I'm Cassidy Finn, age 15. And this is my 4-year-old brother, Brian. You'd think the story would be easy to predict from here on in. But oh, no. With Brian around, nothing's ever easy.

You see, I live in what social workers and bad authors call a "single-parent household". It's not so bad – my mom and I get along pretty well, and we both look out for Brian – but sometimes, I think he's a bit of a spoiled brat. He's the youngest child, which makes me automatically think he's spoiled, since I can actually physically do so much more than he can around the house. Brian, however, isn't old enough to vacuum, do dishes or laundry, make supper, or do anything really useful. He's also at that age where he needs a lot of looking after because he'll get into a heck of a lot of trouble trying to do whatever it is he's trying to do, all by himself. So he looks spoiled because he can't and doesn't help, but instead, sits on his fat toddler butt and complains about the temperature of his peas. It's hardly my fault that peas, having such large surface area for their small volume, lose heat insanely quickly. But whenever I try to explain this to Brian, he just screams.

Okay, so maybe he is a bit spoiled.

But it's not his fault. Brian wasn't even one year old when Mom and Dad split. In fact, I think he was part of the reason they stopped talking to each other. Dad was really upset when Mom got pregnant – he hadn't planned to have any children at all. They managed to work it out after I was born, but Brian was the last straw. Dad stormed out one night and didn't come back. The next thing we heard from him, he was calling to say he'd filed for divorce.

So probably partly because Mom wants Brian to feel loved even though he doesn't have a dad, and partly because we both feel guilty that Brian was the reason Mom and Dad split up, and partly because Brian is a momma's boy whom Mom's afraid to punish (see above rationale), Brian is a bit spoiled. Sad but true.

And I know I begrudge and envy him his catered-to ways and his innocence and his self-centred view of the world. I know this is selfish of me. And I know that deep down, I love my baby brother more than I'd care to admit. But I also know that I'm a selfish creature by nature, being, after all, a teenager; that I'm apt to fall in love with fairy tales and forget that reality is the real world; that there are days when I'd dearly love to make my brother, with his whiny, demanding voice and his constantly runny nose, disappear.

I was twelve when I read The Labyrinth for the first time. Young enough to find it a very enjoyable fairy tale, old enough to appreciate the complex plot. Young enough to equate myself with the heroine, old enough to realise that maybe she's not the best role model ever.

I'd found the book in the library. At the time, I was devouring every fantasy book I could get my hands on (I've since become a bit more discerning), and The Labyrinth looked at first like one amongst many. However, once I'd started reading it, it became apparent that this was not the case. The Labyrinth drew me inside, sucked me through its twists and turns, drawing me deeper and deeper into its spell until the final showdown left me gasping for breath. I was instantly in love and knew I had to have a copy, had to possess this story.

The search was long and fruitless. The Labyrinth was long out of print. No bookstores carried it, and apparently, no one had wanted to part with their copy, since we couldn't find it in any second-hand stores either. Mom and I scoured the city, but the only copy of The Labyrinth to be found was the one in our library.

So last week, when Mom handed me a blue leather-bound book and said, "I found this in the attic today. I think it must have belonged to Gram," I didn't get it at first. Then I read the gold-embossed writing on the cover and completely forgot that Brian had been acting up, that I had a unit review due and two tests the next day, that the dishes still needed doing, that I'd overcooked the roast beef, and that I was basically living the most banal existence possible.

"Is it really? No, it can't be. It's really The Labyrinth?"

"Yes, it is. I took extra care in making sure it wasn't some other book under those covers. I know how disappointed you'd be." Mom winked at me. "I can't believe I didn't think of looking in the attic sooner. Your Gram was a real character, completely devoted to fantasy to the point of living it. I should have known she'd own a copy. After all, you two are so much alike that if you're this obsessed with the book, it stands to reason that she would have been too."

I let the front cover fall open and traced the crabby, faded handwriting in the top right-hand corner of the endpapers. Wilhelmina Prince, the writing said, an exotic and exciting name. Much better than mine. But then, 'exotic' and 'exciting' were two adjectives that would have described Gram well.

Gram lived in our house for a while, a few years before and a few years after I was born. She's part of the reason Dad didn't leave Mom after I was conceived. She really was a character, as Mom has said. She liked to wear fancy ballgowns and fur boas and ostrich feathers in her hair, just to knock around the house. She had huge boxes full of books, knick-knacks, and souvenirs from places I'd love to see. China, Italy, Greece, France, Japan, Russia, Ireland...the list goes on and on. And she brought all her stuff with her when she moved in with Mom and Dad. She called it all her "treasures" and refused to part with any of it. Mom and Dad didn't have anywhere to put the "treasures", so they all got stowed in the attic. When Gram died, which was when I was about Brian's age, she willed them all to us. They've been sitting in the attic ever since, collecting dust and waiting to be found. I used to play dress-up up there, until Mom stopped me because the attic floor's not exactly safe. Still, I've always wondered what might be hiding amongst the "treasures". And now I knew.

