Cursed Writing Novels & Stories

As the Ancestral Talisman Master said, one with a high understanding of Curse Magic could easily kill an enemy regardless of whether they were separated by time or space. Curse Magic could destroy an entire world instantly. It was not an exaggeration. James sat on a cliff in a lotus position on the back mountain of the Rune Land. Several mysterious inscriptions surrounded him. The inscriptions were black and exuded a black glow. The black inscriptions were made up of some black mist. The shape of the inscriptions was very strange. It seemed like random scribbles that were constantly changing every moment. James found it very bizarre. “This is the fundamental Curse Inscriptions.

Arriving unto that certain place where the curse is looming from within. “A curse that will put you into the deeper sanction of your darkest fear and inevitable death. A poem created to inflict pain and suffering for those who come across with it and will bring death unto the foolish ones who will lead it out loud. Just how cunning the God who wrote this world and book, for cursing it for real this time.”

I almost puked in disgust and turned my face away but she forced me to look at her. "I curse you to never find love, you'll be lonely all of your life. Anyone who loves you will die a horrible death, anyone who tries to break this curse will never know peace, you will be an outcast among your own people, your best friend will betray you, your woman will seek your life and you will never be happy!" The woman shouted. "No!" I yelled frantically. I began to shake violently as I tried to free myself, the witch appeared beside my Father and everyone else began to chant the curse along with her.

Celeste rises, very upset. "But you're not cursed. Grandma made it up because she was upset that her son died and you were left. You look a lot like him and were a painful reminder of what she lost. That's why she sent you away and why she spread such an awful rumor." Hope swells in my chest and I can't stop it. There's a possibility I might not be cursed!

My voice cracked on the words because I was certain that he did love me. Confusion marred her perfect features. “Is he sick?” Because truly, that would be the only other problem. “He's cursed.” I blurted out. “Cursed?” She sounded disbelieving. “Yes, cursed.” I spent the next few minutes explaining Brian's curse, his age, the death of his prior mates, and the future event of my possible death.

I was certain I had not been seeing things, and I certainly was not hallucinating. How could that text message have vanished for no reason? More importantly, what did that text message mean? Could it be that the valedictorians for the past SATs scorers had not committed suicide? Instead, they were murdered? Was it really the curse of the valedictorian? Would I die tonight, too? At that thought, a chill ran down my spine. After informing the police, I started a livestream. With the words “The Valedictorian Herself” in the title, tens of thousands of people flooded into the livestream in an instant. The number kept growing steadily. I quickly reached one million concurrent viewers.

one of the warriors reported. I nodded once and wiped the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. Normally after a fight my wolf would calm down, but tonight it was worse. Restless. Wounded. Silent. Ever since the rejection ceremony my wolf refused to speak to me. It stayed buried deep inside me like it hated me.

Notes to herself rather than formal record. The curse-maker's mark. She read it twice. Three times. She sat back on the bench and stared at the candle flame and processed what she had just read. Every curse carried the signature of its creator. Not metaphorically—literally. The energy of the caster, encoded into the structure of the curse at its origin point, still present in every iteration of it, every spread, every body it moved through. Most curses lost coherence over time. Most makers were generations dead and their signature was too faint to matter.

The word hung there, the red glistening wetly. My hand clenched at my side. “Of course,” I whispered. GIRL followed, the letters a little more hurried, as if the writer was getting into the rhythm now. Then, beneath, in a larger, looping script: CURSED WOLF. I swallowed. Hard. The room felt smaller. The air, colder. COME TO ME BEFORE THE NEXT BLOOD MOON… The ink—blood?—seeped down the glass in thin rivulets, pooling at the bottom edge of the frame.