I had always possessed a talent for drawing. At some point, my doodles lost their sketch-like appearance and became truly beautiful. When they reached this point I would carry them around with me everywhere on a clipboard to better work on them. Due to this, the backs of the pictures would often fill with small sketches often depicting gruesome scenes. They would carefully detail bloody alleyways littered with corpses, and many times the killer, whom I had fondly christened Saul, would be standing by, laughing. The art on the front of the paper would soon adorn my walls secured by an ample amount of double sided tape. By the time three had been completed and placed, I decided to make it a habit.
During the work on the fourth picture, (it was of some character with a tragic backstory and its little scary doodles accompanying it) I fished an old cross from my sock drawer. I carefully hung it in the middle of the art wall. I thought it looked quite nice among such images, all of which had eyes drawn to stare at the room's occupants.
My art collection grew substantially as did my talent. Some of my drawings featured people bleeding from the face or crying, and all the while they stared at me as I slept and moved about my room, yet they never scared me. In fact, I found them to be good company. I was glad, however, that the frightening pictures on the other sides were held captive against the wall. The cross only made me feel better about the bloody scenes that were concealed.
On the completion of my twenty-second drawing, the cross fell from the wall. I was staring up at my art around midnight and it simply dropped to the floor with a clank. I took no notice of it, preferring instead to merely roll over and fall back to sleep.
When I awoke the next morning, one of my drawings had fallen from my wall. I was not concerned and quickly found the tape to re-affix it to its original spot. To my dismay, the tape refused to hold and so I was forced to leave it laying on the table where it could be damaged.
Over the next few weeks, my drawings continued to fall off of my wall and all refused to be put back. Soon all that was left was a special drawing that was, incidentally, free of any creepy doodles. It was a picture of a lantern that had been put out. In the smoke rose strange, twisted figures that danced and cackled. I had always loved that one, so I was delighted that it seemed to hold fast to the wall even now.
Two days after the last unsecure drawing had fallen, I was sleeping peacefully. I awoke to the sound of paper rustling. The first thing that hit me was the glow. I realized moments later it had come from the lantern displayed in my picture. Thoroughly spooked, I moved from my bed to flip the light switch, but was stopped by something that had caught my eye. The drawings that, due to their resistance to tape, had rested on my table for a while now, seemed illuminated by the eerie lantern. I should have turned on my light before continuing my examination, but curiosity got the better of me. I looked at each of them closer and was disturbed to see that all the creepies I had penciled in on the backs were gone. All that was left were smears of blood. I tried to run for my door but instead tripped and found myself in a heap on the ground at which point I blacked out.
I awoke once more to find the most horrific scene I had ever witnessed. Blood spattered my walls and floor. Even the ceiling had not escaped the viscous substance. Corpses were scattered at random throughout the room. My blood ran cold when I realized with terrible certainty they were the dead people I had drawn, now come to the real world in this twisted vision. Worse still, I found that I too had not been spared a thick coating of blood, and I also discovered that I was unable to move, still stuck in the cataplexy wrought by sleep. A man stepped out from my open closet. He was Saul, the killer primarily featured in my drawings. He held, much like in the art, a ceremonial dagger caked in dried blood. Saul gave a childlike smile when he saw I was conscious. Slowly, he approached me and uttered the words I had given him to say in my scenes.
This is the time of dying. Will you accept it?
I jolted upright in bed, fully awake and dimly aware of light streaming in through my closed blinds. My drawings were all back on the wall accompanied by the cross. There was only one small difference to the scene. The old silver cross was now upside down.
Thoroughly terrified, I removed all of the drawings from the wall and locked them in a case with the silver cross. To this day, I refuse to open it, but I can still hear the quiet words Will you accept it? come from the box at midnight.
That's what really scares me, because I burned the case, pictures, and cross years ago.