Bloody Painter Creepypasta の小説・ストーリー

The liquid is red—blood, and what I stumbled upon is a body. I let out a scream of horror as I crawl away from the scene. ##########

Jess just stood there as if her legs didn't work as the stranger reached out and smelt her hair. "Hey! What the hell are you doing you CREEP!" Jackie yelled as she ran over. "Let's go Jess." Jackie pulled her by the arm and they rushed for the door. Jess could hear the guy talking to himself as he watched them leave, "Such a pretty girl, I'm gonna getcha pretty girl." Jess noticed that he was missing a few teeth when he smiled at her through the storefront window. "What a creep, what the hell was wrong with that guy? He was probably some kind of pedophile. Why did you even let him close enough to touch you?" Jackie went on rambling as Jess sat in silence.

I’ve found several stains of blood while seeing Papochka entering the home with a gun. There’s a rumour in the house that my Baboo used to paint with human blood. Even the sarcastic and fun-loving Papa Killian often loses his calm and beats the guards to pulp. Still, I’ve seen those people scroll past headlines soaked in blood and sip their coffee. Maybe we’ve all become too comfortable in our indifference, too fluent in detachment. Maybe monsters don’t hide under our beds anymore, they sit beside us, perfectly calm, chewing gum and asking what’s for dinner.

I liked them immediately. I was standing there, head tilted, trying to figure out what emotion the artist had been trying to strangle onto the canvas, when I felt it. That prickle on the back of my neck. I turned. And there he was. Leather jacket guy. He was standing near the doorway, half in shadow, arms crossed, watching the room like he was waiting for someone to do something stupid so he could end them. Same sharp jaw, same messy dark hair, same eyes that seemed to cut straight through people.

It was a literal, physical manifestation of the psychological haunting I had been enduring for the last three hundred days. I dipped a fine-tipped badger brush into a well of deep crimson alcohol-activated paint, my hand steadying only when the bristles touched the cool, synthetic flesh. Splat. Splat. I stippled the artificial blood, building the layers of depth, trying to lose myself in the math of shadows and highlight variables. Then, the heavy metal security door clicked. It wasn't a loud sound, but in the dead silence of the studio, it hit my eardrums like a mortar shell.

I had to face this fever all by myself. Sobbing escaped my lips just like that. Tears streamed uncontrollably, spilling to wet the surface of the pillow where my face was buried tightly. Self-pity struck my chest hard, making my body shake violently wrapped inside the blanket. I lamented this solitude, feeling so small and fragile in a narrow, unfamiliar room. My crying intensified, filling the quiet room without anyone to hear. I kept sobbing until my breath hitched and my chest hurt. That exhaustion and high fever finally crushed the remainder of my strength. Gradually, the sounds around me faded, and my vision darkened as consciousness slipped away.

Seeing him with a sadistic smile as he licked the blood off his lips. But all in all, I am ejoying the meals that the chef is serving and I got to meet new people too. I ate a lot of variety dishes. They were delicious even though I spent it with Mr Vamps whom I am to confirm. I might be wrong after all I have not seen him in the wrong. Only his pale skin nothing else. Those dreams may be wrong or true. I have been avoiding him since the party and when we engage in a conversation, it is him asking and me replying to his questions facing on the floor afraid to meet his eyes.

A blood moon hovers in the night sky, an ominous sign that the manananggal is just lurking nearby. Legend says that when a moon like this appears in the sky, the bowels of the earth would open and release these menacing creatures from the deep. The manananggal according to mythology, is a half-bodied naked woman with the wings of a bat, razor-sharp teeth, and a 5-foot tongue that acts like suction to draw the blood out of the victim's body. The wing is so large that it spans at least 8 feet from tip to tip. To search for its prey, it hovers high above the night sky and through its keen sense of smell detects their blood.

I grabbed the hem of Felix's shirt, fixed a pitiful expression on my face, and mumbled, "I believe you, Felix." Felix's expression softened as he helped me back to my feet. Taking advantage of the fact that the other wolves' attention was still on us, I retrieved a document from my bag and handed it to Felix. "I accidentally recorded your pup's blood type as AB when I registered his information last time. The truth is, his blood type is O." Felix's face twisted as he snatched the document from me. An eerie silence descended upon the hall. Everyone knew that all the wolves of the Blackrock pack had type-AB blood, making it impossible for a pup with type-O blood to exist in the pack.

“Blood, Word, Breath. Break any and the stair erases your ascent.” Taren swallowed. “What happens if the stair erases us?” “You forget up,” the figure said, almost kindly. “Some prefer that.” They descended. ⸻ The chamber of Blood was small, round, plain. A bowl cut into the floor collected melt from the ceiling in slow, patient drops. A wafer of ice rested on a plinth beside it. Three channels had been carved there: two whole, one shallow. Kaelira’s wolf paced. Teeth and ritual, Ardyn said, unimpressed. Pick one.