Blood Stained Concrete Novels & Stories

She grabbed the flashlight from her glove compartment and got out, scanning the area. Daniel's car was gone. Maya's breath caught. That could mean anything. Maybe he'd driven away. Maybe the killer had moved the body. Maybe the whole video had been staged. But then she saw it—dark stains on the concrete where his car had been parked. She knelt down, her flashlight revealing the unmistakable pattern of blood, already drying in the December cold. "No," Maya whispered. "Please, no." Her phone buzzed again. She yanked it out, ready to scream at whoever was tormenting her, but stopped when she saw the message.

On the battered basin before him, nine bloody spikes lay in a haphazard pile, stained crimson, an unsettling testament to what had transpired. “Done,” I muttered, voice strained but steady. I reached for the crumpled piece of paper, now soaked in blood and sweat, tangled in the mess. The note had once been pristine—perhaps just a scribbled warning or plea—yet now it looked like a fragment of a nightmare.

The radio in the dispatch room was on, but just playing static. We found the blood in the hallway near the evidence locker. It wasn’t a splatter, not a spray. It was a drag. A streak of crimson about a foot wide, smearing from the locker room door down the corridor and disappearing into the shadows under the stairwell. No body. No bones. Just that awful smear. Jonie crouched near it and touched the edge. "Dry. Been here a while." "Still smells fresh," Rachelle muttered, covering her nose.

Not just ancient, but angry. My shoes crunched against something soft. I looked down and saw blood. It wasn't fresh enough to still be warm, but not old enough to be dry either. It smeared beneath my sole, dark and sticky. I grimaced, chills running down my spine. There were handprints on the walls. Bloody streaks dragged downward, as if someone had been pulled across the stone. Bones lay scattered in corners. Some were human, others were not. My vision swam. I swallowed hard, bile burning at the back of my throat.

Blood smears across the carpet, dark streaks that'll never come out. Good thing this place sees worse things than murder. The bathtub is barely big enough, but I manage to fold him inside. His head lolls at an unnatural angle. I turn away, focusing on the next step. Bleach. Lots of it. The motel's supply closet is a joke—just cleaning rags and half-empty bottles. But there's enough bleach to burn away DNA. I pour it over everything: the carpet, the walls, the doorknobs. The chemical smell makes my eyes water.

It spreads slowly, turning the white fabric to a shocking crimson. The Council members are trying not to look at it and failing miserably. Elder Corvin is staring at the stain with morbid fascination. Lyra looks nauseous. Even Vorlag seems unsettled, his eyes darting to my ribs and then back to my face. I take a sip of water. The rim of the crystal glass comes away stamped with a bloody lip print. I set it down on the polished wood. I really must look rather shocking. “Continue, Elder Corvin,” I say. “You were discussing the bridge repairs in the northern quadrant.”

Flesh curled back and blood gushed out in a torrent, quickly creating a dark red stain on the ground. “Zoey Stone, you little troublemaker!”

I arrived after she left. The parking lot was dark. The body was still there, pieces of it, scattered across the pavement. Blood everywhere. The smell was thick, metallic, clinging to the back of my throat. I worked fast. First, the blood. I had a spray bottle in my trunk, industrial strength, the kind that breaks down proteins on contact. I sprayed the pavement where she had stood, where the blood had pooled, where her paws had left prints. I scrubbed with a brush, rinsed with water from a jug, sprayed again. I wiped down the places where she had touched. The car door of Felix's vehicle. The ground where his body had fallen.

Each step felt like moving through quicksand, my body suddenly leaden with dread. When I pushed open the bathroom door, the scene before me stopped my heart. The tub—that massive marble tub with its gold fixtures that had made Emma's eyes light up with childlike wonder—was empty of her presence but full of evidence of violence. The water still filled it nearly to the brim, but instead of crystal clear, it was stained a diluted red, like watercolour paint bleeding across a canvas. The scent of her blood hung heavy in the humid air, mixed with something chemical and wrong. On the marble floor, a small puddle of water had formed, with partial wet footprints leading away—too large to be Emma's.

"Am sorry, I thought you must be tired, I didn't want to disturb you" "It's okay, make sure to wake me up next time or run to me when you seek comfort," Damien told her and She smiled, answering with an mn but suddenly, She felt something wet and warm beneath her hand. Confused, She opened her eyes and stared at her palm, her eyes went wide as She saw it was covered in blood. "You are bleeding!" She immediately voiced out without thinking, putting out from his embrace. Damien's eyes went to his arm, to find his shirt soaked in his blood. "Shit!" He cursed, immediately getting out of bed and running towards the bathroom.