Wuthering Heights Illustration Novels & Stories

Her perfectly serene doll-like look was ruined however by the tired scowl which decorates her face. Rubisviel Fyaril, the Orchid Butterfly Witch of the Dark Forest wipes the sweat from her brow and huffed after completing a drawing of a Cthulhu symbol inside her circle. Thick black bags hang under her tired golden eyes and her face was paler than usual. Her head hurts like a battle-ax was splitting it open and her shoulders and legs are aching after prolonged hours of sitting on the ground and focusing on drawing the symbols.

“Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Excellent book.” He sits down and begins reading. The first picture I draw is a portrait of uncle Owen’s sister with a wolf howling at the edge of a cliff at a full moon in the background. I make one for his father too. I plan to give them these at the funeral. I do similar ones of Michael to give to Carrie and one for Zuri but with a lion for the family.

It was like death had taken up residence inside her but was too polite to knock. I flipped through the fragile pages, my fingers careful not to tear the brittle edges. Most of the writing was cramped and hurried, like the writer had been racing against time. I almost missed it. In the lower corner of one page was a faded illustration of a five-petaled flower. The petals were long and wispy, curling inward in a spiral, and the ink used was faint, almost as if the flower didn’t want to be noticed.

I turned to the next page, which creased and wrinkled at my touch. Focus your mind on a single point, like gathering storm clouds in a turbulent sky. That was all on that page, and beneath the guide was the diagram of a human, which must possibly be a werewolf. The human eyes were shut, his right hand was raised slightly around the level of his abdomen, and his palm was widely open, as if trying to call something to his opened palm. That must be a pictorial guide to what was written at the top. I became more interested in what I was reading. This made me flip to the next page.

she laughed. "I think you have, Ruth," he smiled, "I think you have." He looked down at the yellowing picture of his mother. It showed a young attractive woman with long dark hair, and she wore an embroidered dress of a light colour with a low square neckline. She was smiling and lifting a hand towards her face, as though embarrassed at the idea of having her picture taken. Behind her were trees, and just visible behind them what looked like a wooden tower of some kind raised into the air on four rigid stilts.

When he did, he brought new maps. The red pins had moved south. Closer. And in the library, the forbidden book had a new page. No one had touched it. But the ink was fresh. It showed a girl with mismatched eyes standing in chains of gold before a throne of obsidian. Behind her, a serpent with ember eyes bowed its head. Beneath the illustration, someone had written in a hand that was not human: THE WHEEL TURNS. THE BRIDE COMES. BUT THIS TIME,

As her fingers brushed against them, a cold feeling ran up her arm. The writing inside was the same as the journals. Runes. Symbols she couldn’t read. But this time… it wasn’t just words. There were illustrations. And the moment her eyes landed on them— Her blood turned cold. The drawings were horrifying. Creatures with twisted horns, long claws, and wings that looked torn and unnatural. Their faces were distorted, some almost human… but not quite. Their eyes were drawn with such detail that it felt like they were staring right back at her.

Two completely different interactions in the span of minutes and her emotions were at an all-time high. Waverly took one final breath and stood, walking to her wardrobe to change for the night. She then threw her sketchpad on the bedspread and sat down. Her hand gripped the pencil, and she instantly began drawing; not the eye, but something different than usual. This image was of the shadowed man. He had no face and she shaded him a very light grey. Beside him, stood another figure as black as soot. She smudged the pencil lines and shading to make it look like there was a bit of fog around it, outlining the shape of the being. Its arms were stretched out towards the shadowed man, who had no

“Or at least, it’s similar to one of his quotes.” She nodded. “Does all of Black Crimson’s art illustrate some fairy tale or another?” I sent her a curious glance. Motioning behind her, she explained. “Well, that one was obviously Rapunzel. And the one before was the Big Bad Wolf, right?” “Holy shit,” I cried, gaping at her before shaking my head and returning my attention to the road. “I think you’re right. I remember another one having some guy leaning over a sleeping woman and one had a mermaid on it, which must be—”

The pages are yellowed and fragile, ink faded but still readable in jagged, hurried script. The writing feels raw and desperate. Like someone’s last attempt to bear witness. They left us behind. The words leap out at me, underlined and scrawled with urgency. Around the edges, there are frantic sketches. Wolves caught between forms, faces twisted in pain or rage. One figure stands out. A wolf with antlers sprouting from its skull, just like the stories Ilsa told me about the Ash-born. The antlers look gnarled and worn, but there’s a wild grace in their shape.