"Not an artist, but a killer"

It's a short story for: Journey through Genre: Official contest.

"Raining Down"

The rain didn’t stop as Detective Yuri arrived at the apartment terrace, the city lights flickering through the storm. A woman’s body lay there, still and pale. Her skin was drained of blood, almost porcelain-like. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, held in place by a wooden stick. No visible wounds, no signs of struggle—except for a small bandage on her arm.

Yuri had never seen anything like it.

Neighbors described the victim as kind and uncontroversial. Her colleagues echoed the same. No enemies. No motives. No leads.

Days later, another body turned up. Same eerie signs—a woman, pale, with a messy bun pinned by a stick, and a bandage on her arm. Again, no signs of trauma, no forensic evidence at the scene. Postmortem revealed nothing. The only anomaly: extremely low blood levels.

The next night, Yuri’s phone rang.

“You're chasing shadows,” said a voice, calm and cruel. “She was my latest artwork. My next piece will be unveiled soon.”

Yuri was stunned. And the next night, he struck again.

This time, postmortem revealed something stranger—the body wasn’t fresh. The girl had been dead before the night she was found.

Frustrated and sleepless, Yuri met her best friend, Gordan, a dermatology student. Over coffee, she poured her thoughts out. Gordan listened, concerned but unsure how to help. Still, he promised: “Anything you need, I’m here.”

The next morning, clarity struck. All the victims were women aged 25-35, pale, with a messy bun, a bandage on their arm—recent blood donors. A quick cross-check revealed they had all donated blood at D’martha Memorial Hospital.

Yuri visited the hospital. To her surprise, Gordan worked there. Together, they checked the donor logs. No connections between the victims, just random individuals. That evening, Yuri invited Gordan and his colleague Ross to a small party with her friend Swalina.

That night, they were enjoying the party. Drinks flowed. Laughter filled the small apartment.

Then Yuri asked, “If you could erase one thing from the world, what would it be?”

“Ramen,” she said, half-laughing. “Smells like wet socks.”

“Street art,” Swalina replied, irritated. “It’s just vandalism. These jobless artists keep spray-painting my walls.”

“Criminals,” said Gordan, casual.

Ross took a sip of beer. “The law.”

Everyone paused.

Yuri raised an eyebrow. “Why the law?”

“So, people can live freely,” Ross said. "Do whatever they want.”

Swalina scoffed. “Right. No law, no rules. So people can just go around committing crimes? And those homeless ‘artists’ you love can keep turning my building into a trash wall?”

Ross’s smile disappeared. “They’re not trash. They’re expressing something.”

“They’re ruining property,”Swalina said. “If that’s expression, maybe I should start expressing myself by breaking into your house and painting on your fridge.”

Ross’s jaw clenched. He stood up. His tone sharpened. "You think you’re funny?”

Before anyone could respond, Ross grabbed his beer glass and hurled it at the wall near Swalina. It shattered, spraying shards across the floor.

Yuri and Gordan jumped in.

“Ross! Enough!” Yuri said, holding him back.

Swalina’s voice trembled, but her words cut deep. “You’re insane. You’d kill someone just for disagreeing.”

Ross glared at her, unblinking. “If that someone’s you… I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d suck the life out of you.”

Silence.

Then he turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

The party ended there.

That night, Yuri couldn’t sleep. Ross’s words kept echoing. Something about them... She called Gordan, asking about Ross’s background.

What she found sent chills down her spine.

Ross had a history of hemomania (an obsession with blood) Female patients had reported him being overly touchy, especially with their hair. The messy bun—was it symbolic?

Yuri set up a sting. An undercover officer visited the hospital to “donate blood.” Ross approached her, caressing her arm, fixing her hair. He ran the wooden stick slowly over her shoulder, as if painting her with invisible strokes.

Later, another officer followed Ross to the blood bank. What he saw was horrific—Ross licking blood bags, sniffing them like perfume.

Ross was arrested.

But during interrogation, Ross denied everything. "I’m maybe a freak, not a killer,” he snapped. “I never murdered anyone.”

That night, Yuri’s phone rang again.

“You disappoint me,” the killer said. “Art is eternal. You’re just a failed investigator playing detective.”

Yuri sat in the dark, listening to the call again and again. Something clicked.

Art.

The killer called his murders “art.”

She reopened the case files. Studying the victims’ photos side by side, she noticed the sticks in their hair—placed deliberately, all at the same angle. Almost like a painter’s brushstroke.

She returned to Ross.

“What are your hobbies?”

“Golf,” he shrugged.

She asked Gordan later—he confirmed it.

Ross wasn’t the artist.

