Scream Drawings Novels & Stories

A drawing slid under my door one night, it was made with charcoal, rough and it looked like my face, except the eyes were wrong, too wide and too hungry like whoever drew it saw something in me that wasn’t actually there. I tore it up and flushed the pieces down the small metal sink before anyone could ask questions about it, the next night, another appeared and this time with words scratched along the rubbish jagged handwriting. They don’t understand you as I do. “Well, it’s official. This bitch is crazy.” My skin crawled reading it and I didn’t sleep that night either as I listened to every sound in the hallway, wondering if the next thing sliding under my door would be paper or something

I didn't know yet how much I'd regret saying it out loud. Eli reached for my sleeve while I packed the blood pressure cuff away. "Do doctors ever get scared?" "Sometimes." "Even you?" "Especially me." I sat on the edge of his cot. "Being scared doesn't mean you stop working." He considered that with the particular seriousness of a seven-year-old filing away important information. Then he reached under his pillow and produced a folded piece of paper, corners soft from handling. "I drew something." I opened it. Stick figures, all smiling, one holding a syringe roughly the size of a house. Wolves underneath a lopsided yellow sun.

"What does your new friend look like, Heidi?" Heidi proudly lifted her drawing. It was a crude, childish sketch of a very tall figure standing between two giant green trees. The figure was colored completely in dark gray and black crayons, but the most unsettling part was the face. Heidi had used a bright yellow crayon to draw two massive, perfectly round circles for the eyes.

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 was predicting stuff before they could even happen. “Does Ken know about this book?” I asked her while still searching for any other creepy drawing. “He knows I like to draw sometimes.” “Right.” There was a drawing of a brunette with strings indicating highlights and I instantly knew it was Bree. There were pills scattered all around her as she was bent over the sink. Her curls hid a lot of what was going on with her and the bottles of pills did not indicate what she was taking. The drawing looked so real that it gave me chills. Bree looked sad in that drawing and I almost felt some sympathy for her until I remembered that she conspired with the cafeteria ladies not to give me any lunch.

I touched up some other things like her nose and lips before dropping the pencil. I exhaled and stared at my drawing. It was yet another portrait of the scary redhead woman, I had dreamt about her again. The dream was pretty much the same as the previous one, she had been chasing me through a dark lonely forest, I tripped and just when she was about to swipe at me with her claws; I jolted awake.

“If you turn over a couple of pages, you’ll see the the next releases of my comic in pencil, ready for inking. You know how to do that, from school, you remember?” “Yeah, I remember. I like these ones better,” his smirk was wicked as he continued to look through the sketches. “F-k,” he tilted his head to the side. “Now that’s glorious. The expression on Cam’s face and the way you’ve drawn Talen like he’s a f-king sex god… I love it! I want it on my bedroom wall. Just look at Talen’s c-ck, it even looks slick with lube… And is that a handprint on Cam’s arse?”

"Okay, okay, easy. I’m just telling you about my favorite event of the day. Relax and keep yourself calm. I’m not sure if you’ll like what I’ll say next…" I think I know what he’ll say. The agency wants me to accept the offer because I’d clearly stated my disgust when it was offered. "Tic wanted you to accept the offer." Tic is short for Terror-In-Closet. The guy that I inadvertently caused a scandalous incident with. I think I’m still absent-minded that I didn’t straighten my facts.

Inside, the walls were covered in papers taped up in frenzied layers – maps, articles, scrawled notes in different hands. And in the middle, on a dusty table, was a child’s drawing. I knew that kind of paper. The kind they gave you in primary school, printed with dotted lines and cartoon suns. The kind I used to crumple up and hide because perfection was the only praise that mattered. There were two girls in the drawing – stick figures with messy curls. One had a blue dress. The other had green. Me. And Sierra. I picked it up with trembling fingers. Between us stood a tall figure. No name. No face. Just a dark outline drawn in heavy, repeated strokes.