Creepypasta Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

I slide it skillfully into my bag before turning to my first customer of the day. "Hey Sage, what are your rates on Ms. Fosters English Lit paper?" Say the Blond, 6'4 mammoth of a "person" standing next to me. I look him up and down before pushing my glasses up my nose. Caleb Anders. Wolfshifter. I resist the urge to take a step back as his green eyes look down on my own. "Depends on what grade you're looking for." I respond flipping to the front of the folder where I keep all the English papers, thankful that it gives me a reason to break eye contact.

For vampire hybrids, places with too many biological organisms and overwhelming scents could destabilize them, triggering their vampire bloodline prematurely and actually damaging their bodies. I shook my head every time. Impossible. I never took him to the beach. Even when we went out, I kept him bundled up and away from crowds. But in the painting, he'd been there. And he looked so happy. Once, he'd had a fever that wouldn't break all night. I held him in the emergency room hallway, my clothes soaked through with sweat. In his delirium, he kept crying out the same words over and over. "I don't want to go home."

“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,

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.

The palette is all darks with Prussian blue, burnt umber, alizarin crimson so deep it looks like dried blood. I load the brush and attack the canvas with strokes that splatter paint across the floor, the easel, and my arms. The image that forms is violent and shapeless, a battlefield rendered in oil, and I don't care what it looks like because I'm not painting for beauty right now. I'm painting to survive what Baker just told me. My father is innocent, Ryan's parents were murdered, Tasha's father paid for the cover-up, and the boy who destroyed my life was a puppet on strings held by the same man who destroyed his.

she snapped, “I need to get back the shop before the boss has my head. Is this about the Bloody Barbies again?” Bloody Barbie was the nickname Maria gave to the murders ever since she’d gotten involved as a suspect. It was an apt name. Each crime scene that had been investigated was painted red with each victim’s blood, and in each one there would be a bloody doll left behind (though, not exactly a Barbie), no less than three feet away from the body.

"You should have used the yellow wolfsbane, works everytime." He gasped, struggling against my grip. I smirked at his pale face as it had lost all it's color. "No one needs a priest like you, in fact, I'm doing the world a favor. You should've confessed your sins when I gave you the chance to, maybe you could've been going to a better place or else…" I trailed off, digging my claws harder into his neck. "...see you in hell." Just then, I clawed at his stomach, causing blood to splash all over myself. His lifeless body dropped helplessly to the ground, a pool of blood quickly forming around him.

And after the trip to Lycan Town, I doubted any sight would in the near future. An oil painting caught my eye. It depicted a bloody battlefield, with wolves and vampires ripping each other’s throats. I moved closer to the wall and traced the images in admiration. There was something mesmerizing about the gory scene. A kind of savage beauty, amid the fierce struggle for life. It stirred my heart. I found myself so absorbed and lost in the painting, that my surroundings blurred and a blinding brilliance filled my vision. I didn’t register the appearance of another individual, until the Luna’s sharp voice pierced my ears.

I muttered, my gaze iron as I dissected the strange omen I had channeled onto the vellum, the canvas stretched taut over the wooden frame, with my horsehair paintbrush's lashes decorating it like black and brown stab wounds. Thick strokes. Deep pigment. Gleaming eyes: The Beast had emerged, as always. "I cannot stop painting you, my dear, strange Beast," I murmured, tracing the brush strokes of her black as night fur, the shape of her muzzle – her sharp eggshell claws stained with blood. My blood, thick midnight black clots like ruin as recognizable as my own fingers.

Paint? Then my eyes focused on the cloth it rested on. It was a shirt, a dark blue workshirt, now marbled and stiff with vast, dried patches of the same dark, rust-brown substance. Blood. There was no mistaking it. The coppery, faintly sweet smell I’d noticed upon entering the room seemed to intensify, coalescing into a nauseating cloud around the open box. The world tilted. The hum of the machines became a deafening roar in my ears. The carefully copied frequencies, the sinister symbol, the active broadcast—they were all abstract concepts of evil. This… this was primal. This was murder.