Chapter 1: The Curse

Lars Morrison had always been the kind of person who coasted through life with minimal effort and maximum attitude. At twenty-three years old, he was tall and lean, standing just over six feet with a naturally athletic build he’d never bothered to maintain through actual exercise. His dark brown hair was perpetually messy in that deliberately careless way, and his sharp features - strong jaw, straight nose, intense brown eyes - had gotten him through more situations than his actual personality ever could. He had the kind of looks that made people give him second chances he didn’t deserve.

He lived in a small apartment on Maple Street, number 247, about twenty minutes from his parents’ house. The place was a disaster zone of unwashed dishes, empty takeout containers, and clothes strewn across every available surface. His job as a sales associate at an electronics store was something he showed up to when he felt like it, relying on his charm to smooth over the frequent absences and mediocre performance. His manager had warned him twice already this month, but Lars didn’t care. Something better would come along. It always did, or so he told himself.

His social life consisted mainly of hanging out with his buddies - Jake, Marcus, and Devon - drinking too much, playing video games, and complaining about everything from their jobs to the women who didn’t appreciate them. None of them were going anywhere in life, and Lars was perfectly content to drift along with them. At twenty-three, he had no real ambitions, no meaningful relationships, and no concern for anyone but himself. His parents had long since stopped trying to push him toward anything resembling responsibility, settling instead for mild disappointment and the hope that he’d eventually figure things out.

He certainly had no patience for his fourteen-year-old sister.

Sarah Morrison was everything Lars wasn’t - thoughtful, creative, and genuinely kind. She was small for her age, barely five feet tall, with a delicate frame that made her look younger than fourteen. Her light brown hair fell in natural waves to her shoulders, and her hazel eyes were usually bright with enthusiasm about something or other. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks that she hated but her mother said were adorable.

Unlike Lars’s sharp, angular features, Sarah’s face was soft and round, still holding onto the last vestiges of childhood even as she tried desperately to seem more mature.

She was artistic and sensitive, the kind of girl who spent hours drawing in her sketchbook, who wrote poetry in a diary she kept hidden under her mattress, who still believed in magic and possibility. She loved Halloween with an intensity that embarrassed her parents - not because she wanted candy, but because she loved the creativity of it all, the costumes and decorations and the sense that, for one night, anything was possible.

This year, she’d spent weeks preparing her costume. She wanted to be a witch, but not just any witch - a real one, like from the old stories. She’d sewn the purple dress herself in home economics class, staying after school for hours to get the hem just right. She’d painted silver stars all over it with fabric paint, each one carefully placed. The pointed hat had been the hardest part, requiring cardboard, fabric, and more patience than she usually possessed. And the wand - the wand was her masterpiece. She’d carved it from a fallen branch in the backyard, sanded it smooth, painted it deep brown, and topped it with a crystal she’d bought with her allowance at the craft store. It looked real. It looked magical.

She’d been so excited to show Lars.

The autumn sun had just set on Halloween evening when Sarah burst into her older brother’s room, her costume swishing around her legs, her face glowing with pride. She’d wanted Lars’s approval more than she wanted to admit. Despite everything - despite his dismissiveness, his casual cruelty, his complete disinterest in her life - she still looked up to him. He was her big brother. She remembered when they’d been younger, when he’d taken her trick-or-treating and actually seemed to enjoy it, when he’d helped her reach the houses with the best candy, when he’d traded her his chocolate for her hard candies because he knew she liked chocolate better.

That Lars had been gone for years now, but Sarah still hoped he’d come back sometimes.

“Lars! Lars, look at my costume!” She spun in a circle, the dress flaring out, the stars catching the light. “Do you like it? I made the dress myself, and look at my wand - I carved it from a real branch! Doesn’t it look magical?”

Lars didn’t even glance up from his phone. He was sprawled across his bed in jeans and a plain black t-shirt, texting Jake about what time to meet up. The Halloween party at Devon’s place started at nine, and Lars planned to be there with bells on - or rather, with cheap plastic vampire fangs and some fake blood. That was the extent of his costume planning.

“Sarah, get out,” he said flatly, not looking up. “I’m busy.”

“But I wanted to show you! I worked really hard on this, and I thought maybe you could come trick-or-treating with me like you used to? Remember how fun it was? We could -”

“Are you serious right now?” Lars finally looked up, his expression somewhere between disbelief and disgust. “You want me to take you trick-or-treating? What are you, ten years old?”

“I’m fourteen,” Sarah said quietly, her enthusiasm already starting to deflate. “I just thought -”

“You thought what? That I want to spend my Halloween babysitting my little sister while she plays dress-up?” He sat up, his eyes raking over her costume with obvious disdain. “Jesus, Sarah. Look at yourself. That costume makes you look like you’re a little girl. It’s pathetic.”

The words hit Sarah like a physical blow. Her cheeks flushed red, and tears immediately pricked at her eyes. “It’s not pathetic. I made it myself. I worked really hard -”

“You worked hard on looking like a baby girl?” Lars stood up, grabbing his jacket from where it hung on his desk chair. “Grow up, Sarah. Nobody wants to see a teenager playing princess - or witch, or whatever the hell that’s supposed to be. You look ridiculous.”

“Lars, please.” Sarah’s voice cracked, tears threatening to spill over. “Why are you being so mean? I just wanted -”

“I don’t care what you wanted.” He brushed past her toward the door, and as he did, his eyes landed on the wand she was holding. “And what is that supposed to be? A magic wand? Are you kidding me?”

Before Sarah could react, Lars reached out and snatched the wand from her hand.

“Lars, don’t! I worked really hard on that - give it back!” Sarah reached for it, but Lars held it above his head, well out of reach of her small frame.

“You actually think this looks cool?” He examined it with mock interest. “A stick with a crystal glued to the top? This is what passes for a costume prop these days?