The Dreaded CurseThe dark, dingy room swayed before his bloodshot eyes, he hadn't slept in days. The trees outside trembled in the strong wind as if their arms were waving helplessly. The cracked glass in the window was razor sharp - dare someone to come and test its sharpness. The sofa was black with dirt and incredibly sagging; the putrid smell that hung in the air was almost unbearable, the wallpaper was peeling off the walls at every corner. The only light in the room flickered on and off dimly. There were cracks in both the ceiling and the walls, but for Travers this shack was his home. Travers wandered around the room, his ragged clothes (which were three sizes too big for him) falling off his shoulders more and more with every step he took. taken. His wrinkled and holey shirt was less than decent and his trousers, which had once been grey, were black with dirt. Travers was not a handsome man and had many distorted features: his black hair, shaggy and knotted, covered his pale forehead; his blue eyes had disappeared many weeks ago and in their place were bloodshot red ones; the bags under her eyes were those of an elderly woman. Sweat ran down his face and it had nothing to do with the heat of the room. Travers wiped his brow and walked slowly around the room. “It's coming,” he thought. Trembling, Travers sat down on the old sofa. His fingers, extremely pale, couldn't stop shaking. His body leaned forward, as if to protect himself from pain and harm. Travers slowly raised his head and walked menacingly toward the door. Thunk, his boots stepping out onto solid concrete as he locked up the shack he called home. The rain fell on his clothes making them stick to his... center of the paper... he was in pain but continued to run faster. He ran upstairs with the man at his heels. Travers' heart pounded as he jumped from the railing into the hallway; this made the man even more angry. The man turned to follow Travers but when he climbed onto the railing, the knife slipped from his hand and he fell. The blade landed point up as the man fell and the blade pierced his chest, the man lay prone on the floor, as dead as a mouse caught in a mousetrap. "No! Not my brother, I'm so sorry I killed your wife that night. It was an accident, please forgive me!” shouted Travers. He collapsed to the floor in a flood of tears, took the knife from his brother's heart and plunged it into his left ventricle, piercing his heart. Travers was dead. Silence was the only noise in the shack; the feared curse had finally been lifted from the shack.