Suspense Drawing Novels & Stories

Noah I stand there in the hall, holding that drawing in my hands, for way longer than is necessary. As if I needed another distraction, I can’t stop wondering what it is about that little boy’s simple honesty that lodged itself right under my ribs and won’t leave. But fuck do I want it to. “There you are!” The picture slips out of my hands at Cole’s booming voice. “What the fuck are you doing hiding back here?” He bends over and picks up the drawing for me, holding it away from himself between two fingers while he looks it over, like a snake that might bite if he gets too close.

He drew rough maps across the board, marking rivers and forests. I copied every line exactly. Charcoal scratched softly against the slate. The sound helped me focus. Then something hit my desk. Soft. Wet. I froze. A crumpled piece of paper rolled to a stop near my hand. I didn’t want to touch it but I did. It smelled sour. When I opened it, my stomach dropped. Someone had drawn a skinny dog hanging from a rope. The lines were messy but clear enough. Laughter whispered behind me. Another piece of paper hit my shoulder.

He had found a pad of paper and a dull pencil in a kitchen drawer. He was drawing. I stood in the doorway, my breath catching in my throat. I didn't want to disturb him. I watched the way his hand moved—it was fluid, confident, but with that slight, human tremor he had inherited from the resonance. He finished the sketch and turned the paper toward the light. It wasn't a blueprint. It wasn't a map. It was a drawing of a single, wild iris growing out of a crack in a rock. It was messy. The lines were unoptimized. It was, in every sense of the word, imperfect.

Nothing on the wall, just the peeling wallpaper and a small desk with a busted reading lamp. He closed the door gently and locked it. He leaned against it and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding on to. Only here did the tension slip, but it never stayed. For he can be eaten by the monster at any time, without cause or reason. He sat at his desk, pulled out a notebook, and flipped to a blank page. The pencil felt weird in his hand. He started to draw. Nothing in particular, and neither did he have the ability to draw good pictures; he just felt like it. He started with just lines, then shapes, and shading shows.

not even once. I didn’t think much of it at first because this place was full of people whose minds worked in ways I couldn’t follow or analyze and I had bigger things to worry about than a stranger’s fixation on my pretty ass. So yeah, I can’t blame her. But then things started happening and it made me hella uncomfortable. 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 narrowed my eyes, studying the curves and signature patterns, and a deep, uneasy suspicion settled in my gut. This wasn’t her design. I quickly pulled out my phone and snapped a few pictures, making sure to capture every detail, the design, the markings, the barely visible signature at the bottom of the sketch. Without hesitation, I sent the images to Art with a short, firm message: “I want you to scan whose signature work this is.” It wasn’t just paranoia. Mirela had been plotting more than usual lately, and if my instincts were right, this pendant design was a piece of a much larger puzzle. That gut feeling - that it would lead to some mighty discovery - was too big to ignore.

I looked over it again and again as I hoped Chris would love it. It is a realistic drawing of him in black and white. No color pencil was used. He is a suit with his arms folded on each other. He looked so manly with his expressionless face standing there. I made the drawing to his stomach and stopped it there, not drawing further down. It looks like a portrait. I wish I could frame it out before he comes back from work but I won't even be going out today. I glanced up at the time and it was up to an hour before he arrives from work.

-Let's see now. I began with the weaker suspects, of little relevance, but still suspects. I wrote down their names at the bottom part of the board, drawing a line to the intermediate suspects, those who possessed a relatively close connection. And going up now to the main suspects, those who might have a direct connection to the theft. I put their photos on the top of the organizational chart, above their names. Putting now all the little papers from the notepad, glued to each suspect present there. The small yellow papers stood out with the color of the board, drawing attention to their probable reasons.

I think you want to know how you got here. Oh, so I'm no longer a suspect? I think wryly. Giving you food and tending to your wounds has somehow convinced you that I'm not a threat? I get up and go to the hiding place door. I fill my hands with sand and bring it back to him. I spread it on the floor in front of him so I can draw on it. I draw sea waves, a moon and a square floating in the water. I draw a little stick figure on it and point to the foreigner.

I had to do something. —------------- Everyone was going about their normal routines, laughing and talking, while my world was crumbling around me. I couldn’t focus on anything except my dad’s suspicions, the tampered evidence. It was all a tangled mess. In art class, I pulled out my sketchbook. I had been working on a drawing of the wolf I’d seen in the woods, the one with the glowing red eyes. It was a distraction, a way to escape the chaos in my head. I’d only managed to sketch the head and shoulders before Lucian interrupted me in the library. Now, I was determined to finish it.