The Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

The middle-aged man finished his painting and signed his name in one corner: Roland de Vaal. Satisfied, he passed the painting to Chayne. "This is my message to your enemy. Show him this, and he will stop. Or else." The painting was rather macabre. It depicted a man being tormented by what looked like black hounds emerging from hell. Regarding artistry, the painting sat neatly between masterful and average. Chayne, however, held it like it was a real piece of treasure.

On the third day, the dam broke. It started with a single slash of black paint across a pristine white canvas. It was an act of violence, a scream without sound. Then another, and another. He wasn't painting a picture; he was exorcising a demon. He used his hands, knives, rags, anything he could find. The colors were murky, violent: deep burgundy like old blood, sickly yellow like a bruise, charcoal black like a void.

The streak came out crooked and violent. My arm moved on instinct. Stroke after stroke. I took another brush and dipped in black paint and ran it over the red. My vision was blurry but something inside me pressed against my ribs, begging to be set free. The tears I was holding back began to fall hot and fast against my cheeks making it even more impossible to see as I painted I painted until I couldn't take in any air because of how much I was sobbing. My hands shook but I kept going, I took in more red and added it to the black creating a painting out of the pain I was feeling.

His blue eyes followed every contour, every shape, and once he was ready to apply color, he asked, “Are you comfortable in that position?” Caty smirked. “I’ve done worse with you.” He chuckled. “Yeah, I forgot. Sorry about that.” She giggled in return, trying to stay as still as possible. He continued painting, a smile tugging at his lips. Several times, he had to take deep breaths to calm himself and clear the rising heat building between his legs. He focused all his effort on the painting, he didn’t want to disappoint her. After nearly an hour, he finally finished. It wasn’t that hard, he only used three sets of colors: one for the skin tone, black for her eyes and outlines, and brown for

“By hiding there.” I turn back to the window and imagine it. Sirens. Panic. Wolves forced to hold back while fear spills everywhere. “He thinks the city makes him safe,” I say. “But it makes him weak.” Lena steps closer. “And when he realizes?” “He will have nowhere to run,” I say. “Because he will not abandon them. That is his flaw.” Mark nods slowly. “And his bloodline?” I feel that old fire burn hotter. “It ends,” I say. “Right there. In the open. Where everyone can see what happens when you cross me.”

But before he could even take a step, the shadows at the edge of the tree line violently ruptured. A foul, twisted creature—a massive, rogue Blood-born that had somehow slipped through the western vanguard patrols—lunged out from the darkness. Its skin was a mottled, necrotic grey, its maw dripping with a black, corrosive saliva as it caught Solar entirely by surprise. The strike was blindingly fast. Solar spun, her golden jaws snapping shut in a desperate defense, but the creature’s jagged fangs sank deep into her front shoulder blade, tearing through the golden fur.

A king-sized bed sat in the middle of the room, and a recliner was right in front of the glass wall at the other end. I neared the painting, folding my arms and taking in the details. From what I could tell, the painter was telling the story of a man who’d become a darker shadow of himself while walking down a path no one else could. There were what appeared to be dead bodies littered behind him, and it seemed like his soul died a little with each step he took.

I’ve found several stains of blood while seeing Papochka entering the home with a gun. There’s a rumour in the house that my Baboo used to paint with human blood. Even the sarcastic and fun-loving Papa Killian often loses his calm and beats the guards to pulp. Still, I’ve seen those people scroll past headlines soaked in blood and sip their coffee. Maybe we’ve all become too comfortable in our indifference, too fluent in detachment. Maybe monsters don’t hide under our beds anymore, they sit beside us, perfectly calm, chewing gum and asking what’s for dinner.

she said to herself still in search of her class everyone seems to be in a hurry so she decided not to ask and got missed up with the crowd, then she bumped into a young lady of her age called Elisa, who was into zoology while Annie was into pharmacy. "hey you! what's your problem can't you see me coming or are you blind? Why is there so much blind people everywhere these days. can't one possibly check is or her eyes before coming out how many time will I get buped up before reaching home today." Elisa said with an angry voice, while talking to herself. "Am so sorry, am new here, I was just trying to locate my class, I am so sorry I was such in a rush that I did not see you coming," Annie sa

I took a deep breathe and position myself near the window. The unknown man soon made it's appearance. He was bald and had a lots of scar carved on his naked torso. He scanned the room carefully like he was looking for something. Or should I say, looking for us. Luckily, he did not turn his head from where I was standing still. He looked down again from where his friends was. "There's no one in here! Are you sure you've seen the Albino girl in here?" He exclaimed. I heard no response on his questions. But before he could tilt his head towards my direction, I swiftly slit his throat with the poisonous herb I smeared on it.