Phantom Artwork Novels & Stories

It was him, my phantom, and this picture was taken at my last birthday party and then up to the very recent happenings of my life. With my phantom. My throat dried up like the desert sand while my mouth gaped in bewilderment. Everything was captured, every scene, including the part where my phantom and I were having sex. Each frame was perfectly angled to hide his face. My heart went into a reckless drumbeat when a warm presence spread across my back, and a gust of hot breath blew the right top of my ear. “You see, he’s much closer to you than you can ever think. Just right under your nose.”

Above my head, the phone chirped and sang, "Hush, little baby, don't say a word, Mama's going to buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don't sing, Mama's going to buy you a diamond ring." Mom pulled out the ice tray, took the bag of minced meat, and spread it on the floor to inspect it. I was about to burst into tears. "Beatrice, are you an idiot? You actually froze your phone in the refrigerator. It's no wonder you didn't answer when I called. What exactly is inside your head?

The sun was setting, painting the room in warm gold and soft shadows. Nora stood before a canvas, brush poised but unmoving. “You’re not painting,” Jaden said quietly. “I am,” she replied, though her hand trembled slightly. “You’ve been staring at that same spot for ten minutes.” She sighed and lowered the brush. “I don’t know what I’m afraid of more. I'm messing it up… or getting it right.” Jaden stepped closer, careful, slow. “Art’s not about perfection, Nora. It’s about truth.”

"Art is not what you see, but what you make others see." - Edgar Degas. -Kimani Trinity Campbell - I stared intensely at the canvas in front of me, the oil paint still wet and glistening in the dim light of my studio. I was lost in thought, trying to figure out what was missing from the artwork. It was a beautiful piece, depicting the city skyline at night, with the tall buildings lit up like beacons against the dark sky. Despite all the detail and care I had put into it, I could not shake the feeling that something was missing.

Time passed faster as I played, but after about two hours, the games lost their charm. A familiar itch to draw tugged at me. I hadn’t brought any sketchbooks or supplies, but the urge was too strong to ignore. I searched the App Store again, downloading a few art applications. My fingers moved instinctively on the screen as I started a new project, the frustration and tension of the evening melting away. The painting took shape quickly: a white wolf standing proudly on the peak of a snow-covered mountain, its translucent fur glowing under the light of a full moon. Its purple eyes—Amy’s eyes—seemed to shine with life. The entire scene felt ethereal, almost magical.

She chuckled, turning her head at me. “Promise me you won’t sell this, Red,” she laughed. I shook my head, my shoulders shaking as I laughed with her. “I will keep this. You didn’t tell me you have this kind of talent, but you got my lips wrong.” I raised my hand, my index finger pointing at the curve of the lips of her stick man drawing. Aya glanced at me and then nodded. “Paint again, Red,” she murmured. “I can’t. Since Scarlett died, I felt like I could not paint anymore,” I muttered sadly, glancing at the last piece I made, Scarlett and our twins.

“There is a reason why the mark of the Phantoms is the butterfly. It is for the sole reason alone that the butterfly is the most mysterious and also the most beautiful creature in the world.” Kenji smiled wistfully. “It first started out as a caterpillar. Then a larvae. Then it became the beautiful butterfly. No one will ever suspect the beautiful butterfly of anything. That’s similar to how the Phantoms of Hati actually work. No one who saw a Phantom will suspect them of anything until it is too late.” “A butterfly…” Yuri muttered to herself.

This was not another painting. This was like the revealing of a new kind. "You know I'm not great with… artist statements," Jonah began, a grin dancing across his lips. "I just sort of let the art speak for itself. But this one… this one is different. This isn't something I painted. It's something I… built. For us." He grasped the corner of the cloth. "I named it 'Hearts at the Helm.'" With one smooth pull, the material slid off. The air left Clarkson's frame in a quiet, stealthy whoosh.

My face stayed still, the practiced blankness that had become second nature in this house. “I’m good for now. I’ll let you know when I want something to eat.” She nodded, gave a small smile, and left — pulling the door gently behind her as though afraid of disturbing the air. I exhaled and turned back to my phone. I’d been scrolling through an art page, the kind I always fell into when I needed somewhere quiet to put my mind. The image that stopped me was a flower painting — done entirely in deep, saturated red. Crimson at the center bleeding outward into a softer rose at the petals’ edges, every brushstroke deliberate and unhurried.

They flicker for a second, a little sign that he's happy about my purchase. "Deal. I'll have them sent to your address." "Thank you." "You're interested in my latte art? You already have her paintings." "It's different." "Deal." I stare at the painting on my phone again. On the right lower corner are words in black, "You're the arrow that pierces my heart, the stone that breaks my soul."