Scream Drawings Novels & Stories

I forced a smile at him and said, "It's alright, Cedric. I've always been resilient. These injuries are nothing." Cedric remained silent for a long time. Then, he sighed heavily and said, "You might not think much about your physical injuries, but you're the only one who knows about your emotional injuries and the pain in your heart. "The good thing is that it's all over now." He proudly waved his phone at me. "What you did was absolutely brilliant. Now, Johann and Eva have been doxxed, and some of the extremists have already threatened to send them death threats in the form of dead mice and bloody razors."

"I can't explain it, but I just need you to trust me." Sawyer's fingers ran over a drawing of eyes that were sketched landscape. It was smudged in areas to create shading and the blue and black colours of the irises shouted out at him—it was like looking in a mirror and for a moment, he thought he could see himself reflected in their image. Maybe she was on to something and the longer he looked at the drawings, the more he became determined to find out.

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.

“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.

Hades is an amazing artist. Another picture I saw a demon eating a heart. The strings were coming out of his own chest. Means he was eating his own heart. I gulped once again. In the next picture, I saw a man lying and his soul was leaving his body. Next, he drew a man smiling creepily. His smile was the most horrible thing he drew. Next, I saw a woman’s face. She was smiling through her lips but was crying through her eyes. Her eyes reflected torture but still she was smiling.

He was drawing. She stepped closer, silent. On the paper was not a building, but a hand. A man’s hand, gripping a parallel bar, tendons standing out in stark relief, the knuckles white with strain. It was Liam’s hand, from that afternoon. It was perfect. It was alive with a painful, defiant energy she recognized instantly the same fierce vitality that had been in her own teenage sketches, the ones he’d defaced.

His mouth opened up and a sound from the pit of his stomach came out. It's been a long time since I engaged in my hobby: painting. Painting the dying or the dead. I looked at his facial expression and began drawing lines on the canvas, my brush gliding across the plain canvas detailing all my mind's eye wanted to picture. “Fuck…you…” Stefan screamed when Hound twisted the weapon deeper as if scraping at his femur. His words died into a strangled howl. I cleaned my brush and dipped it into the maroon red and guided the brush against the canvas stealing glances at Stefan's state.

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.

He climbed onto the sofa beside her and opened the notebook. Crayon lines filled the page. Bright colors. Simple shapes. But the drawing was recognizable. Three stick figures stood side by side beneath a large sun. Evelyn had seen similar drawings from him before. Usually the same three figures. A woman. A child. And a tall man with darker shading around the eyes. Silas held the notebook proudly. “Do you like it?” Evelyn forced a soft smile. “It’s beautiful.” He studied the picture carefully. Then pointed to the tallest figure.