Outline Freddy Krueger Drawing Novels & Stories

Freya decided it was safe to take a peek. He had doodled something on the blank white surface of his cast plaster. It was a sketch of a plump cat gesturing at a blackboard. It appeared to be in the middle of giving a serious lecture, and the hair on the top of its head was comically ruffled. Meanwhile, there was another black cat next to it in a cowering position with its ears tucked. It was on its knees and seemed to be apologizing for something. Next to the two cats was a large tree, shedding loose pieces of leaves. There were two kittens cheerily playing with each other.

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.

In the end, I think they turned out great. Not that I knew what the others were for but there was also a frog on a log, a humming bird and a fat Cardinal. The very last one I was drawing was for Arlo. He got those picture for us, or more for me. It was of a wolf. It’s head was downward with his teeth showing. The hair was standing straight up with a human skull under it’s paw. There wasn’t any flesh on it, just the bones. Originally, I was going to make it a dead rabbit or something but this seemed appropriate. Keeping this one black and white, kept some of the mystery alive. “Charlotte??” Waylon yelled as he was coming in.

I bet when his cheekbones and jaw sharpened into the hard, chiselled man he is today girls couldn't help taking notice. Two of them as well. If his brother looked the same then…and it was at that point I had to think of anything else before Livi rendered me depraved. I stared at the empty paper and charcoals. Usually I could while away an afternoon doodling but when I did sketch, I found myself outlining those distinctive eyebrows. A perfectly straight, handsome nose. It was when I started drawing long tousled hair and shaping his eyes that I muttered, “get a grip Freya,” and pushed the pad to the side.

"Wow, that was so fast. I thought it was going to take hours or something. " "It's just a sketch; that doesn't take much time. " He explains as I stand a few steps away from him and Emerson turns the drawing to my view. My eyes widen at the sight of the beautiful craft he has created. He's right; it's more like a sketch but you can clearly tell which details are which and it looks so fucking beautiful. The outline of the way my hair rolls down my shoulders, the top that I slid off my shoulders to reveal the skin under and my hands on my crossed legs– everything is so fucking perfect and I can't believe Emerson Ford is capable of something like this.

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.

I sat down on the floor just outside her cell and said softly, “Hi, I'm Freya. What are you up to?” She cautiously turned to face me, and her beauty took my breath away. She had ash-blonde hair, and the brightest blue/green eyes. She was so pretty, it looked like her face had been sculpted to perfection. A button nose, high cheekbones, and a set of lips that would put the Kardashians to shame. She didn't reply, but she did hold up her pad to show me what she was doing. She had drawn a picture of me, surrounded by flames and lightning bolts. The picture was amazing and ridiculously detailed, I needed to see it closer. “Do you mind if I come in and look at it?” I asked her with confidence.

Just stands there, watching me. What does it say about my Alpha that this four-year-old little boy’s critical gaze makes me want to squirm? Lucky for me, no one has to know. He holds out the paper he’s been clutching. I take it and unfold it curiously. It's a crayon drawing—three figures of the kind that establish importance through size. A medium figure in the middle, a small figure to the left, and a taller figure on the right. All of them have faces that are essentially circular with features added. All of them are standing in what might be a house or might be a field; the background is ambiguous at best.

No one to soothe my back when I'm on edge. No one to tolerate all my bullshit, unconditionally. I struggle to my feet and head to the kitchen, looking for something to sober up. The moment I open the fridge, I freeze. Taped to the door is a crinkled drawing. A doodle Leo made when he was five. Three wolves. One big, one medium, one small. The big one is majestic and proud. The medium one is gentle and beautiful. The smallest one is hiding behind them. Underneath, in crooked letters: My Dad, Mom, and Me.

“Do you think it means something?” I hugged my knees. “I don’t know. But I think she’s real.” Rhett rubbed his eyes. “Could you give me a sketch or something?” I got out of bed, tiptoed over to the desk, and grabbed some paper and crayons. I didn’t talk—I just drew. Big swirly black veil. Hollow eyes. Long fingers. Long black dress. Rhett stared at it like he was studying a treasure map. “That’s... not normal,” he said.