Coraline

It was nearly dark outside now, and the rain was still coming down, pattering against the windows and blurring the lights of the cars in the street outside. Coraline's father stopped working, and made them all dinner. Coraline was disgusted. "Daddy," she said, "you've made a recipe again." "It's leek and potato stew, with a tarragon garnish, and melted Gruyere cheese," he admitted. Coraline sighed. Then she went to the freezer, and got out some microwave chips, and a microwave mini pizza. "You know I don't like recipes," she told her father, while her dinner went around and around, and the little red numbers on the microwave oven counted down to zero. "If you tried it, maybe you'd like it," said Coraline's father, but she shook her head. That night, Coraline lay awake in her bed. The rain had stopped, and she was almost asleep when something went tatatatatat. She sat up in bed. Something went Kreeee ... ....aaaak Coraline got out of bed and looked down the hall, but saw nothing strange. She walked down the hall. From her parents' bedroom came a low snoring – that was her father – and an occasional sleeping mutter – that was her mother. Coraline wondered if she'd dreamed it, whatever it was. Something moved. It was little more than a shadow, and it scuttled down the darkened hall fast, like a little patch of night. She hoped it wasn't a spider. Spiders made Coraline intensely uncomfortable. The black shape went into the drawing room, and Coraline followed it in, a little nervously. The room was dark: the only light came from the hall, and Coraline, who was standing in the doorway, cast a huge and distorted shadow onto the drawing room carpet: she looked like a thin giant woman. Coraline was just wondering whether or not she ought to turn on the lights when she saw the black shape edge slowly out from beneath the sofa. It paused, and then dashed silently across the carpet toward the farthest corner of the room. There was no furniture in that corner of the room. Coraline turned on the light. There was nothing in the corner. Nothing but the old door that opened onto the brick wall. She was sure that her mother had shut the door, but now it was ever so slightly open. Just a crack. Coraline went over to it, and looked in. There was nothing there – just a wall, built of red bricks. Coraline closed the old wooden door, turned out the light, and went to bed. She dreamed of black shapes that slid from place to place, avoiding the light, until they were all gathered together under the moon. Little black shapes with little red eyes and sharp yellow teeth. They started to sing, We are small but we are many We are many we are small We were here before you rose We will be here when you fall. Their voices were high and whispering and slightly whiney. They made Coraline feel uncomfortable. Then Coraline dreamed a few commercials, and after that she dreamed of nothing at all

Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter

Richard was an alpha werewolf. He was head of the local pack. It was his only serious flaw. We'd broken up after I'd seen him eat somebody. What I'd seen had sent me running to Jean-Claude's arms. I'd run from the werewolf to the vampire. Jean-Claude was Master of the city of Saint Louis. He was definitely not the more human of the two. I know there isn't a lot to choose from between a bloodsucker and a flesh-eater, but at least after Jean-Claude finished feeding, there weren't chunks between his fangs. A small distinction but a real one. --Blue Moon, by Laurell K. Hamilton. Crime fiction isn't an exclusive Boy's Club anymore. Sometimes the hard-boiled detective walking down those mean streets at night is wearing high heels. In a parallel universe where vampires, werewolves, zombies, and other creatures of the night co-exist in an uneasy truce, Anita Blake is a vampire hunter. Have Stake, Will Travel. It's a dangerous job, but she's good at it, and it pays the bills. Silver bullets ain't cheap. Written by written by Laurell K. Hamilton (The Laughing Corpse, Circus of the Damned, The Lunatic Cafe, Burnt Offerings, Danse Macabre), the series cunningly uses the best elements of the crime and horror genres and dumps the worst. It's a happy marriage of Sue Grafton and Stephen King. The rules of Hamilton's fantasy world make sense, the quirky, well-defined characters have bite (sorry), the devious plots are as addicting as cocaine-laced junk food, and is thankfully absent of the pretentious goo that gummed up Anne Rice's later novels. Marvel Comics is publishing a two-part series, Anita Blake-Vampire Hunter: The First Death #1, written by Hamilton and Jonathon Green with art by Wellinton Alves. A prequel of sorts to Guilty Pleasures, the comic examines the struggles of Anita's early days as a vampire hunter, trying to prove herself to a skeptical police force, and her hunt for a serial killer. Looks good. Anita Blake is a superb and endlessly intriguing character, and I can't wait for the next book starring America's Favorite Vampire Hunter.

The Gingerbread Girl

Ordinarily, I would never buy Esquire magazine. There's too many glossy pages pimping $500 shoes, high-tech thingamajigs, cologne, booze, how-to-get-laid essays typed by condescending liars, jewelry, ozone-destroying SUVs, and unnaturally-realistic plastic dolls who almost look like real women. Behind the smug, big-money attitude, Esquire is not as smart, hip, or progressively-minded as it thinks it is. At least Vanity Fair has James Wolcott. Still, accidents happen from time to time. For a start, having the delicious elegance of Angelina Jolie (lust slobber drool) on the cover of the July issue is smart. Boasting of a new Stephen King novella inside, however, is genius. There was a JuCo with a cinder track not too far from the house. She began to drive over there in the early mornings just after Henry left for work. Henry didn't understand the running. Jogging, sure--lots of women jogged. Keep those extra four pounds off the old fanny, keep those extra two inches off the old waistline. But Em didn't have an extra four pounds on her backside, and besides, jogging was no longer enough. She had to run, and fast. Only fast running would do. She parked at the track and ran until she could run no more, until her sleeveless FSU sweatshirt was dark with sweat down the front and back and she was shambling and sometimes puking with exhaustion. Henry found out. Someone saw her there, running all by herself at eight in the morning, and told him. They had a discussion about it. The discussion escalated into a marriage-ending argument. "It's a hobby," she said. "Jodi Anderson said you ran until you fell down. She was afraid you'd had a heart attack. That's not a hobby, Em. Not even a fetish. It's an obsession." And he looked at her reproachfully. It would be a little while yet before she picked up the book and threw it at him, but that was what really tore it. That reproachful look. She could no longer stand it. Given his rather long face, it was like having a sheep in the house. I married a Dorset gray, she thought, and now it's just baa-baa-baa, all day long. The Gingerbread Woman starts out as a quiet, heartbreaking story of Emily, a lonely wife slowly recovering from the death of her child and the end of her marriage. Running is the only thing that gives Emily peace, and it becomes a disturbing compulsion. But then, Emily's poignant tale ominously turns into a terrifying, woman-fighting-for-her-life-against-a-homicidal-killer nailbiter. Emily is a character worth cheering for, and King's stunning last paragraph would squeeze tears from Dick Cheney. Good job, Esquire.