Blood Stained Concrete Novels & Stories

"What?" "Don't hurt Tara. I still need her." I hung up without explaining further. If Ethan was smart enough, he would soon find the clues I left behind. Once he did, that was when the real show would begin. Tara was stashed in an abandoned warehouse. When I arrived, Amber Shaw was there loudly hurling insults at her. She called Tara a homewrecker, a shameless tramp, and worse. Tara was tied to a chair and her pale face was flushed red. When she saw me enter, she glared daggers at me.

That saved me the trouble of wasting precious time trying to cover my tracks. Or rather... The third-floor hallway wasn't clean at all. The sticky residue coating the floor looked like blood that had accumulated over countless years. It looked like bloodstains left behind by victims who had been dragged across the floor. Perfect. The blood dripping from my injured foot blended into the old stains beneath me, making it harder to notice. From upstairs came the sound of pounding footsteps mixed with the rhythmic clang of a hammer striking metal. I quickly slipped into the nearest room I could find.

"Help Micah clear the hallway." Mitchell does not hesitate. He moves past me, his boots crunching on something gritty. I do not follow him. My feet freeze on the bottom step. Right there, in the centre of the floor, is a massive smear of dark, thick blood. It covers a four-foot patch of stone, bright red and glistening under the torchlight. It is Nina’s blood. I know the scent. It is sweet, too sweet for a human, carrying a faint, spicy undertone that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

When she didn't answer he quietly shut the door behind him and left her alone. She stared at the shiny, white octagon tiles on the floor. Every eight tiles a black one offset the pristine surface. Kind of like the blood on the wall in her apartment. She swallowed and glanced at the mirror over the sink. Ryan had wiped off her face while they waited for the cops to arrive, but there were dried, rust colored spots on her silk blouse and darker splotches on her jacket and pants. Blood. That was what it looked like in clothes. Movies made it seem dark and syrup like. This was more akin to a bit of tomato sauce that had splattered on her during a good meal. Except it wasn't.

There, amidst the dust-covered concrete floor, I found traces of something sinister - droplets of human blood. Curiosity gripped me, and I started to take a cautious step forward. Yet, as soon as my weight shifted, the ground beneath me gave way. Without a chance to scream, I found myself plummeting into a pit of sharp metal spikes. Agonizing pain coursed through my body as the cruel spikes embedded themselves deeply into my flesh. Blood oozed from my wounds, mingling with the traces I had discovered earlier. The trap had been set, and I had become its helpless victim.

I tell him. He rips the bottom of his shirt off and ties it around my arm to help stop the bleeding. I notice he has blood on his hands already before he even touches me, and it’s smeared across the borrowed shirt, too. And then I look down. It’s covering our shoes, slowly rolling across the floor, a sticky crimson river flowing in the direction that is easiest, the direction that contains the path of least resistance. But where is it coming from? Mim.

Instead, she kept her eyes on the floor. A red, sticky liquid covered a few of the white tiles, and Rain’s eyes traced the path back to the open door. The further to her right she looked, the more blood she saw. The entryway was full of it, the footprints left within the crimson stain clearly from military boots.

"I... I saw her head toward the loading docks, Alpha..." Tristan shoved him aside and ran. As soon as he pushed through the service doors, the stillness of the night hit him. And then he saw it. Under the flickering streetlight, a dark red stain was smeared across the concrete. Tristan’s pupils constricted. He crouched beside the pool of blood, his fingertips grazing the surface. It was still warm. A shiver of pure, primal dread surged through him. Just inches away lay my handbag, its contents spilled out like a broken promise.

"You need to see it." I grabbed my shirt from the floor and pulled it over my head, ignoring the sweat that immediately soaked through the fabric. We walked through the corridor until we were at the front door. A wooden crate sat on the stone steps, and beneath it, pooling on the pale stone, was a dark red liquid that could only be one thing. Blood.

I stared at the rough outline of his profile, charcoal smudged where my thumb had tried to soften the line of his jaw. “Stupid,” I whispered to myself, and started to tear the page out. That’s when I heard the low rumble of an engine. I looked up. A black SUV had pulled up at the far end of the lot. Two men stepped out—both in dark jackets, both moving with that careful, predatory awareness I’d only ever seen in security footage or movies. One of them lit a cigarette. The other scanned the area, gaze sliding right over me like I was part of the scenery.