" 'Prince'. Was that her maiden name?"

"I think so," Mom replied. "Aw, no, Brian, don't hide your peas in the cactus."

"Really, Mom. Should you have put the cactus so close to Brian's place?"

She gave me one of those fleeting smiles that I've been seeing far too rarely these days. "Our Brian's smart enough not to prick himself on a cactus. Aren't you, muffin?" she cooed at Brian, who gave his biggest smile and flicked a spoonful of peas at me.

"I won't prick myself," he answered snottily. "I'm a big boy, Mommy."

"Don't shoot peas at your sister, dear," Mom said, poking Brian right on the ingratiatingly cute little button nose.

"I was more worried about the safety of the cactus," I whispered, as I buried my arms to the elbow in soapy dishwater, searching for the cloth. "Mom, next time you fill the sink, don't use so much water. And you could put in a few more bubbles."

After dinner and clean-up, I escaped to my room, ostensibly to do homework, but after ten minutes of trigonometry I wanted to shoot Pythagoras and so, I pulled out the little blue book instead.

It was exactly as I remembered it. Just opening The Labyrinth was like welcoming an old friend home. The book was beautifully made, and had that onion-skin-thin paper and tiny type that clearly identified it as a certifiable antique, just like the red-bound copy in the library. But, unlike the one in the library, Gram's edition had illustrations, and whoever had drawn them had drawn them well. The dwarf, the gentle giant, the knight, the Wiseman, the Goblin Army, the princess, and the baby all practically popped off the page. But my favourite picture is one of the Goblin King, lounging in deep shadow on a throne that looks rather like it's been made from the horns of some giant animal. The room around him is littered with bones large and small, and shadows haunt every corner. Against this gloomy backdrop, the King glows like a fallen star, hair poofing all over the place, a cloak draped casually over the throne, apparently gazing intently into the beautifully-drawn crystal ball he holds in one gloved hand, a pair of rather grotesque goblins grovelling at his booted feet. His intensity is terrifying and captivating, and perfectly captures the spirit of the book's villain.

When I finished the book, I spent nearly half an hour staring at that picture. And when I finally shook off the fuzz that I get from spacing out like that for too long, I realised I'd been wishing that the Goblin King would turn up by magic, steal my baby brother (and maybe my homework), and whisk me away to some fairyland where I could live happily ever after. I reminded myself that this was stupid; that fairy-tale characters are not real; that the Goblin King didn't have a magical fairyland anyway, just a loathsome Labyrinth; that I'd miss Brian and feel horribly guilty if I got him stolen by goblins; that I'd miss my mom and Brian if the Goblin King yanked me suddenly out of this world.

It worked. Within minutes, I'd convinced myself that I was being silly, and returned to my usual, more practical view of the world. But my fantasy world had gained goblins, and they refused to budge.

I read the first chapter to Brian that night. He loved it. It became a habit, that every night I'd read him a chapter of The Labyrinth, and then he'd have to go straight to sleep. It was working beautifully to get Brian, normally a reluctant sleeper, to stay in bed. Unfortunately, in every other area of life, he was becoming more and more insufferable. Peas aren't the only things that Brian's picky about, and it seemed almost like the little jerk was going out of his way to drive me insane.

Like the day he dropped an entire carton of milk all over the floor because it was "stinky". (I don't know if he meant the floor or the milk.)

Like the day he took every last one of my notebooks out of my room and started to methodically remove every page that had been written or drawn on. (I never did find out why.)

Like the day he decided to be a toy-truck mechanic and began to dismantle his Matchbox cars. (I still don't know how he managed to split apart die-cast metal parts, but like I said, nothing's ever easy with Brian.) I caught him at that, before he'd wrecked too many of them, but he did cut his finger on a chunk of die-cast metal.

I was getting thoroughly fed up with Brian acting like this, but instead of falling back on goblins, I told him as much. Unfortunately, he didn't take it well. Brian just got sulky, and then spent the rest of the day carefully catching a spider and planting it in my pillow. I nearly throttled him.

This came to a head the night Mom went out on a date. She'd asked me to babysit for Brian, and I'd agreed even though I really didn't want to because, quite honestly, Mom needs to get out more. She needs a little joy in her life.

It was actually going just fine for most of the night. I tried not to lose my temper, and Brian and I actually had fun together for the first time in a long time. The first signs of trouble came that night, when I tried to put Brian to bed.

