the day we moved here. Now, I know I’m a tomboy, so if someone who walks by asks why I have pink, flowery cover, I’ll just casually say it’s a gift from my parents.

Now, while I’m calling you “Diary” today, I think that you need a new name; Diary, to me, sounds a little bland and boring… just like my life, right now. And besides, I’ve known that since I was in diapers that it’s okay to be different and to stand out, so that’s why I’m naming you. Hmm, the only trouble is this: what should I name you?

There’s hundreds—maybe even thousands—of names to choose from, all unique like my name. The only difference between your future name and my name is that yours won’t be mistaken for something else (you have no idea how many times I’ve been called Caroline instead of Coraline). Now, I definitely not naming you something girly and frail like Mary or Lily; those are total clichés. Maybe I should name you something that’s just as unique as my bold name. Maybe… Sharada? Nah, that’s a little too unique; there is such a thing as that, y’know. Vera? Too dull. Linda? Still too cliché. Agnes? Ugh, too foreign. How about… Esther! Yes, I’ve always loved that name; it means star, and I love those too. Sometimes, I just sneak out of my room and stare at the stars, wondering what their meanings are.

Now, I hope that my constant chatter doesn’t bore you, considering how dull and rainy Ashland, Oregon is and it’s not even spring, yet. Besides, the reason it took me 6 years (almost 7; my birthday’s on the 23rd) to finally write to you is because I’ve really spent all my time throwing mud pies against trees, staring at the sky—clouds in the daytime and stars in the nighttime—and all sorts of normal things. Sure, I know that I should spend more time with my parents, but that’s the sole problem: I never hang out with them.

Mom and Dad aren’t necessarily perfect, but they’re not downright crooked, either. It’s a good mixture, but they still bug me more than I bug them. And what I said right there is just it: they never notice me. To them, I’m just an abandoned shadow with no owner. Mom is probably so crabby, Maine was her hometown. She’s so negative, but that’s something I get from her. She rarely smiles, and she always wears that turtleneck that looks a lot like that old, sucky neck brace she wore when we moved in. Also, she and Dad work for a catalog about plants and nature, yet she hates dirt. What’s up with that? Not even I, her own daughter, know that. Dad, on the other hand, is a lot more fun, but very embarrassing like most dads. He’s the kind of man to slip on a banana peel and fall into a manhole, but just like Mom, he ignores me and asks me to do random chores just so that he can get me off his back. Today, I was gonna go outside for a minute when the rain finally stopped and I asked Mom if I could go outside, but she ignored me. Then, I thought I’d freak her out with this one.

“Hey Mom, I’m gonna run away and jump off a cliff.”

“Wear a jacket; it’s raining, today.”

Ultimate fail. I’m still kinda surprised she’d even let me go outside; another reason why she hates dirt is because “dirt gets wet, dirt becomes mud, and mud becomes cleaning” and blah, blah, blah. Scoffing under my breath, I just strolled back to that old well.

A lot of memories actually fill that deserted well; I met Why-Were-You-Born—I-I mean, Wybie there. Sorry about the insult; it comes naturally. Anyways, Wybie Lovat is this boy that’s my age that I met the day I moved in. Sure, he is a dork—even downright freaky at times—but he does mean well. Dad made a joke once saying that I’ve got a future boyfriend. He still giggled when I rolled my eyes. Wybie and I wouldn’t really make a good pair, mostly because one of us has some common sense (just guess who that is). There is another memory I have with the well, but I’d rather not talk about it; you may not believe it.

I looked up at the sky, noting the swirling greys in the sky meaning it was about to rain again. I tapped my feet against the wood of the well, not caring about the loud, eerie creak it made. If I fell into the well, I knew I could be able to climb back to the surface; that’s one of the advantages of being a rough-and-tumble tomboy. I turned my head to the road. Somehow, the way the pavement glows after it rains fascinates me. But I quickly jumped when I felt something knock against the wood. Before I knew it, something latched onto my ankle. It was just Wybie.

“Sorry, Coraline, but you’re in the way.”

“In the way of what?”

