Voodoo Doll Drawings Novels & Stories

Azriel commanded in an utterly casual tone of voice, as if he were only showing a drawing of a natural landscape. Isolde, with trembling fingers, turned the paper to the second page. There, the strokes of the drawing were far more bold and wild. There appeared a sketch of Isolde sitting leaning back with her pair of plump legs forced wide apart. Azriel's head was depicted as buried between the mounds of Isolde's large breasts, as if nursing greedily there. Not stopping there, one of Azriel's hands in the drawing appeared to grope downward, with detailed fingers depicted as penetrating Isolde's sensitive vagina area.

Such a childish and girly tantrum. I covered my face. This was truly embarrassing. It was a good thing that I am the only person seeing this. I could not let Lucas know that I have such a habit before! This would be my secret until the day I die! "Mom, look here! I draw myself and mom!" My mother and I looked at the drawing book. There were two stick figures on the paper. The taller stick has long hair and a big smile with very long lashes that expand longer than the ears. While the shorter stick has twig tails and a small smile.

"Laura opened the cabinet again! She's going to put that doll through another round of torture!" "Dorothy's going to suffer again tonight. Poor thing." I carried the doll into the bathroom. This time, I turned the hot water all the way up. The steam from the showerhead filled the bathroom. I put the doll in the bathtub and turned on the cold water. The doll began to tremble violently as the freezing water rained on her skin. "Is Laura putting the doll through two extreme temperatures? She's going to kill Dorothy at this rate!" "Dorothy's having a seizure in her apartment. It's hell on earth for her!"

Her body tensed up the moment she felt someone behind her. Her heart started pounding again, but she refused to be scared. She turned around in a defensive stance, then gasped when she saw a zombie doll standing there, staring at her. It was holding a lit torch, the flickering light casting eerie shadows across its creepy face. After a few seconds, Valeria noticed a folded note sticking out of the doll’s chest pocket. She quickly pulled it out, took the torch from its hand, and moved to a brighter part of the room to read it.

Lucian Voss I was still holding the paper in my hand long after the door closed behind me. I didn’t even realize it at first, but my fingers had tightened around it like I was afraid of letting it go. It was a child’s drawing, done in crayon, the lines uneven and rough. There were three stick figures. One tall figure was labeled “Mr. Lucian.” The next was a woman with long hair, drawn with wide strokes and labeled “Mama.” Between them stood a small boy with messy curls and a wide smile. He had no label because I didn’t need one.

You might display a few of your paintings to me. I gave her a nod and went up to my room. But the thoughts of what I had heard would not leave me. Ivory saw some of the drawings I'd done in my room. The majority of them were joyful objects, such as animals and flowers. However, I drew one last night following a nightmare.

I said moving closer to where she was,s she didn't have to reply cause I saw the drawings seated at her table, they were excellent. There was a carving of a wolf and a baby and another with a wolf and a little girl and the last one she was still working on had a wolf and a young lady, if looked closely you would see that these drawings looked alike in appearance both the girls and the wolves. “ you drew all these?” “Yea, h I can't remember where I learned how to nor where I saw these images” I took the drawings and stared at them for a while and realized it was a trilogy, the different stages of both their lives like they were growing together.

There, hidden behind a curtain of weeping carbon-fiber vines, was a small, dilapidated shack. "What is this?" I asked. "The only place the grid can't see," Xander said. He pulled back the vines, and I saw a wall covered in jagged, hand-drawn charcoal sketches. I gasped. The sketches weren't of buildings or machines. They were of us. There was a drawing of a man and a woman standing in a mountain of gold; a drawing of a girl with a wooden ring; a drawing of a man with orange eyes holding a woman in the rain.

I wonder what she would come up with next. After a few moments, she finally finished and eagerly called out to me, "Lycan Aaron, can you guess what this is?" Excitedly, she showed me the screen of my phone, revealing her latest creation. I studied the drawing intently, taking in the long oval shape with two balls below and hairs beneath them. At the top, there was a line. Wait. Isn’t that…? “Are you crazy?” I asked, frowning. “Why are you drawing a man’s d*ck?”

“Not dead. Not alive. Just waiting.” Later that morning, Moira sat in her office, rubbing her temples and staring at the boy’s drawings spread out across her desk. She had taken a few from under his mattress. Dozens of them. All in pencil, all in the same crooked, tunnel-like place. Some featured symbols. Some had clocks with no hands. Some had doors with eyes instead of doorknobs. And in almost all of them, the same woman appeared—dark hair, tired eyes, standing on steps that seemed to lead nowhere. Something was wrong.