Passive Bloodstains Novels & Stories

“It’s not near the window.” It wasn't the trail of a fleeing intruder or a sniper's victim. The puddle was concentrated entirely to the side of the room, dripping down the carved wood of my dresser. Kain closed the distance, his boots crunching on glass. He dropped into a low crouch beside the dresser. Extending a gloved hand, he dragged his index finger through the thick fluid. He brought it close to his face, studying the viscosity and the deep, unnatural hue. “Not human,” Kain said softly.

There's a wetness between my legs that wasn't there before, and when my hand slides down to investigate, my heart stops. Sticky warmth. Unmistakable texture. I yank my hand back, and even in the dim light filtering through the curtains, I can see the dark stain on my fingers. Blood. I'm bleeding... my body is cramping and I'm bleeding. No! Please, no! I stumble out of bed on unsteady legs, fumbling as I switch on the lamp. The evidence is there on the pristine white sheets— a small but unmistakable crimson stain that looks like everything I've ever feared.

Instead, she kept her eyes on the floor. A red, sticky liquid covered a few of the white tiles, and Rain’s eyes traced the path back to the open door. The further to her right she looked, the more blood she saw. The entryway was full of it, the footprints left within the crimson stain clearly from military boots.

Frustration simmers within me but I push forward, determined to explore every inch of this terrain. The night carries on. Then suddenly, I see it. A dark stain smeared against the bark of a tree. My eyes narrow and I walk closer. Kneeling down, I inspect it carefully, running my fingers over the dried residue. It is a bloodstain. One clue will always lead to another and there, beside the bloodstain are smudged footprints. There seems to have been a feeble attempt to erase a trail. I trace the outlines, recognizing the signs of a struggle, as if someone had desperately tried to conceal whatever transpired here.

Isabella did now no longer solution however scratched her wrist with the fast sword, generating a purple line. Droplets of blood seeped out from the wound and dripped onto the floor. Ignoring the legal guidelines of physics, the bloodstains on the floor accumulated to shape an logo of a rose. This became evidence of her identification as a "True Original." A candy perfume emanated from the sparkling blood, inflicting Trisha to cowl her personal mouth. I sense forced to drink it. If she did now no longer restrain herself, very probable she could have already got accomplished so.

“That’s right, “ He confirmed. “But he didn’t give up. He crawled on his knees to the living room, where he tried to use to landline” “Wait how do you know he crawled on his knees? “ “It’s all in the evidence sweetheart. The hand print blood stains on the walls suggested that he held onto the wall for support, and the way how the blood was dragged against the floor showed that he was probably dragging his way there.” He sighed as he ran his hand through his hair. I didn’t want to hear anymore, but I’d be asking myself questions endlessly if I didn’t hear how the rest went. I looked up when I felt Tristan’s large hand over mine. He offered me a comforting smile as he gently kissed it.

VICTIM’S APARTMENT “Captain Jessie” Lucy called out “What? “ Captain Jessie dropped the perfume back in the drawer and closed it “Quickly, come and see” Lucy pointed at the bottom of the bookshelf Jessie walked to where Lucy was and squatted so that she could take a clear look at what Lucy pointed at “Is that a splatter of blood? “ “Yes” The splatter was so small and unnoticeable due to the fact that the color of the bookshelf was dark brown thereby making the dried blood blend with the color of the bookshelf

It didn't take him long to realize that bloodstains were the problem. These stains look as if they were sprayed close and with a lot of speed. That's exactly how it is. Analyzing it in the lab, I don't think I need to tell you that it's a 100% match with Lucy's DNA. In other words, the blow was so strong that matter from the brain tissue as well as pureblood spilled with great speed on Sarah's blouse. It sprinkled it on our understanding. Gentlemen, we are facing indisputable proof that Sarah Johnson is indeed Lucy Sinclair's killer.

That saved me the trouble of wasting precious time trying to cover my tracks. Or rather... The third-floor hallway wasn't clean at all. The sticky residue coating the floor looked like blood that had accumulated over countless years. It looked like bloodstains left behind by victims who had been dragged across the floor. Perfect. The blood dripping from my injured foot blended into the old stains beneath me, making it harder to notice. From upstairs came the sound of pounding footsteps mixed with the rhythmic clang of a hammer striking metal. I quickly slipped into the nearest room I could find.

The air felt wrong — heavy, charged, like someone was still here. Watching. Waiting. I scanned the room again. Nothing. No movement. No sound. No shadow shifting in the corner. But the blood… It wasn’t pooled. It wasn’t smeared. It wasn’t splattered. It was placed. A single drop. Then another. Then another. Leading to the far wall. I walked toward it, gun raised. The wall looked solid — old wood, peeling paint, nothing unusual. But the blood trail ended right at the baseboard.