Creepypasta Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

My hands shivered as she handed the paper over to me. I opened it and showed the most shocking revelation of my life. My hands stiffened and my stomach tightened. What?! Raven used wolves blood to form his paint, and that was the reason it was thick. No wonder the lab technician looked at me in such a way. This could be linked to that hidden room. Could that be the reason for the famine? That was a perfect way to kill the wolves without being blamed. And then used their blood as asphalt paint. Indeed there's no way this painting wouldn't get the attention of those investors.

He has changed and morphed into something unrecognizable. As I glanced around the room, it was like staring into the eyes of a horrifying creature or a monstrous being. The sight that met my eyes was chilling. Blood was splattered everywhere, staining the furniture, chairs, floors, and even other objects that my father seemed to have a twisted fascination with painting in blood. The walls were adorned with streaks of blood, a deep crimson hue that stood out starkly against the bright white sheetrock, even in the darkness of the room. This wasn't the work of an ordinary human. No person with a shred of conscience could commit such gruesome acts.

I entered the dark house being greeted by the smell of dried blood, I walked down the hall towards the bedrooms, past the larger suite towards the bedroom, our bedroom, opening the door to find dust and mold covering the bed, floor, and turning the immense painting towards the wall, his present, our present. In the huge picture, the river of blood running through the fissure in the earth, the tiny bodies numbered five, the small feet with names chosen by her. I made her choose while begging her to stop while crying on her knees looking at the painting. The sentence painted by her shining in letters distorted by white paint. ' The heart only serves to beat It was after that after her gaze pen

Dieter hanged herself in the painting room and faced the drawing of the demon eye. Ms. Dieter decided that the picture had to be resolved as soon as possible. At that time, Edward became a very famous painter. He was engulfed in praise and ambition. When Mrs. Dieter took down the painting to burn it, the demon's eye simultaneously instigated Edward to dedicate the life of the person he loved most. Edward took the knife and beheaded Mrs. Dieter in an unconscious state. The servant was so scared and called the police. Edward was imprisoned but for some unknown reason was able to escape. Later, it was found that he used his own blood to wash the drawing of the demon's eye. However, blood did no

The men ogled me like I was a treasure freshly unwrapped and meant for their possession, while the women's eyes burned like pure venom. I took a sharp breath, just as I tried to avert my gaze, my eyes caught sight of Madam Morveth, in a blink, she was gone. “A message for the demon!” a little child screamed distracting my gaze, he walked up to the stage where I knelt, then whispered into my face, eyes pierced mine with undoubted certainty. “You shall be haunted by desire…” A quick chuckle escaped his lips. “…and nothing more.”

Splashes of blood dripped down from his hair and fell down to his lips because of the rain. As the sinful taste exploded on his tongue, as whimpers left his victim’s lips and he begged him to stop, he willed himself not to close his eyes...He didn’t want to miss the moment he had been waiting for all evening. He wanted to see that fear in the bastard’s eyes...He would enjoy it. Fuck! He was enjoying this. The blood on his skin and tongue, the blade in his grasp...He had almost forgotten how good it felt to be a monster.

She looked like a very cheerful person with a happy life. She also worried about her mom and her co-workers and then a man named Gabriel Micheal. She wondered if the cops were looking for her. She held his gaze and the hate he felt for her felt hazy because the scent of her blood was all around him. "Who are you?" She managed to get out of her chapped lips. "Your Master" he replied watching the emotions dancing across her face. Her mind was racing with different thoughts. Most of which ended with him being a psychopath who had a fetish for blood drinking. She wondered if she would be dead before they discovered her missing.

“He said she doesn't deserve to have a face like that, ‘member? If she’s gonna live, she should live with something that fits… her level of hideousness! So, what do you say we make that happen right now too?” The leader reeled in realization. She reached under her pillow and produced a large glass shard. “Damn straight,” she agreed, her lips twisting into a lopsided smile. “This is a f*cking murderer we have here, ladies! A murderer shouldn’t look remotely like—this!” A new shot of pain erupted in Deirdre’s stomach. It ate so deeply into her that she arched her back instinctively— Then, new, sharper pain came, tearing through Deirdre’s face. The women were drawing—the shard was their pen; he

Shades of red, brown and black diademed the canvas, yet not getting mixed together, as if they harboured misogyny. The form became more vivid as the lifeless colours brought life in the painting. And then, like a gentle stroke of a fine paintbrush on the canvas, an obnoxiously metallic smell of blood wafted in my nostrils. Blood! The colours swirled and turned into something more vivid. I could see the form clearly now. I scrunched up my nose as the smell of fresh blood became more intense, almost unbearable. I walked to the figure through the blur and hollow, my instinct telling me to stop.

But I just could not help it any longer, being face to face with a wolf had everything flooding into my brain, and I wanted to scream my lungs out. Blood. It was blood that I saw. My parents' blood, spilled on the wooden floor around their heads. I saw their lifeless eyes and still bodies, and wounded faces. I saw my eleven year old self crying and screaming for them to wake up and look at me again, to call me their baby again. But that did not happen, it never happened. And I saw the people that had done that to them, their smug faces and crooked smirks, their hands stained with the blood of my parents, and the set of tattoos on one of their forearms.