He refused to put on his pyjamas, instead running screaming up and down the halls completely bare and screaming for a story. I only got him to clothe himself by promising another chapter of The Labyrinth, and even then, he still wouldn't brush his teeth.

Outside, it was starting to storm up a bit. Brian's kind of scared of lightning, so he was really fidgety. I kept having to coax him back into bed.

Finally, when an especially big bolt of lightning made Brian jump nearly three feet in the air and thwack his head against my bunk above him, he started to cry. I was getting thoroughly sick of his nonsense, and I said 'I wish -"

Brian kicked the book. It fell on the floor, landing open to my favourite illustration. In the dim light of Brian's reading lamp, the King looked like he was staring straight at me, his expression covetous and malevolent. I swallowed the rest of the words and finished, "I wish you'd settle down. If you don't go straight to sleep, I'll call the goblins on you."

Brian hiccupped through his sobs. "You're so mean! Why are you so mean to me?"

I stopped. "What, I'm mean? Who broke all my notebooks for no apparent reason? Who put a spider in my pillow?"

"You yell at me when I mess up. Mom likes you better than me, I know it! And you never think I'm good enough."

"What? That's not true! Brian, I love you," I protested, but it sounded far too theatrical to my ears. Probably to Brian's, too, because he stopped bawling and glared at me, tears running down his fat toddler cheeks, nose running freely into his mouth, which he opened and said the fatal words:

"I wish the goblins really would come and take you away. Right now."

That's the last thing I remember before a gargantuan flash of lightning came sizzling down out of the sky and all the lights went out.

When they came back on again, I was in this...place, this place where I'm writing now. Then, as now, I was surrounded by what look like the monstrous little goblins that were cowering at the King's feet in my favourite illustration. The walls and floor are stone, the windows have no glass, and there are chickens and goblins on ledges all along the walls. I'm sitting in a disgusting sunken pit in the middle of the floor, and right in front of me is what appears to be the same throne as in the illustration. (No bones on the floor can be seen except a few well-gnawed chicken bones, thank goodness.) It's empty now, but it wasn't when I got here. Because the Goblin King was sitting on it.

I'm ever so slightly worried that the words worked.

Here's basically how our conversation went: I opened my eyes, and found myself staring down at the raggedy red blanket that covers the pit. I had no idea where I was, and looked around for Brian first and foremost. Thankfully, he's not here. All I saw was goblins, left, right, above me, everywhere. And then a silky voice behind me said, "Well, what's this?"

I found myself completely frozen, unable to breathe. Oddly enough, my first worry wasn't for my safety, or for Brian's. It was, What if he's not good enough? What if the Goblin King doesn't live up to my expectations?

I shouldn't have worried.

"What do I do now?" I finally asked him, once I got my breath back. It was difficult. Watching him smirk at me, looking more beautiful and more evil and more heartbreaking than any drawing, sucked the air right out of my lungs. "Do I have to solve the Labyrinth to win my freedom?"

He shook his head. "You don't get that option. Only your brother does, and at the moment, he's got the covers pulled up around his chin and is whimpering for his mommy." There was a hint of a sneer in the Goblin King's voice when he said this, and I find myself, even now, irrationally angry with him for denigrating my little brother so. "Your thirteen hours are just trickling away."

"So what do I do now?" I entreated him, feeling panic rising as a lump in my throat.

'Get used to calling me 'my liege'." He lifted my chin with one gloved finger, and I couldn't help noticing how cold it was, even through the leather. "You'll make a fine goblin."

He left shortly afterwards, seemingly bored, and I grabbed a corner of the blanket and pulled my trusty pen from my pocket and wrote this all down. I don't know if it'll do any good, but it's worth writing. I'm Cassidy Finn, age 15, wannabe writer, daughter of Lucy Finn and Daniel White, sister of Brian Finn, and I'm very sorry.

Oh hell with it. No one's ever going to find this, so I may as well say it.

And I will never have to do trigonometry again!

AN: Okay, I know that everyone was waiting for updates while I was working on this. But I was suffering from a bad case of writer's block, and this idea has been bouncing around in my head for a while, so I tried to write it. I think it came out quite well, so I want to share the finished result with you.

In case you hadn't noticed, this has almost nothing to do with the Jim Henson movie Labyrinth. I would have worked more of the characters in, but I didn't. I thought it'd be more fun if neither Cassidy nor anyone around her knew how to deal with this situation, and if I put Sarah or Toby or any of the friends into this fic, the other characters could've fallen back on them for expert advice.

I will leave it up to you whether or not Cassidy has the ingenuity, resourcefulness, courage, and determination to escape her fate, if Brian gathers up some pluck at the last minute (although he is only four, after all – you might want to go easy on him), or if Cassidy just becomes a goblin and never does trig again. I'm sure she wouldn't mind too terribly.

I hope you enjoyed!