To bait the real killer, Yuri issued a press release: Case Closed – Killer in Custody.

That night, someone snapped. Enraged, the real killer called again. His voice cracked with fury. “How dare you erase me!”

The next day, Gordan invited Yuri over to celebrate. His apartment was pristine—immaculate, almost too perfect. On the wall hung a massive painting, surreal and vivid. The red was almost... alive.

“Where did you get this?” Yuri asked.

“It was my mom’s. Her last gift,” he said. “She got it from a street artist or an auction. Not sure.”

Curious, Yuri tried to touch it.

“Don’t touch it!” Gordan snapped. His voice was sharp, eyes suddenly wild. Then, softer-too soft—he added, “It’s... delicate.”

The moment passed, but it clung to Yuri like static in the air.

She left not long after, her mind buzzing.

That night, Yuri sat alone on her couch, the glow of her desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. She stared at the photo of Gordan’s painting on her phone, zooming in on the red—a deep, rusty crimson that seemed to pulse in the low light. Something about it gnawed at her. It didn’t look like any acrylic or oil paint she’d ever seen.

“That’s not paint,” he said, voice low and serious. “That’s blood.”

Yuri felt her stomach twist. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. The texture, the way it stains—it’s coagulated, not layered. It’s… real. I can show you.”

They broke into Gordan’s apartment that night, quiet as the rain tapping the windows. The artist brought a small UV lamp and a portable testing kit. As the light hit the canvas, the red shimmered darkly, sickly.

“This isn’t fresh blood,” he murmured. “But someone treated it. Preserved it. Maybe with formalin. It explains the color… keeps it from browning.”

Yuri said nothing. Her mouth was dry. Her heart hammered like it was trying to escape her ribs.

She sent a sample to the lab.

The results came back the next day.

Human blood. Multiple donors.

Yuri’s stomach twisted.

That evening, as if summoned by her thoughts, her phone buzzed.

“My next piece? Your dear friend Swalina.”

A chill shot down her spine.

She called Swalina—no answer. Called Gordan. He calmed her down, told her to rest. " You need to rest. You're overworked. You’ll figure it out—like you always do.” he said warmly.

The next day, Yuri trailed Swalina, who visited D’martha Memorial to donate blood. Gordan greeted her kindly, and Swalina, relieved, followed him.

But when Yuri arrived minutes later, Swalina was gone—and Gordan was injured on the floor.

“She fainted,” he said weakly. “Someone attacked me... took her.”

Yuri didn’t buy it.

Yuri narrowed her eyes. His story didn’t sit right, but she had to play it cool. "Gordan, are you okay?" she asked, her voice soft and concerned. The worry in her tone was genuine, but beneath it, she struggled to hide the suspicion gnawing at her.

He nodded, his expression pained but steady. "I'm fine... just shaken. But we have to find her, Yuri." His voice cracked slightly, and she could see the genuine fear in his eyes.

Yuri took a deep breath, trying to keep her composure. "We'll figure this out," she said, forcing a reassuring smile. But even as the words left her mouth, her mind was already working through the inconsistencies in his story.

Somewhere in a hidden room, Swalina lay tied to a stretcher. The killer paced beside her, showing her paintings—canvases soaked in red.

“You people never respected art,” he whispered, drawing blood from her. “But now, you’re part of it.”

The silence in the room was thick, almost suffocating. The killer paused, sensing something in the air. A shift. A disturbance.

He turned.

Yuri stood behind him, her gun raised, eyes locked on him.

They fought—violently. She shot him in the leg, then in the arm. Blood poured as he collapsed.

She tore off his mask.

Gordan.

Her best friend.

She dropped the gun, stunned.

Why?” she whispered.

His voice was hollow. “My mother... she hated my art. Called it trash. She burned it all. So, I made her my first painting.”

Tears welled in Yuri’s eyes.

“And the girls?”

“She reminded me of my mother," he said of the first victim. "I took her out. Made her immortal. The rest? They disrespected artists. Like Swalina. I forgave her for your sake, but when you claimed you caught the killer, I lost it. I had to hurt you.”

Yuri was silent.

“And Ross?”

“He started to suspect me. So, I fed him to you.”

Gordan smiled.

Yuri hit him with the butt of her gun, tears mixing with fury. Officers rushed in.

Gordan was arrested and later sentenced to death. His paintings were seized as evidence.

Swalina recovered. Life moved on.

Yuri stood on the rooftop of her precinct, watching the rain.

Then her phone buzzed.

Another body.

Another case.

Yuri sighed, slipping on her coat.

Back to work.


(Word count: 1,615)