Creepypasta Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

She have seen her mother being devoured by the Reapers in her dream and seeing it now felt like Agatha was one of those bodies. Minutes after, there's nothing left on the bodies but bits of flesh, blood, and bones, but the Reapers seemed to want more. They slithered towards the Badbloods that lined on the entrance but they were sent staggering backwards as the guards pushed the torches to them. They hissed and we're scratching their sharp claws. The smoke that's coming out from their bodies mixed with the smoke of the torch. The guards advanced to them, thrusting the torch forward, sending the monsters wiggling backwards.

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.

with my last breath, I still want them to tell me the truth. “Hush now, Luna…” I slowly closed my eyes as Arturo finally released his sharp fangs, wanting to do the last blow. But just as I felt his hoarse breath in my neck, something inside me has woke up. I can feel my blood flowing as if it’s being chased by something, my sight is now vivid. So vivid that I can even see everything from miles away. I groaned as I stretched my neck. I feel hot. I feel heavy and powerful. What is happening to me?

“Nightmare again?” I nodded, still trying to breathe. “Yeah.” Rhea crawled right into bed beside me without hesitation. “God, I thought we were past this phase. Please tell me it wasn’t blood again.” My throat tightened. “It was worse.” She blinked. “Define worse.” “I was painting.” That silenced her. Even Elias, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, went still. “Shit,” Rhea whispered, drawing her knees up under the blanket. “Like real painting? The creepy, possessed-style stuff? Full-on creepy gallery girl mode?”

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.

Chapter 23: Permission A peaceful night was spent in her room, she was painting, a bloody red paint was dripping down on her illustration board, it was a bloody red rose while the red paint was dripping in uneven length, it was light enough not to drop to the bottom, it was just enough to show that it was dripping like blood from each petal. She had her headphone so her attention was fixed on her painting. But something lighted up beside her and found her, she saw a notification. She cringe her forehead when it was a message.

I sat on an overturned crate, opened my sketchbook, and started drawing. The lines came fast. Jagged edges of broken concrete. A single rusted fire escape clinging to the side of a warehouse like it was trying to escape. Shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink. I didn’t think about Dmitri. Not consciously. But somewhere between the second and third page, I realized the figure I’d started sketching in the foreground—half-hidden behind a stack of rotting pallets—was tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair falling into his eyes. I hadn’t meant to draw him. My hand had just… remembered. I stared at the rough outline of his profile, charcoal smudged where my thumb had tried to soften the line o

But Rosalie realized that she had a lot to uncover in her parents' home country, and something told her it wasn't going to be pretty. Just like she had told them, Rosalie went up to her room to finish a painting of a dream that she had a few years ago and couldn't seem to stop dreaming about it until she placed it on paper. This particular dream had ended with her throat being slashed as she held her neck while terrifyingly looking up at red eyes with claw marks on her face. It was a very gruesome image, but for Rosalie to forget it, was to bring that scene to life and she did just that in the only way she knew she could with paint and a brush.

he cries. I lunge the knife into the left side of his stomach. He screams in pain. I did it again on his upper right. “Help! Mum! Dad!” Lockie screams. “Goodnight, sleep tight.” I whisper. I quickly slash his throat and leave. I head back to Dead Man’s Woods. I’ve completed my revenge for now. Until someone else crosses paths with me I’ll stay hidden. Saunders house: The front door flings open and the security lights light up. A young boy runs out covered in blood and keeps collapsing. He holds his hand to his throat and the other on his stomach.

Based on their screams, there was at least one girl and one boy. Gray continued walking forward with her eyes narrowing from trying to see in the dark. Just then, a bloodied hand appeared from the walls and attempted to brush her face but she ducked and it got the faces of those behind her instead. When she turned around, as she suspected, it was red paint on the hand which was now dirtily smeared on the guy’s face. Gray resumed walking and this time, a skeleton body appeared from the ceiling, almost hitting her but she dodged it once again and although it did not hit the people behind her, it made them fall on their backs from fright along with screams of course.