Scary Things To Draw 소설 & 이야기

He said under his breath painting the image of random movement passing before his eyes. "Samuel, Stop! Now!" The mayor hit the pencil away from his hands. His stopped, like an image paused on the television screen. "It's too late!" The boy reached for the knife stuck in the side of a glazed pig, his blood splatter on his drawing of a woman holding a floating yarn with a burning church behind her. The knife all bloody from going through his throat. Screams of horror shot through the air, people ran helter skelter in a mix of fear and panic....

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.

It's just my bed and some of the things I've left in here such as some of my old books, my school projects, my puzzle boxes, and scattered puzzle pieces on my old study table. I sat on the chair and opened the compartment under the table. I was surprised to see the stories I've written when I was in high school as well as my sketchpads where I attempted to nurture my drawing skills even if I really suck in that field. I opened it and chuckled when I saw how gross Pikachu have become in my drawings. There's also a portrait of someone I guess I saw on F******k who is as gorgeous as barbies but in my drawing, she looked like a dying zombie who hasn't devour any human since she has turned into o

My breath hitched. One drawing, closer to my knee, caught my full attention. It depicted a stark, angular room. No furniture, just cold, hard lines for walls. In the corner, a small, stick-figure child, rendered with heartbreaking simplicity, was curled into a tight ball. Above the figure, dominating the top half of the page, loomed a monstrous shape, a crude, dark scribble with glaring, empty eyes and a gaping maw filled with jagged teeth. It wasn't a literal monster; it was pure, distilled menace, radiating from the crude lines. The sheer terror implicit in the small figure’s posture, the overwhelming scale of the threat… It felt like a punch to the chest.

I didn’t stop walking. Upstairs, I shut my door too softly for the satisfaction I wanted. Kicking off my leggings, I grabbed a hoodie and crawled into bed. The moment the lights were out, my brain flipped the switch on its nightly torture reel. Old memories. New fears. That terrifying feeling I’d let something important unravel tonight and didn’t know how to rebraid it. I reached for my sketchpad. My safest escape. Tonight’s drawing began with a scar. A long one, slicing down a man’s cheek. His eyes were soft, though. Kind. I made him older. Mid-thirties. Ex-boxer, maybe. Wrote notes in the margin:

Making everyone scream in hysterics instantly. The music suddenly stopped. Replaced with uncontrollable chaos and screaming. Jack stopped his guitar playing. He came to the front of the stage and smiled horribly. Jack took out a knife from the pocket he had prepared earlier. He slit his own throat until blood gushed from his neck with an expressionless face.

It was carved into the shape of a smiling Bhramuth, and the warmth of her skin lingered on it. Now, without the pendant, Charlotte finally saw her colleagues, who had been there all along. "We have plenty of employees here. From now on, you'll be working with them," I told her. I clapped my hands happily as I watched terror spread across her face. "What is happening? What are these things?" Charlotte screamed. The workshop was crowded with ghosts. At that moment, they were all sizing her up. They looked disturbing—headless men, women with missing limbs, and even malformed infants. No one could witness such a sight and remain unshaken.

They were all pretty convincing. A big spiral-bound notebook made of drawing paper lay on the chair. I flipped through a few pages. Some had charcoal drawings made with angry looking strokes. Dark and rough, but still recognizable as fields and hills you’d find around here. Other pages had diagrams in pen with clusters of spidery notes. Prop guillotines and coffins with spring-loaded lids. But most of the pages had monsters. Some drawn, some cut from movie magazines and pasted in. Some were more Polaroids of James in makeup; others were ordinary pictures of people from advertisements or news stories. On those he’d painted open-throat wounds or gouged out eyes with pen.

People are scrambling and running towards the forest to hide. I zoom in on what everyone is frightened of and it makes me want to vomit. There are these weird looking creatures that appear to have various features from a bird, feline, bear and wolf. Maybe human too? There eyes are completely black. Some have three arms or two heads and their flesh smells as though it is rotting. Whatever they are I don’t think they are truly alive. “Kale!” “On it Katerina, get Cedar and Joy out of here!”

A hollow hour, a time when secrets and fears felt most alive. I poured myself a glass of water without thinking, my fingers numb against the chill of the glass. Drawing had always been my escape—charcoal and graphite transforming panic into something tangible. Settling at the small table by the window, I opened my sketchbook and let my hand move, searching for solace. Dark lines spilled across the page, tracing angles that formed a face—a face all jagged edges, raw emotion, with an intensity that mirrored the storm brewing in my chest.