Dried Blood On Concrete Novels & Stories

The perfect front for a body dump spot. Jackson stoops down and probes his finger into a dark substance on the ground, examining it. He turns pale and heaves. My heart stops again. I immediately know. It’s blood. Everybody circles the small pool of dense black-red liquid drained into the dirt. Please let it not be their blood. Please, please, please. A blood trail leaves a distinct route to the small room as if something bloody was dragged through the dirt. It’s like deja vu ― almost the same pattern as the one from years ago, in our hallway.

My wolf shrank, curling tight inside me. The light flickered on. Rows of metal shelves stretched out, packed with frozen meat and sealed trays. The floor was bare concrete with a long drain running down the center. I dipped the brush into the bucket and scrubbed. The smell came up almost right away. Blood. Old. Deep. Soaked into the concrete like a memory that refused to fade. I froze and leaned down, ignoring the sting in my knees. I breathed in again, slower this time. Wolf blood. Blackwater blood.

He grabbed a glass of water from the dispenser, but as he went to sit on the sofa, his car keys slid out of his pocket and into the cushions. Derek knelt to grab them, but then he froze. On the side of the cream-colored sofa, there was a faint, dark red smudge. Against the pristine fabric, that dried bloodstain felt like it was screaming at him. It was blood. And it was less than ten hours old. His eyes scanned the floor again—it was so clean it almost reflected the light. He thought back to the frozen rug in the yard, and a grim theory clicked into place. Someone had bled out on that rug. They bled so much that even a frantic scrubbing couldn't hide it. And in the rush to move the body, a s

The metallic tang of blood still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of bleach as the henchmen worked tirelessly to clean the mess. Their movements were efficient, almost mechanical, but no amount of effort could erase the faint crimson stains that seeped into the cracks of the old floor.

I heard one of the men shout from upstairs. Another voice echoed from the back. “Nothing here, sir.” “No one.” I refused to believe it, they had to be here. I have the best tracking team and it definitely can’t be a mixup. I walked deeper into the building, refusing to accept another dead end. That’s when something caught my attention. A stain, dark brown against the grey concrete. At first, I thought it was old paint, then I looked closer and realized it wasn’t paint, It was blood.

On the battered basin before him, nine bloody spikes lay in a haphazard pile, stained crimson, an unsettling testament to what had transpired. “Done,” I muttered, voice strained but steady. I reached for the crumpled piece of paper, now soaked in blood and sweat, tangled in the mess. The note had once been pristine—perhaps just a scribbled warning or plea—yet now it looked like a fragment of a nightmare.

"Not yet. But look at this." Jace took us to Dad's truck. The window of the driver's door was broken, glass sparkling on the sidewalk. The door was ajar, the light inside still on. But the thing that really knocked the air out of me was the blood. Not much. Just a few drops on the door jamb and a smear across the concrete. "That's not human blood," Asher said in a soft voice, leaning down to take a closer look. "Wrong color. Wrong smell."

She'd stayed at the terminal upstairs. "You won't," he said. Silas was already crouching at the edge of the water, one hand flat on the concrete floor where it was still above the water line. Reading. "Most of the floor is concrete," Silas said. "Standard pour. But—" He moved his hand eighteen inches to the left. Then another foot. "Here. The frequency is wrong for concrete." He pressed both palms down. "It's conducting differently. This section is metal under a surface coating."

She said, "Not long after, a black sedan pulled up and ferried them away. I checked the second floor after that. There wasn't any blood on the floor, but I found some dried blood in the lining of the stairs. "Ms. Jennifer, the maids clean the stairs daily. How could there be blood?"

He doesn't have any bullet wounds though so maybe they weren't chasing him. After getting back home I realized that the floor is covered in blood from dragging him to my room. It's not like I had a choice, he's too heavy. After attending the nearly dead guy in my room I cleaned the floors. I've never had to clean blood from anything so I'm just throwing baking soda everywhere in hopes for the best. The yard had a little blood too so I used the hose to wash it away.