“I was trying to catch a banana slug, but your boot was in the way.” I rolled my eyes. He does have this fascination with banana slugs. I’m surprised I didn’t stomp on one of ‘em, just for excitement.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">As he traced along the little yellow trail of slime, my eyes fixated mainly on the well. For some random reason, a shiver came as I felt ice flow in my blood. I then heard this purring sound. It was just the cat; he still hadn’t changed since his fur was still ragged and his bones bent his skin in a contorted way. I smiled; for some reason, that sort of cat is the perfect cat. A loud laugh was let out, making me jump a little. Wybie snatched the slug off the ground and threw it into the jar, where another one was in there, too. I quirked an eyebrow at him, leading to his response.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">“What? Slugzilla needs a mate, too, y’know.”

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">“Since when was slug mating interesting?”

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">“You obviously haven’t traveled throughout the Northwest.” That led to an ambivalent chuckle from me. Sure, he’s a little bit of a self-assured know-it-all, but hey, at least he’s nice. As he rode off, the cat still stuck around until the distant thunderclap became louder and closer. He didn’t say anything, like he did before, but he tilted his head and an animalistic slime stretched across his face. I just smiled in return.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">Now that the day’s done and over with, I guess this is goodnight. I hope I don’t bore you.

<p style="text-align: right; margin: 0in 0in 10pt">~Coraline

<h2 style="text-align: center; margin: 0in 0in 15pt">February 6th, 2010 Topic: Adventure <p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">Dear Esther,

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">Today is a dreaded day (kinda like Black Friday, except it’s Saturday, today). I know I was mentioning it yesterday, and I bet you were confused about what I was talking about, and since today’s the 1-year anniversary for it, now’s a good time to talk about it.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">Okay, I know you won’t believe this, but when we moved in, there was… this little door that was bricked up the first time I opened it. But then, that night, a mouse was crawling around the house. Considering my curiosity, I followed it to the door that I forgot to lock. Instead of seeing bricks, there was this neon-colored portal to… another world, a world I wanna forget.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">It was exactly like my home, except more fun. This woman, standing in the kitchen humming while stirring the batter, was my “Other Mother”. She was like my mother, but with two major differences: manipulative and, did I mention she had buttons for eyes? She created that world for me with a talented and funny Other Father, younger and more entertaining Other Ms. Spink and Ms. Forcible, a very joyful Other Bobinsky, and a quiet, yet sweet Other Wybie. Every inch of that world was a wonderland of my imagination being brought to life… but it wasn’t long until things got deadly. I was asked to stay there forever, but on one condition—I had to get button eyes! Button eyes! Can you believe that? My eyes may not be, like, a striking hazel, but it’s better than those haunting, black buttons, that’s for sure.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">Of course, I refused, but the Other Mother wouldn’t let me go without a good fight.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">When I confronted her, she grew into this hideous, creepy spider-like witch—a Beldam, I believe they called her—and imprisoned me in a mirror. Oh, and the “they” I was talking about were ghost children, past victims of her trap. They looked so old-fashioned, as if it’s been centuries since she destroyed them. While fear was visible in their ghostly voices, they got their point clear: she was nowhere close to a mother, and I had to run. Luckily, Other Wybie helped me escape, but he had to pay the price… and his jacket that was nailed to the roof proved it. Sure, I got away from her, but even before I realized she stole my parents, a faint, informative voice murmured that I had to go back. Then, the cat I told you about yesterday, revealed that not only he could talk, he informed me to challenge her since “her kind loves games”.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">The object of the game was simple: if I didn’t find the ghost eyes and where my parents were imprisoned, I’d have button eyes; if I didn’t, you can already guess what she wouldn’t do. It became easier, but as I continued, every part of my imagination and sanity shattered as the color in the Other World did; there were even some times where I could’ve gotten killed/seriously injured doing so, but I still made it through. And eventually, the advice of the ghosts helped me escape, too:

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">''Be clever, Miss. Even if you win, she’ll never let you go…!''

