Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

The groom mounting the bride on a throne of corpses. My hand moved faster than my mind. I dipped the brush deeper, harder, tearing at the canvas like I was cutting flesh. I mixed the reds and blacks until they bled together, thick and viscous. The eyes I painted stared back, wide and lifeless. The flowers were rotting. The sky dripped gore. A massacre. And I smiled. They wanted a masterpiece? I’d give them one they’d never forget.

I remarked and Kyler chuckled. “The pictures you sent me through the mindlink were wow ! Are you an artist in painting bodies with blood ? The precision of the cuts and the streams of oozing blood were too accurately done !! I could swear you were sending me the images of a painting if I had not seen your victims walking and talking for real ! The artwork was beautiful but gory,” Kyler said with a shudder. “I know you paint red better, babe,” I snorted as I thought back about Kyler’s victims tonight. All of them had been left hanging on a tree and I swear, I would have loved to turn that tree into a Xmas one if he had used actual decorations instead of corpses.

By Friday, I was a jagged edge of nerves. This was my debut as a solitary wolf, without the Alpha’s ring weighing down my hand. The work I had bled into over the last seven weeks—pure, unadulterated fury—screamed from the walls. The centerpiece, a chaotic sprawl of crimson and black titled The Final Howl, was splattered with actual droplets of my own blood. I had pricked my fingers until they were raw to get the shade right. It was primal, a stark departure from the polished, soulless portraits I’d painted to please the Graves family.

It was painted with black and white paint that's smeared, and mixed with something red and dried. I didn't have to think too much on it because I already knew what that red stuff was. Blood. Dried blood stuck to the messy skull-face painting that hid his features. A ring of black paint hooded around his eyes, making the dark shade of grey even darker. It should look scary, like the psycho serial killer kind of scary. But to me, it only makes him look even more beautiful. Dark yet beautiful. It gave him this mysterious, dark warrior look from a barbarian tribe like in the movies. They’d wear paint on their faces, torso and arms as a symbol of the number of kills or war victories they had.

I grabbed the huge canvas and my paints without bothering to tie my hair up. Colors collided on the canvas, raw and wild. Rage mixed with sorrow, bleeding into every stroke—red for the fury in the background, black for the emptiness, lines in the red, white for the hollow ache blending with the blue, brown for the weight of it all. But...Blue surged, sharp and piercing, until his image actually emerged. Not the man himself, but his eyes. Those cruel, calculating blue eyes that knew exactly how to lie. The image spoke...as if it was actually him on the other side—laughing at me, cruelly.

I fought against the darkness that threatened to envelop me, desperate to find solace in the haven of my room. But my body had other plans. A violent convulsion seized me, and a primal scream erupted from my lips. With a rush of horror, I realized that I was vomiting blood. Thick, crimson liquid cascaded from my mouth, staining the floor with its grotesque presence. Tears mingled with the blood as I crumpled to the ground, my strength sapped by the sheer intensity of the pain. My beloved paintings lay forgotten, scattered haphazardly around me, as if mimicking the chaos that now consumed my body. I gasped for air, the taste of iron overwhelming my senses.

“So you can either be the one posing on the couch, behind the canvas or be the one whose blood I will use in replacement for paints.” I suppressed the sob that wanted an outlet. “You... you've killed my sister, haven't you?” Hot tears rolled down my cheeks the moment I said the last words. His statement told me the obvious. I heard he does not only drink the blood of his victims, he goes as far as using the blood to paint on his canvas victoriously.

“Oh Zeph, you are a funny man. Yes indeed, there are colours, and there are naked people, but just look closely. They are all alive in these pictures. This painting here…” He pointed towards a painting where a maiden was sitting in a corner of a dark room, hugging her blood-stained, torn gown. Her face buried in her knees. “The damage,” I read the painting’s name. “The artist was molested,” Archer said and my eyes instantly shot with tears. A non-living painting that was nothing a second ago came to life as if the girl in the painting was talking to me through some magical portal. I understood why half of the painting was painted black and I started seeing and hearing her mind. Her screams,

Jon mumbled. "And that undisclosed buyer is me," said Dante smiling widely, his sharp teeth glistening in the dim room. "Let's see if you can guess who painted the next one." Dante walked eagerly to the next painting, his cane tapping on the wooden floor like a one-legged giant insect. He likewise turned on the pin lights and the painting exploded in colors of bright red and burnt sienna. "This painting is something I really like. Tell me what you think?" The second painting showed a half-naked man with eyes opened wide as if in a crazed state. In his hand was something that looked like a severed human arm while blood was seen dripping from his mouth. He appeared to be in a desert and faint