[The sniffling doesn't abate, but nor does the figure respond. They stand after a moment, take a slow step forward . . . and pass right through Coraline, breezing through as though she's nothing more than an illusion.]
Hello?
[Nothing. No answer. Or at least: no answer this person can hear. They blink, and their mouth trembles, and it seems as if another round of tears will begin.
And then something . . . odd happens.
It's as if some higher being has suddenly hit fast-forward: the scene changes rapidly, the figure rushing off and disappearing. Lights blink rapidly; if the ladies turn, they'll realize a day-night cycle is happening, over and over, the sun appearing and then disappearing, four, five, six times, eight, ten, twelve . . .
Til it's night again, and there's the sounds of screams, and the figure lies on the ground.
They're gaunt, their cheeks hollow and their eyes sunken deep into their skull. Bones jut out as flesh hangs uselessly, their clothes too big and their lips cracked. Their knuckles are thick and swollen, and there's plenty of books scattered around them. Pages are torn free, ripped and half-destroyed.
The figure stares at nothing. And the longer the ladies watch, the longer they'll realize that what they're looking at isn't a person, but a fresh corpse.
A noise, shuffling and low-- and something turns from around the corner of a shelf. It waddles, a fat, white creature that moves with shocking speed. At least ten feet long and five feet high, it approaches the corpse with a low noise.
no subject
Hello?
[Nothing. No answer. Or at least: no answer this person can hear. They blink, and their mouth trembles, and it seems as if another round of tears will begin.
And then something . . . odd happens.
It's as if some higher being has suddenly hit fast-forward: the scene changes rapidly, the figure rushing off and disappearing. Lights blink rapidly; if the ladies turn, they'll realize a day-night cycle is happening, over and over, the sun appearing and then disappearing, four, five, six times, eight, ten, twelve . . .
Til it's night again, and there's the sounds of screams, and the figure lies on the ground.
They're gaunt, their cheeks hollow and their eyes sunken deep into their skull. Bones jut out as flesh hangs uselessly, their clothes too big and their lips cracked. Their knuckles are thick and swollen, and there's plenty of books scattered around them. Pages are torn free, ripped and half-destroyed.
The figure stares at nothing. And the longer the ladies watch, the longer they'll realize that what they're looking at isn't a person, but a fresh corpse.
A noise, shuffling and low-- and something turns from around the corner of a shelf. It waddles, a fat, white creature that moves with shocking speed. At least ten feet long and five feet high, it approaches the corpse with a low noise.
And it begins to eat . . .]