Are Old Blood Stains Permanent Novels & Stories

Then he opens the evidence bag slightly which contains a dark, worn out fabric soaked in water, her fingers hover over it but don’t touch it. “That’s dad's shirt” she says immediately. My stomach drops. “You’re sure?” I ask quietly. “Yes.” Her voice doesn’t waver. She crouches, studying the cloth. “The dark stain on it is not from water,” she murmurs. Alexander kneels beside her. “What do you see.” “Blade,” she says. “Clean slice.” Alexis steps closer. “Blood?” she asks. Lucian shakes his head. “None.” Relief moves through me like a slow exhale.

The deep red liquid spilled onto her shirt, staining it and spreading outwards like a macabre halo. The blood had already started to dry on her skin, leaving a dark, crusty trail that extended from her neck down to her chin. The sight of it made me feel sick to my stomach. As I looked closer, I noticed that the blood had also trickled down onto Clara's face, leaving smears of red on her cheeks and forehead.

In less than a minute, the place was crowded with employees of the company; some of them were trying to help the dead man, while others were trying to figure out the cost of his death. "How can this be possible? He has lost a lot of blood; there is literally no blood in his body, but there isn’t any blood on the floor. Only the bloodstains on his shirt are an evidentiary sign of blood. How can his shirt absorb so much blood?" a security guard said. Mr. Abel's body was moved to the floor by security personnel.

Daniel told him, still impassive, “and I couldn't tell you if any of my family or friends to whom it was ever lent bled there and didn't want to leave that in plain sight.” “Are you aware that a crime could have been committed there?” Norma asked. “The pattern of that bloodstain suggests that whoever it belonged to was thrown violently against that wall.” “As far as I know, nothing strange has ever happened in that cabin, and one less murder, for God's sake! You will have to investigate it then. Also, if I'm not mistaken, where a homicide is committed there are always many traces of blood, right? Not just a stain.” “You are right,” Roy told him, “there's always more blood, and we haven't fou

“How am I going to fit into a pair of your jeans, you tall, skinny fuck?” “Fine I’ll buy you a new pair of jeans, happy now? A three hundred quid pair of jeans that aren’t covered in blood.” “They were a limited edition. Besides that’s not the point, I could have washed them.” “No you couldn’t, they’ve got tests and stuff. Forensic science that can find traces in the fibres and shit, even after they’re washed.” “It probably wouldn’t even be there tomorrow. I mean it was already . . . ” “What?”

No person with a shred of conscience could commit such gruesome acts. Every wall bore the marks of bloodstains, some of which seemed to have been there for a considerable amount of time, untouched by any attempts at cleaning. The room reeked of decay as if someone had left rotting flesh inside. I knew it was the lingering scent of the blood that hadn't been properly cleaned but had instead dried up, causing the putrid odor to permeate the air. But where did all this blood come from?

I stepped inside the bathroom, whose door had been ajar and I froze almost immediately. There, sitting in the sink, was a roll of bandage. It looked like it had been hurriedly tossed there, part of it unraveling into the basin. But what stopped my breath wasn’t the mess, it was the color of the blood staining the cloth. Not red. Not even dark crimson. It was black. My chest tightened. The blood was dark, that means malicious magic. How come it didn’t turn dark yesterday when Lilith had checked it? My fingers trembled as I reached for it. The air in the bathroom suddenly felt heavy, suffocating. When I touched the dried bandage, a faint chill pulsed through my skin.

It's had a little bit to settle in, and the stain doesn't want to clear away. It takes almost an hour to clear away the blood stain. When we're done, we use the rest of the water in the bucket to wash away the soap and the remaining bloody water. With the porch outside the front door clean, the two of us head back into the kitchen to begin going through the cupboards for any signs of rotten food.

I tried again, louder this time. My eyes wandered across the room. A flash of white caught my eye. A linen shirt was draped carelessly over the arm of the sofa. It looked out of place in a room so tidy. I moved toward it, intending to fold it, but as I reached out, my breath hitched in my throat. The fabric was cold. And it was stained. A jagged, crimson smear ran across the chest and down the sleeve. It wasn't the rust-colored stain of old wine or the brown smudge of vineyard mud. It was bright. The unmistakable stain of fresh blood.

It wasn't a food stain. It was blood. Thick, dark, dried drops of blood, splattered across the cuffs of his trousers in a large frantic pattern.