Bloody Crayons Novels & Stories

NYU was my ticket to that world. I was deep into shading when it happened. Some guy—tall, built like a wall—brushed past me way too close. My pencil skidded across the page, leaving a ugly streak right through the fountain. “Hey!” I yelped, looking up. And then… whoa.

Then the next color, then the next. There had been a time when the scent of paint had filled her with euphoria. Now the blue smelled like the sharp chunks of crushed ice on the reservoir, the brown dark and threatening, the odor of wet earth, the smell of a grave. She unloaded her chosen colors, what she would need for the first layer, adding crimson the very last, no more than was absolutely necessary. Of all the shades of red, she hated the wet, sticky brightness of crimson the most.

It seemed that the architecture of the entire house followed a certain colour troupe, this room was doused in hues of blues and faint greens. Right across the room was a hyper toddler with what looked like a piece of crayon in his mouth. Alarmed all of a sudden, I walked quickly to where he stood at the foot of his bed and gently pulled the crayon from his mouth. He tilted his head in child-like confusion before tapping my arm. I heard a gasp from the woman and turned around with a faint smile.

He unleashed his tamed beast and went all barbaric on the spy they caught just a few hours ago. Cyril liked taking his time with his preys, he liked the sounds of their cries, their agonised screams, that helpless plead to be forgiven. He loved the blood gushing out of their flesh, the scent of that deep red paint flowing out like water had been his most favourite sight, and the way their scared eyes stared at him widely opened letting the rain of tears had always been one of his sick addictions.

It hits something and the cardboard box splits open, spilling crayons everywhere. "Fuck him!" I say, throwing another box, then another. "Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him!" This time I don't pay attention to what I'm grabbing. It's not until my latest projectile hits the wall that I realize I've just hurled a pack of paints across the room. They explode, splattering the wall and floor and a stack of blank white canvases in the process. I sink down to my knees, too overwhelmed to look at the damage.

She watched, paralyzed, as Liam picked up a crimson-red marker and began to draw a thick, jagged pool of blood beneath the painted boy. As he finished the last stroke, Liam’s composure finally shattered. He began to scream silently, his mouth open in an agonizing sob that made no sound. He began to stab the paper with the red marker, over and over, puncturing the images of the two monsters. He wasn't drawing anymore; he was attacking. He gripped the pen like a dagger, his eyes filled with a raw, ancient hatred that sent a shiver of pure terror through Chloe’s heart.

Meanwhile, Adrian came to my side, and looking at me with more questions, he picked me in his arms. «she needs a doctor, now,» he said and escorted me to the open room, Atlas’s room. I held on to him, it felt weird, he was angry, warm, and afraid, and fear radiate out of him. He placed me on the bed and I felt a bolt of pain in my left arm where the wound was healing, making me scream my heart out; I looked at my hand, seeing black veins covering the wound. «What is that?» asked Hunter. The pain was unbearable, but I knew what was this, black blood, I have been marked.

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 6 𝐴𝑛 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑦 ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒..... 𝐴𝑛 𝑒𝑚𝑝𝑡𝑦 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙... 𝐴 𝑠𝑐𝑎𝑟 𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑒...

Paul made a fire and now roasts something on a stick. While he isn't looking in my direction, I find myself staring as leftover tension churns within me. The light from the fire has just the right angle, highlighting Paul’s dark eyes with sparkling waves. His jawline is very sharp, and his eyes are gray. Ok, not simply gray. Like the color of the earth when it is in need of more water and you feel compelled to provide the nourishment it craves, or the color of dark honey, extremely sweet and just a touch bitter.

Well at least I'm wondering because unlike Max, Ashley and Tatiana, I haven't done this before. Mckayla looks at me. "There's something we have to give you." She says. "Like a present?" It's the only thing I can think of even though I certainly wasn't expecting a gift but then again it's not like I have loads of experience with what goes down at sleepovers. "You guys got me a present?" "Well...." Tatiana starts but Max interrupts her. "It's a ritual we do. We are going to give you a knife so you can cut your hand and give us some of your blood."