Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

I burst through the double doors into the main gallery space and come skidding to a halt. The white sheet that had covered my painting earlier now lies in a heap on the floor, revealing the artwork beneath. It depicts a circle of children holding hands, playing ring around the rosie. Werewolf pups swirl around their legs. All are smiling. All are happy. It was meant to be a statement. One of hope, of happiness, of peace. But now, that message is obliterated. Someone has thrown what looks like a bucket of blood over the canvas. Thick, crimson liquid drips down the children’s faces, pools in their outstretched hands, stains their clothes.

Blood sprays everywhere, painting the pavement as he collapses in a heap at my feet, eyes wide, mouth still open around whatever bullshit he was about to spew before attempting to shoot me. Cali stumbles back with a strangled gasp, her heels slipping against the concrete. “What the—what the fuck just happened?” I step over Stefan’s body like it’s nothing. “He made a bad investment.” Her chest heaves with sharp, shallow breaths, eyes flitting from the blood to the canvas in my hands. “Is that what this was about? That ugly thing?” She’s still recovering when I crouch low, set the painting across my knee, and pull the knife from my belt. The blade slices through the canvas in one clean, brutal

His entire body was covered in a bloody mist. "Haha, my Demonic Blood Diagram has finally been mastered!" The figure let out another heaven-shaking laugh.

At first, it’s nothing—just shadows in the red. But then? Eyes. Teeth. Mouths locked in silent screams. I smile—wide. The dry skin on my lips splits and bleeds, but I don’t stop. It’s beautiful—my own personal gallery in red and black hues. The blood isn’t just blood anymore. It breathes. It listens. And now, it talks—not in sound, but meaning. Rage. Hunger. Power. Old power. Forgotten. Waiting. I don’t just bleed—I conjure. The figures in the pool whisper without mouths, and the more I hurt, the clearer they become. My blood isn’t just leaking. It’s listening.

he says. "I know," I say. He hands the knife back to me, handle first. "Keep it," he says. "Next time, aim for the throat." Outside, the moon is rising—two days from full, heavy and pregnant with light. But in the portrait room, surrounded by the faces of women who had not been allowed to choose, I feel something shift. The bloodline is not a curse, I realize. It is a question. And for the first time, I am ready to answer it on my own terms.

"Underneath, there were paintings. Dark. Bloody. Full of misery." 💜

Gail felt his fine hair stand on end. “But this painting is amazing, painted like real. I think the painter was very rich at that time. Hmm…” Gail then stood up and looked around. “I only saw one painting here. However, I did not find another painting anywhere. Have the termites eaten it? But why is this painting not eaten? Ah… The things of the past are mysterious.” Gail then took the shabby cloth and covered the photo again. “Sorry I can't hang you back, your frame has been shattered. But I will still cover you with this cloth, so you don't get dusty easily."

she said and grinned at him, even though her insides are shaking a bit. After that, she looks around his office again. The big dark curtains caught her attention. At this time of the day, the sun is at its peak but because of those big curtains hanging on his window, the sunlight barely touches the ground of the insides. She walked towards the window and attempted to part the curtains when a strong grip on her arms stopped her and Sunny found herself pinned on the wall. She can see her own reflection on his dark and scary eyes. It's just like seeing her reflection in the eyes of the murderer. She's scared but she does her best to hide it "Bitch!" He spats on her face. She never heard his voi

El stifled a groan and turned to Lucas, who looked utterly mortified. "Right, back to class, folks!" The Principle shuffled his chair back as he stood, vaguely gesturing with one arm. They filed out of the office into the main hallway, where the magnolia paint was peeling off the walls in places, revealing a pale green underneath. "Psychiatric green", El had once told her, thought to be a calming colour. Lucas took off down the hall, slamming a locker door as he went. "Well, that's just great," El grumbled.