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">It was that moment when I won my escape. Sure, my parents didn’t remember squat, but it was best that way. However, it wasn’t over, yet. I had to do away with the key, otherwise she would find me. That night, I snuck out wearing my gloves and my PJs, the key dangling around my neck. Yet, what I didn’t know is that I accidentally severed her hand, which tracked me down and attacked me. Surprisingly, Wybie came by and destroyed it with a rock. It’s been rotting at the bottom well ever since, forgotten.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">Nowadays, when I think about it, I was really stupid to go back there. I should’ve noticed the obvious, but being the stubborn little girl I am, I always learn the hard way. My life may be boring, but I’d rather have that lifestyle that being constantly watched over by a pod person.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">Well, while my parents were sleeping, I snuck out to the well to remember, for once. I stared blankly at the well, wondering how deep it was down there. But from what Wybie told me, it was best I didn’t find out. Rain pattered on my head, little beads of it hanging onto my blue strands of hair. Curling a lock around my fingers, I knelt down. A painful flashback of it all came to my head against my will, making my eyes screw shut. My fist tightened and I felt a tear almost escape. Maybe I should leave, I thought, it’s getting kinda heavy. Before I could, I turned around to find Wybie behind me. Usually, I’d accuse him of stalking me, again, but I said nothing that time. I wasn’t in the mood.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">Biting his lip, he finally spoke.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">“Hey, Jonesy,” his voice faltered. I didn’t even blink; an emotionless expression froze on my face.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">He shuffled his hands across his jacket, ridding his gloves of the dirt on them. His eyes didn’t meet mine; I didn’t do the same. I just stared at my bare feet, the polish on the nails chipped more than the polish on my fingernails. My eyebrows furrowed in saddened worry as my eyes couldn’t help but go back to the well. Before I could drown in my memory of all that had happened, Wybie tapped me on the shoulder. To my surprise, he had 3 little stuffed dolls in his hand – and they all looked like the 3 ghost children.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">“I remember, too, y’know. And when Granma showed me a picture of her sister again, I remembered what you said about… the ghost children, and oddly, I found them in the drawer, too.”

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">I nodded. That was my silent “thank you”.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">My eyes bored heavily at the dolls. In a weird way, they looked cute; but in this eerie splash of reality in my face, Wybie’s grandma couldn’t have known the other two ghosts. While we both parted with weak smiles, I knew that something was gonna happen, but hopefully, it wouldn’t continue tonight…

<p style="text-align: right; margin: 0in 0in 10pt">~Coraline

<h2 style="text-align: center; margin: 0in 0in 15pt">February 8th, 2010 Topic: School Sucks <p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">Dear Esther,

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">Sorry that I’ve abandoned writing to you for 2 days, but I’ve been sort of busy, lately. Valentine’s Day is approaching, and that’s, to me, a bad, bad thing. It’s that sort of event where all schools—even the lower school—have their own versions of Valentine’s Day prom. Of course, they do it separately within grade, but they’re very opposite, that’s for sure (i.e. Kindergarten’s prom is just a night in the classroom with sugary snacks and sing-a-longs playing whereas the senior proms are more about corsages and champagne).

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">Why I hate Valentine’s Day is simple: there’s nothing much to love at my school. In 6th grade, it’s a much tougher crowd. One of the girls in my class, Samantha Shiloh, is proof of that. She and I’ve never really fought as in all-out war, but we have bickered a lot. She calls me “a disgrace to middle school” since I’m a tomboy and I know much more than I should. Well, I actually got her running out of the room crying when I called her a “Malibu Juice Barbie”. The teachers didn’t really do much about it, and I wouldn’t blame them; they never were too fond of Samantha… come to think of it, no one was.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">Yeah, it’s surprising because she sounds like a popular girl since most of the popular girls I’ve seen on TV acted just like her – putting on too much make-up, waving around stupid pom-poms, and griping, mocking, and pointing at someone that isn’t in with the “in-crowd”. Yet luckily, Samantha may be able to pull of that persona, but people don’t like her. She’s that kind of bimbo that’s colder than the Sub-Zero she has at home (for the record, I only knew that because she keeps bragging about it), but a character like that was cliché. The only difference is that she’s a tad naïve; usually, girls like her were at least cunning enough to extract classic revenge, but oddly, not her. Yet, today, she didn’t say anything or do anything since people kept on laughing and jeering at her after I called her that stupid insult. Honestly, I knew that there were gonna be at least a few stupid people in 6th grade, but I had no idea that they would think that an insult like “Malibu Juice Barbie” was like I just shot her in the head. But for some reason, I felt guilty once I saw the hurt look in her puppy brown eyes.

<p style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt">And that guilt came on more when our English teacher, Ms. Merridon, kept me after class.