Nightmare Freddy Drawings Novels & Stories

I ask her as I move closer to her. “I’ll come eat in a minute, Daddy,” she answers without looking up from her drawing. “What are you drawing?” I ask her. I look at the drawing on the floor and see that it depicts the scene from last night when Valerie was pushed by Hannah. “Miss Ashley said I should draw things that made me scared or that I don’t understand. I know my drawing isn’t good right now because of my cast, but I want to get it out, so I don’t have bad dreams anymore,” Freya answered.

Groaning, she grabbed the pencil and started to fulfil her heart's desire. She slumped onto the couch and sketched on the first page of the notepad. She didn't realize how the time flew by, as she spent her time perfecting her sketch. She drew a serpent that was peeking out of a human skull, ready to spit its poison to the next person who dared disturb him. She was almost done with it when Frank entered the room. Gasping, she hastened to hide the notepad in the fear of angering him. She had used something that belonged to him without his permission.

Suddenly, the sweet, familiar scent of Freddy's expensive perfume reached my nostrils, and for a second, a slight smile appeared on my lips, as if everything could be resolved with a simple conversation. “Freddy, where are you?” I whispered as I opened my bedroom door. But what I saw next was something I could never have imagined. My eyes widened as the scene materialized before me with brutal clarity. Freddy was standing next to the bed, his pants partially pulled up, while a girl moaned over and over as he lifted her dress.

A piece of paper fluttered out. It was a drawing. Crayons on construction paper. Catherine picked it up, and her blood ran cold. The drawing showed two stick figures standing on a jagged white line (the ice). One was labelled "Daddy," drawn in blue. The other was labelled "Sad Man," drawn in red. They were fighting. But above them, the sky was ripped open. A black hole was drawn in the clouds. And coming out of the hole wasn't light. It was a tentacle. A massive, black, spiraling limb covered in eyes.

figuring out where I sleep. Getting lost in a children's movie I haven't seen since my youth was a nice escape. I almost beat Liam to be the first to sleep, my head falling to the side every few scenes. Thoughts from the day fall back into my head as I replay the afternoon. So much blood. To keep my mind occupied, I gather up the spilled crayons from the coffee table and shove them back in the box. Next I line up all the paper into a nice little pile, taking a second to scan each drawing. The pages are filled with images of trees and fish. One I'm pretty sure is a zombie walking a dog downtown Main Street. Typical five-year-old drawings, I assume.

It might not be terribly healthy, but the meal would suit me just fine. As I closed the freezer door, I almost knocked down one of the drawings I’d attached to it with magnets. I gently skimmed my fingers over the sheet of paper. There were five stick figures beneath which Freddie had written the names Maggie, Simon, Freddie, Vienna, and Deacon in his childish scrawl. The first four figures stood together, but the fifth stood alone—Deacon always did. My heart squeezed. I wished I could do more to help them, particularly Simon, but I didn’t have that power. And I damn well hated that.

I promise, knowing how little the promise is worth. She moves the boy behind her. Only then do I see the crude drawings scrawled in the dust near where he sat. Stick figures, drawn with a child's impatience—three of them, all large, triangular heads, each with exaggerated, fanged mouths. Their bodies are wolfish, or what a boy imagines a wolf must be: hunched, heavy at the shoulder, legs that end in claws. One figure holds a stick, or maybe a sword. The last is bigger than the others, looming above a crowd of smaller shapes—people, presumably, but every one drawn with a red X where the heart should be. The mother follows my gaze. "He says the wolves walk upright, like men. They come at night

"I've been having these dreams since Mom's accident. Since the night she went into a coma." She turned the screen toward me. Drawings. Dozens of them. Digital sketches done on her phone, rough and desperate and achingly detailed. They showed a woman—Claire—trapped in darkness. Screaming silently behind what looked like glass or water or some invisible barrier. In some drawings, her body was separate from a glowing, translucent version of herself—like her soul had been ripped away. In others, she was reaching toward something just out of frame. The style was raw. These weren't careful art projects. These were frantic attempts to capture something seen in the depths of a nightmare. Each one wa

After about an hour of searching, Freddie found a room that looked filled with holding cages, as wild animals that to his horror held his friends, soldiers with whom he used to train. Pale dragon shifters, barely alive, almost naked, some even mutilated and with missing limbs. Freddie felt his blood boiling with the fire of revenge at Y but he had fellows to save first, so that is what he did. He allowed Nathaniel and Gideon to open the cage doors for them and then helped them make a beeline towards the path he had taken to reach there, so he could get off of the island with the survivors he had found.

For a moment, I just stood there, letting the innocence of her sleep wash over me I opened the door a bit more and quietly stepped inside, careful not to wake her. As I approached her bed, my foot pressed onto something soft. Looking down, I saw paper drawings scattered across the floor. My chest tightened. I carefully lifted my foot and bent to pick one up. Two stick figures were drawn in simple lines. One figure had lines drawn to show long hair, with the word “mummy” scribbled above it in a child’s messy handwriting. The other figure was drawn with its mouth wide open, a speech bubble filled with scribbles, and above it she had written “daddy.”