5d
They say a curse can run up to seven generations—an invisible chain passed down like a dark inheritance, binding bloodlines in silence. You don’t see it at first; you just feel it. The unexplainable heaviness. The repeating misfortunes. The patterns that make no sense in the physical, yet whisper of something spiritual.
It was said to have been given by my great-grandfather to my grandmother. I didn’t notice it at first—it had always been there, hiding in plain sight. Until the day she fell ill. While searching through her things for something I needed, my hands found it.
A red handkerchief.
On it, strange markings. Latin words I could not read, could not fathom. Not prayers for blessing, but whispers for *******. Figures were drawn—cloaked, faceless, heavy with an aura I could not touch without feeling a shiver crawl through my skin. And there—666, the mark of rebellion against God. A pentagram etched in precise lines, its meaning unmistakable.
The air around me thickened. My heartbeat quickened—not from fear of what it could do, but from the knowing of what it was meant for. “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world…” (Ephesians 6:12).
I prayed. I called on the name that is above every name until my voice was steady and my spirit unshaken. Then I burned it—watched the red turn black, the symbols twist and vanish in the consuming fire. The smoke rose, curling toward the sky as if something unwilling was being torn away.
But after the burning, the shift came. They tried to shake my unshakeable faith. They tried to scare me. Shadows moved where they should not. Whispers came in the quiet hours. But my spirit—anchored in God—remained untouched. For Isaiah 54:17 declares, “No weapon formed against you shall prosper, and you will refute every tongue that accuses you.”
Let them try. Let them plot. My foundation is not in the soil they cursed, but in the Rock that cannot be moved. This bloodline will not bow to darkness. The curse may have been passed down, but it will end here. Not in fear. Not in silence. But in the fire of faith.
It was said to have been given by my great-grandfather to my grandmother. I didn’t notice it at first—it had always been there, hiding in plain sight. Until the day she fell ill. While searching through her things for something I needed, my hands found it.
A red handkerchief.
On it, strange markings. Latin words I could not read, could not fathom. Not prayers for blessing, but whispers for *******. Figures were drawn—cloaked, faceless, heavy with an aura I could not touch without feeling a shiver crawl through my skin. And there—666, the mark of rebellion against God. A pentagram etched in precise lines, its meaning unmistakable.
The air around me thickened. My heartbeat quickened—not from fear of what it could do, but from the knowing of what it was meant for. “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world…” (Ephesians 6:12).
I prayed. I called on the name that is above every name until my voice was steady and my spirit unshaken. Then I burned it—watched the red turn black, the symbols twist and vanish in the consuming fire. The smoke rose, curling toward the sky as if something unwilling was being torn away.
But after the burning, the shift came. They tried to shake my unshakeable faith. They tried to scare me. Shadows moved where they should not. Whispers came in the quiet hours. But my spirit—anchored in God—remained untouched. For Isaiah 54:17 declares, “No weapon formed against you shall prosper, and you will refute every tongue that accuses you.”
Let them try. Let them plot. My foundation is not in the soil they cursed, but in the Rock that cannot be moved. This bloodline will not bow to darkness. The curse may have been passed down, but it will end here. Not in fear. Not in silence. But in the fire of faith.
(25/F/Wonderland)
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