Wuthering Heights Illustration Novels & Stories

She felt like jumping back in time and grabbing and shaking this author, this person who would tease her in this way and then not expound on it. As she turned the next page, though, she came upon an elaborate color illustration of the Sphinx of Egypt, the sun shining behind it, its rays filling the page, so bright it looked as if it might jump out at her, and as she read the inscription, in tiny letters, she was immensely relieved to discover that the author did, indeed, revisit the topic:

“But I do need to show you something.” She takes my hand and leads me to her desk. Opening a drawer, she pulls out a small stack of papers. She holds them out to me, and I take the stack. They’re children’s drawings in crayon. “I found those in Bryony’s room,” Willow explains. Our three-year-old daughter's drawing isn’t a concern. It’s the subject matter in her drawings that makes me pause. There are drawings of wolves in cages, a bloody wolf on the ground with a knife sticking out of its neck and a black sun with a smaller blue circle inside of it.

Elena took it gently and flipped the cover, careful not to tear the battered pages. Inside was a drawing: jagged mountains, a row of stick-figure people—woman, child, three others with wolfish heads and improbable bodies, trailing a sled through deep blue snow beneath a black, glittering sky. At the bottom, in shaky crayon, was scrawled: “Hope is a wolf.” Elena smiled, her vision blurring a little. She looked up at the girl and, unsure what else to do, nodded. “Hope is a wolf?” she repeated, softly.

“It’s been driving me crazy since the day I arrived. And then just now, looking at it in the light… Just read it.” Curious, I bent over the book and skimmed the story. The initial illustration took up half the page, inked in faded black and red: a young woman at a vanity, combing her hair with a crescent pendant hanging at her throat. Behind her, half-hidden in the curtains, stood a hooded figure with long fingers and a smile full of jagged teeth. The crescent in the drawing was mine. Not similar. Mine, down to the slight asymmetry of the points.

I watched from the shadows, my form bound to these walls, unable to step beyond the front porch no matter how I strained. Bella had left one last drawing by the sealed basement door before the family moved out. The Bennetts found it on their first full day. Margaret picked it up and smiled at the colorful image of a woman by the water. “Children have such imaginations,” she said to Harold. He nodded, but I saw the way his eyes lingered on the dark marks around the woman’s neck.

The walls being light colored didn’t surprise me more than the mountains upon mountains of books he has sitting on bookshelves surrounding the room. I walk around the room running my hands over all the different titles and authors. Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, H.G Wells, and so much more. Wuthering Heights, a first edition version sat in a case in between the shelves by a set of double doors to what looks like a balcony. It stuck out to me more than any of the other titles because it surprises me more than anything that he would read a book such as that. I try to picture in my head him sitting in a chair with glasses, all relaxed and snuggled up reading a classical romance novel

Look closer. Her gaze settled on a particularly weathered book tucked away near the corner. Its cover was simple, but a faint embossed design caught the light - a pair of intertwined wolves beneath a crescent moon. The image sent a shiver down her spine, and her fingers tingled as she pulled it from the shelf. She opened it carefully, the pages crackling with age. The script was ornate, the kind that took a moment to decipher, but the accompanying illustrations made her breath catch. Drawings of wolves with hollowed eyes and jagged teeth, their forms twisted and monstrous, filled the margins.

she murmured under her breath, pulling it from the shelf. The leather creaked as she opened the book. The pages were yellowed and delicate, and they carried the unmistakable weight of time. She flicked through them slowly, careful not to cause any tears. The illustrations it held were beautiful ink drawings of thick forests, full moons, animals that looked almost… too detailed. Too intelligent. Then a page stopped her. An elaborate drawing of a clearing, large, ringed by ancient trees. She squinted. It looked oddly familiar.

It looked so old that it was practically falling apart at the seams. I was careful as I opened it, my pulse thundering away. This had to be magical, that was the only way I would have been drawn to a book in a locked drawer. The moment I opened it though, the excitement died. I couldn't understand anything. Another dead language. But I continued leafing through it when I noticed unlike the others, it had pictures. I saw a picture of a garden. A picture of a woman standing with her back to seven women kneeling to her. Another of a woman standing with her back straight and arm outstretched and six wolves surrounding her.

I didn't want Alexis to leave at the same time I didn't want him to hear what the seer would say to me, he seemed nervous about leaving me alone with the seer and I hated that. The seer waited for Alexis to leave before her eyes began to dart around me. “I can't believe you are real. I saw in it, where is my book?” She was running about the whole place now and her large dress made it difficult for her. When she eventually grabbed a large book and opened it I noticed there were illustrations everywhere, most of them in color, it was obvious why it attracted her attention. Some of the images depicted wolves. One showed a woman lying next to a human corpse covered in fur. There were so many pic