Suspense Drawing Novels & Stories

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.

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

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.

“asked Camila. Bea showed her the sheet of paper, Camila took it, but first she placed a kiss on her temple. She grabbed the sheet of paper and looked at it. The smile she had faded little by little as she saw what her sister had drawn. He didn't know if it was a coincidence or if someone had simply told him about it. Bea had drawn a man. But not just any man. He was a tall man, dressed in black, he had no face and his hands, they weren't his hands, they were like.... They were like tentacles. It can't be, thought Camila, feeling her breath hitching. What was all that? Bea couldn't do that drawing, she couldn't. Next to her, Jesse was bent over looking at the drawing. “Oh, no, that's not goo

He could not reach the cutting table and the floor lamp and the pencil moving across paper at two in the afternoon on a Saturday while a DA's office built a case somewhere across the city and a seven year old boy waited for blood test results that were going to change the shape of everything. He could not reach what I was building in this room. That was the one resource he could not touch. I picked up the page with the fifteen doorway drawings and folded it carefully and put it in my coat pocket. Then I pulled the collection sketches out from the folder where I kept them and spread them across the cutting table and started working on piece twelve, which had been refusing to resolve its lower

The age she'd stopped trusting happiness. The age she'd learned that people could disappear. That homes could vanish. That monsters sometimes smiled before they hurt you. Slowly she approached the canvas. And began to draw. Not Paris. Not university. Not Jonathan. Not hospitals. The oak tree. The lines appeared naturally. Almost without thought. A branch. Another. The swing. The field. The distant farmhouse. Jessica stepped back. Her chest tightened. Because suddenly she wasn't drawing a picture. She was remembering. The smell of fresh bread in the kitchen.

His soul almost departed from his body when he nearly failed to clasp the drawing paper. With an enormous conundrum in his mind, Celeb slowly unfolded the paper before becoming frozen in his place. His jaws dropped along with dilating his eyes in disbelieve. He blinked a couple of moment before scanning the artwork deeply. It was the face of a woman lying down under a tree shutting off her elegant eyes in sleep. Even from his miserable sketch, Celeb could infer that the woman was incredibly gorgeous. But the most disquieting part was that it was nearly impossible to decipher her exact facial appearance because of his hopeless drawing skill.

but his tension hung heavy, a fault line Elena felt from the hall. She unpacked Lina’s bag in the kitchen, her turtleneck itching, and pulled out the drawing—two shadows, knives glinting, a child’s scrawl that froze her blood. Her breath hitched, Father Bernard’s trance echoing—shadows with blades—and she shivered, the crash whispering sabotage, a riddle she couldn’t crack. “Elena,” JJ called, tugging her jeans, “cookie?” She blinked, sliding the drawing under a plate, forcing a smile. “Soon, bud,” she said, soft, but her mind churned—chance, or truth?