The dream of a lifetime for millions, a lottery win, became a desolate descent into terror for Alex. What began as an ecstatic triumph over fate quickly unraveled into a relentless nightmare, each spent dollar marking another step deeper into an abyss of the macabre. This isn't a story of financial ruin, but of a soul-crushing curse that feasts on hope, twisted into a grotesquerie of despair.

The winning ticket was found in the most unusual of places: not crumpled in a forgotten pocket, but meticulously pinned to the ancient, gnarled oak that stood sentinel at the edge of the old Blackwood forest. Alex, dismissing the oddity as a playful prank, felt an exhilarating surge of disbelief and joy when the numbers matched. The initial euphoria was boundless, painting a future of boundless possibilities. The first withdrawal from the newfound fortune was a carefully planned act of generosity, a desire to share the good tidings.

Alex was now trapped, a prisoner of a fortune that demanded to be spent, yet exacted a horrifying toll with every transaction. To destroy the money was impossible; it regenerated, manifested elsewhere, or simply materialized from thin air. Attempts to throw it away resulted in it reappearing in alarming, often grotesque forms: bills turning to leeches, coins to pulsating insects. The curse wasn't merely attached to the money; it was the money, an ancient entity that fed on human desire and transformed it into misery. It thrived on the act of spending, on the fleeting joy of acquisition, twisting it into a conduit for its parasitic existence.

The symbols on the Blackwood oak now pulsed with a sickening, victorious rhythm. They were not merely a warning but a living ledger, a grotesque chronicle of the lives consumed and twisted by the cursed jackpot. Each new tragedy added another intricate, shifting pattern to the tree's surface, a testament to the entity's growing power. Alex, hollowed out and haunted, could only watch, a silent witness to a world slowly tainted by a fortune that promised everything and delivered only an eternity of torment, knowing that every breath, every heartbeat, merely prolonged the agonizing dance with a curse that had chosen them as its eternal steward. The lottery ticket was not a win; it was an invitation to an unspeakable, unending horror.