The House That Dripped Blood Movie Novels & Stories

As Ben entered his parents’ kitchen, he smelled the metallic stench of blood wafting through the air and saw it pooled all over the kitchen tile. “Momma! Dad! Where are you?” Ben yelled as he walked up the stairs. When he stepped into their bedroom, Ben saw their bloodied bodies on the floor. Ben slowly backed out of the room and then ran down the stairs and threw his shoulder into the door. As it burst open and he fell out onto the ground, he heard Imara’s screams coming from the cottage behind the house. “Ben please help me!”

She couldn't tell how large the room was, but that wasn't the issue, for that familiar smell of rotting flesh and blood assailed her nose, making her stumble back slightly. Drip, drip, drip... There was something dripping from the ceiling, and when she looked up, the liquid hit her face. It was warm, smelled sort of metallic, and when she touched to find out, she was horrified to find out that it was blood. There was more dripping, and as she walked forward amidst the shadows, she felt her feet sink in to what she thought was a puddle of blood.

"There is b—blood down there." "What?" She back away from the hole, pointing at it with a shaky finger. "Blood, Val. There's blood in there." I walked up to the hole to take a look. And sure enough, there was blood on the surrounding floor boards. Dried blood. "I was trying to scrub the floor and the board moved." Veronica explained, her voice still full of fear.

The first block we come to we’re pulled to a house with blood running down the windows. Our initial mission of finding the missing soldiers is put on hold as screams bellow from inside the walls of the house. There’s debate about turning our heads and finding our own. There’s plenty of cops running the streets, but a hand slams against the pane of glass stopping us in our tracks. It smears across the window. “Damn it,” slips my lips as I lead us to the front door. The closer we get the thicker the blood flows. By time we reach the door, hand on the knob, blood seeps from under the doorframe. It quickly pools around our boots. The screams echo through the door.

He watched as soldiers tore into our homes, shooting and killing every living creature. “Mama, we can’t stay here” I cried. We knew we couldn’t put up with hiding anymore but where do we run to? Every path seems to have been torn to shreds, every direction creating a wind of confusion. We had not expected such dawn. The rains came down heavily as their lorries landed, the soldiers released gunshots into the air sending terror to varying homes. I peered out through the window to watch the confusing scenario unfold in my eyes. They dragged out a specific family and knelt them in front of their house, tied their hands and shot them dead. My heart skipped into my mouth, this was not the normalcy

It would have made everything easier. As for work, I found myself hoping his final words had been personal and not professional. We still had some touch-ups of the project to finish before the complex could become fully operational. There were tests that still needed to be completed, and I needed him to remain steady and present for the time we had left. I should have known; endings are never clean. By the time I got home, it was around nine. The house felt still. I didn't turn on many lights. I didn't check my messages. I only wanted to sleep, the kind that could quiet everything for a few hours.

A fucking monument to paternal devotion. "The weather's supposed to get worse tonight," Mark said, interrupting my thoughts as he turned up the defroster. Ice was already beginning to spider across the windshield. My stomach tightened. Snowed in. With David. The farmhouse appeared through the swirling flakes twenty minutes later. Two stories of white clapboard with a wraparound porch and smoke curling from the chimney. Picture-perfect Americana. A Norman Rockwell painting where the patriarch wanted to fuck his son's wife. Mark pulled into the gravel drive and killed the engine. The sudden silence was deafening.

My mind, already a storm, flares brighter. Vanda pulls back to look at me, concern etched into his expression, before stepping into the bathroom. I stay rooted, unable to move, the dried blood on my skin itching like a cruel reminder. The sink runs briefly, and Vanda reappears with a damp washcloth. Wrapping an arm around my back, he guides me to the bed. I sit stiffly as he gently cleans the blood from my face. “I need her here,” I croak, my voice hoarse.

Heavy, dragging footsteps approached slowly down the dark hallway. Darien stepped into the nursery doorway. He was covered in blood. His white shirt was torn to shreds, his broad chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged gasps. He had a deep cut over his left eye, blood streaming down his face, and his gun was hanging loose in his hand. He had killed them all. But there was no relief on his face. He looked completely broken, his gray eyes wide with pure, frantic terror as he stared across the room at me.

Very bloody. The dagger in Silvan’s grip gleams sharply as he lunges forward without hesitation. He moves with dangerous swiftness, thrusting the weapon into Dorothy’s chest, back and throat before she can put up a word of protest. My hand flies to my mouth, a useless barrier against the scream that bubbles up my throat. The camera jostles but holds its focus. Dorothy’s horrifying screams echo in the room as she crumpled to the floor in a sea of crimson. Blood, so thick it’s almost black, gushes from her throat and mouth as she jerks helplessly on the marble tiles.