Suspense Drawing Novels & Stories

His employees had gone home. His secretary had left nearly two hours ago. The cleaning staff had already passed through. Yet he remained where he always remained. Behind his desk. Working. Or at least pretending to. His attention drifted toward the drawing again. A crude picture made with colored pencils. Stick figures. A smiling sun. A flower that looked suspiciously like a potato. And in the middle of everything... A man in a suit. The drawing had clearly been made by a child. A very young child. A very energetic child.

It was just like the writings of a computer, neatly and clearly obvious. Her perfect handwriting flows gracefully across the page, with elegant curves and consistent spacing. Each letter was meticulously formed, exuding a sense of sophistication and precision that captures attention and invites admiration. I picked up the drawings, and observed the nude pictures perfectly sketched out on blank sheets. This young Miss drawing is a mesmerizing dance of colors and lines, weaving together to create a vivid tapestry of emotions. With each stroke, she breathes life into her creation, capturing fleeting moments of beauty and depth.

“Hidden. Like someone meant for it to be found… but not too easily.” Sloane took it from him with both hands. A drawing. Delicate but purposeful. A spiral staircase descending into a dark void. A child standing at the base, her face blank. And beside her, a second figure. A woman in a long coat, with a red scarf. The outline was unmistakable. She felt the breath leave her lungs. “I’ve drawn this,” she whispered. “I know,” Theo said. “I saw the sketch in your book.” “But this isn’t mine.” Her fingers trembled as she turned the paper over. “I didn’t make this. Not consciously.”

Half-finished profiles, small studies of my mouth, my knuckles. He didn't just draw my hands. He drew the veins on my forearm. He drew the calluses on my fingers. He drew the scar on my left palm. I feel something in my chest lurch. This isn't a sketch book. It's an obsession, and I’m so here for it. I flip a page and my breath stills in my throat. It’s me, drawn from the side, on my knees. My head is bowed, my hands clasped behind my back. It’s not last night. It’s from a drill. But the focus he’s captured is all sex. The tension in my spine, the line of my ass.

She touched one drawing. "This is the river. This is the buildings. This is the chamber." She moved her hand along the progression. "This is the arrivals. All of it, drawn, in order." She stopped. "And then this." Aria crouched down. The drawing at the end of the sequence was different from the others. Not architectural. Not geographical. Not the specific practical diagrams Elena had used for the physical preparations. A circle. Inside it, two figures. One large. One very small.

It was a good thing Jasmine knew Serenity well because Drake would not be able to figure her out. Serenity put a lot of thought into drawing the silhouette of a person. Jasmine did not need to get close to guess Serenity was drawing Zachary. Drawn by curiosity, Drake watched as Serenity doodled on the paper. Serenity portrayed the upper half of Zachary’s body on the paper. Once she was done, she took a look and added a heart to his chest. Nevertheless, she penciled the heart rather tiny. Putting down the pen, she grabbed her untouched wine and admired her artwork while sipping it.

Without much thought, I pick one up and begin to sketch. At first, it’s just random lines, soft, swirling shapes, but soon it becomes more intentional. I let the pencil move on its own, trying to capture this tight feeling in my chest, the sense of being watched and questioned, of being stuck between two lives. Drawing helps, just a little. The tension in my shoulders eases as the page slowly fills up with images. I don’t know how much time passes until a sudden, firm knock echoes through the house. The sound jerks me from my thoughts. I blink down at the half finished drawing and set the pencil aside, standing slowly. My legs feel stiff from sitting so long.

But nothing on my forehead, I don’t need Jace walking in and murdering you on sight. "No promises." He’s already reaching for a pen from the nightstand. ”Stay still." I sit up straighter, arms crossed as he leans in, his breath warm against my skin as he drags the pen across my cheek. He takes his time, which makes me even more suspicious. "What the hell are you drawing?" I demand. He pulls back just slightly, grinning. ”You’ll find out." After another moment, he sits back with an exaggerated flourish. ”Masterpiece complete."

Damn. Another deep breath later I shook my head then moved his sketch aside and started drawing my latest victim instead. Willing my mind to think about my latest kill, I started sketching, fast. The lines, the shape of his slouched body, and the fear show his level of stress without showing off his face. The blood dripping from his stomach made them perfectly in line with the moment his life was slipping away. My wrist moves hurriedly, line after line, shading, shaping Rudy the tattletale. The coloring comes next, then I decided to stop when my back felt too tired to continue.

Beside the paper and pen lay a thin box with a set of graphic pencils. A drawing kit? I opened the pad immediately and began to draw, the dream pouring through me like water down a cliff. It was vivid and fast, my fingers moving on instinct and guided by the memory that wad etched into my mind. The dizzying swirl of numbers, the images in the holographic screens, the massive glowing codes. I drew it as perfectly as I could, adding the faces of my children. After several minutes, I felt no more inspiration coming, so I sat back and stared at the sketch. My fingers had gone sore, my breathing a bit shallow.