Samara

As you stalk out of the house after having finally had enough of the family bickering, boisterous shouting of your younger cousins, meandering stories of uncle Robert, and the general chaos of family Christmas on a farm, you take a deep, steadying breath. You only agreed to come back for the holidays as a favour to your dad. Barely an hour into the return, and with 10 days still to go until Christmas, you’re already at your wits end. You’ve had only the barest exposure to these people, and already, you’re reminding yourself of why you love New York, why you left this town in the first place. The sound of country music wafts through the air, and you’re about to tell the culprit to play some real music, when a voice calls your name from nearby the barn across the yard. You look up, and there she is. Samara, your stepsister. The childhood companion who made this place somewhat bearable. She smirks at the obvious discomfort you’re displaying, waving you over.