Scream Drawings Novels & Stories

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.

But that wasn’t what he was drawing today. There was a picture of two girls—rendered crudely in crayon, but still identifiable as girls. One of them had short blond hair and the other had long brown braids. Their hands were on their faces and their mouths open in screams. David had drawn these as big black circles. A huge black shadow hovered before them, a shapeless body with red eyes and clearly defined hands. The hands looked like long silver knives. There were many drawings before this one. Lauren wondered how long David had been at it.

He scanned me from head to foot before shaking his head and putting back his attention on the papers he’s holding. Yadiel’s body was facing the shelves so as his face making me to witness the beauty of his side view. He was wearing his eyeglasses that was supported by his tall nose line. The way he remained his poise and composure everytime he lifts his arms to scan and compare the paper that he was holding against the paper that he was finding is just so manly. His dimples were showing even though he’s not smiling. My eyes trailed from his long eye lashes down to his rossy lips and stops when it reaches his neck. His adams apple went upside down everytime he swallows as well as his veins an

“I’m an adult—” “You’re a child playing with fire.” Another step. He’s in my space now, close enough that I can smell laundry detergent and sawdust and something under, warm skin, sweat, him. “Do you know what men do with pictures like these? Do you know how many screens these are on by now? How many group chats?”

Don't tell me that brute fooled me about the face paint? I gulped and shook my head. Of course not! He's been extra nice today. Extra nice. Nice. Oh, fuck! I'm doomed! When is he ever nice?! That man was born with fucking horns in his head! A loud scream emerged out of my throat when I finally saw the finished drawing he made on my face! Pink and purple poops with eyes and mouth! Like the keyboard emojis! This is ridiculous! I touched it and it quickly smeared all over my cheeks since it's still wet. I hope this shit is not so hard to remove or I'm doomed!

The first page was a rough drawing. My breath caught. It was tall. Twisted. The limbs were elongated, unnatural. The face distorted, the mouth stretched too wide, the eyes hollow and wrong. My hands began to shake. “No,” I whispered. “What?” Erica asked, stepping closer. “What did you find?” I flipped to the next page. More drawings. Different angles. More detail. Claw marks. Teeth. Notes scribbled hastily in the margins. My heart slammed against my ribs.

After wiping away her tears, Cherry waddled over to the bookshelves, pulled out a drawing album from the corner where it was least likely to be seen, and sat down on the carpet. Opening the album revealed a collection of drawings, some appearing eerily chaotic. It was difficult to discern their meaning. The only recognizable features were human heads, encircled by dark streaks that vaguely resembled beards. "You're the worst! I hate you! I'll never draw you again. Cherry doesn't need a daddy like you!" As she complained, she forcefully tore at the pages, ripping them into pieces. In a matter of minutes, the abstract masterpieces had turned into shreds of paper.

"I've been having these dreams since Mom's accident. Since the night she went into a coma." She turned the screen toward me. Drawings. Dozens of them. Digital sketches done on her phone, rough and desperate and achingly detailed. They showed a woman—Claire—trapped in darkness. Screaming silently behind what looked like glass or water or some invisible barrier. In some drawings, her body was separate from a glowing, translucent version of herself—like her soul had been ripped away. In others, she was reaching toward something just out of frame. The style was raw. These weren't careful art projects. These were frantic attempts to capture something seen in the depths of a nightmare. Each one wa

It swirled in lazy patterns with every step I took, making it obvious no one had been in here for years. The stillness in the air felt heavy and untouched, as if the room itself had been holding its breath, waiting for someone to return and disturb it. Drawings covered the walls, some pinned haphazardly while others were curled at the edges where the adhesive had failed. They depicted all kinds of things, but the majority were creatures twisted, nightmarish things with too many limbs, hollow eyes and gaping mouths lined with jagged teeth. Among the creatures were strange Landscapes places that looked warped and wrong, as if reality had stretched too thin. There were also people, some drawn i

It was his painting room, the room where he does or his dubious, her hands trembled as her eyes met with so many drawings with horrific write up imprinted boldly on them. Her eyes soon smudge into a picture that stole her attention, it was the picture of her and Rex. Everything wasn't really making sense to her, though the pictures were scary, if he really should draw someone, it should have been a picture of them. She advanced toward the picture, and with the little step that she takes, it becomes clearer cause the write-up becomes visible. Her body jerked and unfurls as she felt waves of pain and fear gripped her, when her eyes landed on the write-up,