Bed Bug Blood Stains On Pillow Novels & Stories

Once Akira stood up to her feet Beth reached for the blanket pulling it away to fold it back up. Her gaze slid back towards the bed, at first Beth didn't understand what she was seeing.– The pale sheets that were once white were now darkened in patches, the entrance a drenched blood that was on the bed. There were nice stains of fresh wounds or bruises but the sticky blood that was on the bed. Beth sniffed using her wolf scent and she could tell– it's blood from Akira's body. Her lips parted, a small, unintentional gap forming between her front teeth as her eyes locked on the stain. Confused and shocked at the same time Beth couldn't speak..

My eyes drifted to her legs. Dark marks circled both ankles. I leaned closer, my chest tightening as I studied them. They were not random bruises. They looked like grip marks, as if someone had held her there, dragged her by the ankles. A cold wave rushed through me. I moved away from her legs and gently lifted her head. Blood. Fresh stains soaked into the white pillow beneath her hair. My breath caught in my throat. I straightened slowly, my mind racing. “Marks on both ankles. Blood on the pillow,” I muttered aloud, my voice shaking. “That means there’s a cut at the back of her head. Scratches on her neck. On her chest.”

She had a feeling of being unwell, she went to the living room to sleep, then, she looked up, noticing some stains on the ceiling, it looked like a splash at first, it looked like pasta sauce on the ceiling, how would it have ended up there. When she slept, she showed it to him. There are some stains on the ceiling.

The clock on the wall said 2:07 AM. The last time I’d looked, it had only just hit midnight. I shifted, stretching out my arm and rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Then I saw it. A faint smudge—dark, dull—staining the corner of the throw pillow beside me. My heart dropped. I sat up straighter, lifting the pillow. There, on the edge of the couch, was a smear of blood. “Killian?” I whispered instinctively, though I already knew he wasn’t here.

The pillows smelled of him and of their late night escapades. She turned around and came down from the bed. There was blood on the sheets: a little spotting and nothing more. She packed up the sheets and, as an afterthought, brought them closer to her nose. The sheets smelled of his signature smell: cedarwood. She could smell it all day!

Patchy blood stains, appearing unevenly, stretched from the pillow to the bed sheet. Located between the two beds on the right there was an iron door, which seemed to be the only exit in the room. In the middle of the room lay a small table, on which glass jars were presented of all sizes. In each jar it contained a thick red liquid, uneven in size. There were spilled jars lying on the countertop, liquid dripping from the inside onto the table, dripping drop by drop onto the floor. Just looking at it, can guess that the liquid is blood.

His attention was on something else entirely. “Come here,” he rasped, manspreading on my bed. “No. Leave. Before someone finds you here.” I'm just about to say something else but something catches my eye. His shirt is soaked and if I'm seeing clearly, I know all too well that isn't sweat or water. I switch on the lights and take a step closer. It's blood.

The house loomed quiet as I entered, but the path to our bedroom told me everything I needed to know. Blood. Not his. But his clothes wore it like second skin. His trousers had been tossed over the edge of the bed, belt still looped, one leg stained deep red. His shirt, the same white one clinging to his chest earlier, lay half-crumpled near the dresser. Red streaks across the collar, like someone had tried to wipe a dying breath there. His jacket was draped across the floor, discarded like a body. The tie he wore was still wet, flung over the back of the chair. And his briefs sat by the bathroom door, barely clinging to the wall like they, too, had been stripped in a frenzy.

I look down at the white bedsheets and they are stained with blood. The amount of blood on the sheets alarms me, and I know that it is not period blood. “How do you feel? Do you want me to call 911?” Robert still looks troubled and wants to do something to help.

Beside it, dark symbols smeared into the wood with sticky blood. And a shallow metal bowl, the bottom crusted black. I swallowed hard, my throat tightening. “What… what is that doing under my bed?” Pelin gagged audibly, one hand clamped over her mouth. “That stench—ugh—it’s like burnt iron. Aziz, what the hell is this?” He didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched, his hand closing around the feather so tightly the quill cracked. Then he looked at us, something unreadable burning behind his eyes.