Suspense Drawing Novels & Stories

He hadn’t seen him this relaxed in weeks. Not wanting to disturb him, the Sheriff stepped inside quietly, reaching for the desk lamp to turn it off. But something caught his eye—a drawing, half-covered by a book. His fingers paused mid-air, curiosity taking over as he picked up the sketch. It was a hyperrealistic drawing of a woman, detailed and lifelike, almost as if her eyes might blink at any moment. Hunter had always been this good at drawing. But the Sheriff’s brow furrowed in concentration, narrowing his eyes to study the image more closely. There was something familiar about her face—something just out of reach in his memory—but he couldn’t quite place it. Just as he was trying to rec

I unlock the door as quietly as I can. Jonah’s asleep on the couch. He’s too big for it now—his legs hang off the edge, one arm thrown over his face and the other holding onto his inhaler—but he’s curled up under the blanket I bought him last Christmas. His sketchbook’s on the floor next to him, open to a page covered in dark, jagged lines. I kneel down. Look at the drawing. Monsters again. Always monsters. Claws and teeth and too many eyes, things that don’t look human but almost are, things that are breaking apart or putting themselves back together. I can never tell which.

He stepped inside, eyes flicking automatically over the organized chaos of her desk—journal stacks, a half‑drunk coffee, Park’s latest draft open on the tablet. No stapler. Of course. He turned to leave and saw it. A photo, half‑tucked under a file, edge peeking out just enough to catch the eye. A small hand, smudged with blue and red crayon. A wolf drawing with too many teeth. Curiosity was a reflex he’d never successfully shut off. He reached out and slid the paper the rest of the way clear. Two sheets, actually. On top: the drawing. Three wolves—one with a small, one with bared teeth, one with a crooked leg, and a long line in its paw. Labels in wobbly, determined letters.

*Is she going to tell everyone there’s more witches here,* I thought at Susie. She nodded and whispered, “I hope so! Some of my drawings are now in real life, and down there.”

I tell her with a sigh. "Oh, okay, fine!" She said with a roll of her eyes and went back inside my mind. I was sitting down when I picked up my bag off the floor and got out my art supplies and drawing pad. I started drawing and painting on the pad. After half hour... I was in the middle of the last tree I was drawing when I heard someone shut the door. I whipped my head back, and I stood up. I looked over at the door. I felt goosebumps running up my body. I felt my heart beating fast, and I felt my chest heavy. But, I saw a dark shadow by the door.

Miranda squatted down to hug the little fellow, "Darling, did you finish your drawing? Brian nodded affirmatively. "What did you draw? Can I look at it?" Brian immediately passed the drawing to her to have a look at. The moment she saw it, her eyes teared up. As usual, she was the subject of the drawing. The colors used in the painting were vibrant and dream-like. She was lying on a small bed, holding a storybook in hand. However, Brian had drawn it from his perspective, when he was lying by her side and watching her from below.

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

Both drawn close to her back, like they were hiding and standing tall at the same time. My knees weakened. I knew that drawing. I had seen it before in surveillance stills, in reports I hadn’t been supposed to access. The way the figures leaned slightly to the left. The way the faces were always circles with heavy eyes and no mouths. I knew instantly that it was connected to Sydney. My fingers trembled as I traced the edge of the paper. “She remembered,” I whispered. A sound lodged in my throat that wasn’t quite a sob and wasn’t quite a laugh.

Across from us, Clay was already asleep, noise-canceling headphones askew and a half-full bag of pretzels clutched in his palm. I pulled my sketchbook out of my bag. Its pages carried the stains of snow, firelight, and fear—each a testament to moments between chaos and resilient hope. But this page, I resolved, would be different. As I began to draw, I felt the pencil glide effortlessly across the paper as if it possessed a wisdom greater than mine. I created a silhouette of pine trees, their forms reclaimed by the gentle embrace of snow and the promise of bloom. The roots delved deep into a mountain of layered fabric swatches—canvas, hemp, wool, silk—textiles that whispered tales of enduran

Darn! I decide to call back, this time for a video call, but the connection is interrupted. I wait for a moment, pacing back and forth, feeling my pulse quicken. Furthermore, I glance back at the drawing. Some details are still missing, but you can see a woman pulling a man out of an abyss.