Ominous Drawing Novels & Stories

The door closed loudly behind her. Lucas stood there… alone. --- Back in London… Naomi finally started drawing. At first, her lines were slow. But then… her hand began to move faster. She did not think too much. She just let her heart guide her. She drew a woman standing in the middle of a road. The woman was holding a child. Behind her… there was darkness. In front of her… there was light. But the woman was not moving. She was standing still. Like she did not know where to go.

As she plunked it on the table, she peered over his shoulder at what he’d been working on with such diligence. Her jaw dropped. She’d always considered Anton’s artistic skills advanced for a seven-year-old boy, but this was beyond anything she’d seen so far. It was a pencil drawing of the road leading out of town. In the left hand corner was a small rendering of the building she lived in, which had a glow about it. The depth perception was incredible, the telephone poles, the fence line, the pavement decreased in size and breadth, fading away until it was barely a speck. The landscape was stark and minimal, but it was the overall tone of the picture that left Domini feeling bleak.

Odell walked closer to her and asked, “What are you doing?” Sylvia chose to remain quiet. Odell approached her side and saw her scribbling a dark drawing. The entire drawing was dark, drawn only with different shades of black. The dark sky, the black forests, and the crows on the branches, the entire drawing screamed of depression. She was scribbling with charcoal, so her hands were also tainted black. Odell frowned and said in a heavy tone, “Stop drawing.” Sylvia ignored him and continued moving her charcoal across the canvas.

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.

Carefully, he lifted the page. A sharp fear moved through him. The drawing showed three figures standing beneath black trees. A little girl. A woman with long dark hair. And beside them, half-hidden beneath the ground, a man reaching upward while roots twisted around his body. Written above the drawing in crooked letters were the words: MAMA LIVES UNDER THE TREES. Arman slammed the notebook shut immediately. The air around him suddenly felt thinner. That night, he burned every drawing Zara had made. The smell of smoke filled the backyard while flames curled hungrily around paper and melting crayon wax.

She sat down on the chair and began to look at them. She felt her skin crawl as she looked at the drawings. They were of the same man. Tall. Thin. Faceless. With tentacles. But now they were not alone, on the sides were written letters. On one alone they said many NO. NO. NO. And on another was a sentence written: Don't look out the window.

She shrugs and keeps coloring. I look down at her drawing. I took an introductory child psychology class last semester as part of the pediatrics program. I remember enough about it to suspect that this child is a little depressed. All of the pictures are made with dark neutrals of blacks, browns, and greys. There’s no color anywhere. Each drawing contains a solitary person standing alone, which I recall is a sign that indicates loneliness.

All I knew was that I dozed off into a very deep sleep. HEAVEN. My eyes opened slowly and I glanced around the little building. It looked so strange and childish, with ugly drawings on the wall. Different colors were plastered everywhere with drawings of shape and funny looking crystal balls. One actually piqued my interest, a drawing that looked like a man on the throne with the moon above his head. Below him were dead bodies and a sword in his hands. I raised my body at once and took a look at the crooked drawing. The head of the man has a symbol of the moon and I gasped.

“In the meantime, I have found a real clue.” He walked over and peered up at the cave wall. “Right, drawings made by some sicko.” “No,” she snapped. “It’s them.” She pointed up at an image of a monster standing over a dead body. It was holding up what appeared to be human entrails. “Them?” he whispered, staring up at the primitive drawing. “What do you mean them?” “I don’t know what they’re called,” she whispered. “But I think they might be demons.”

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