I PULLED A CHILD’S DRAWING FROM UNDERNEATH THE COUCH CUSHIONS
Dust motes danced in the single shaft of afternoon sun hitting the living room floor. I was trying to vacuum under the couch, wrestling with the attachment, when my fingers brushed something stiff tucked way back. Pulling it out, I saw it was a kid’s drawing done in cheap, waxy crayons. The colors were too bright, the paper thin and rough under my touch.
It wasn’t like anything our kids ever drew – wrong style, too simple. I called Mark over, holding it up. He squinted, shook his head. “Where did *that* come from?” he asked, a weird edge to his voice.
I laid it flat on the coffee table under the harsh overhead light. Stick figures mostly, a lopsided house, a bright yellow sun with squiggly rays. But one figure was smaller, separate, drawn in dark purple.
It wasn’t just the color; its head was just a circle, no face, and there was a strange symbol scribbled over where the face should be. Mark backed away slightly, eyes fixed on it. A cold knot tightened in my stomach.
Then I noticed a single strand of long black hair stuck to the back of the paper.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*Mark ran a hand through his hair, avoiding my gaze. “We’ve lived here five years. The previous owners… the Millers, right? They had a daughter. Lily, I think her name was.”
“I remember,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “A quiet girl. Always wore black ribbons in her hair.”
The hair on the drawing. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
“I remember hearing… rumors,” Mark continued, his voice low. “After they moved. Something about Lily being… withdrawn. Spending a lot of time alone. Her mother said she had an imaginary friend.”
I felt a prickle of fear crawl up my spine. “An imaginary friend?”
“Yeah. She called it… the Shadow Man. Said Lily would draw pictures *for* him. That he told her what to draw.”
We stared at the drawing, the simple lines now radiating a chilling aura. The faceless purple figure. The strange symbol. It felt less like a child’s innocent creation and more like… a summoning.
“Maybe it’s nothing,” I said, trying to sound reassuring, even to myself. “Just a kid’s drawing. A bit creepy, sure, but…”
But the cold knot in my stomach refused to loosen. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d stumbled onto something unsettling.
Over the next few days, I found myself obsessively researching the Millers. Old newspaper articles confirmed Lily’s reclusiveness. There was a brief mention of a therapist, and then… nothing. The family had simply vanished, moving out of state with no forwarding address.
Then, I found a local online forum, buried deep in the archives. A thread from years ago, discussing the Millers. One post, from a neighbor, stood out. It described Lily’s drawings, specifically mentioning the purple figure and the symbol. The poster claimed Lily had become convinced the Shadow Man was real, and that he was trying to come into *our* world through her art.
I showed Mark the post. He was visibly shaken. “We need to get rid of it,” he said, his voice tight. “Burn it. Destroy it.”
We built a small fire in the backyard. As the drawing went up in flames, I felt a strange sense of relief, but also a lingering unease. The symbol seemed to writhe in the fire, almost as if it were resisting destruction.
The next morning, I woke up to a strange silence. The house felt… different. Lighter. I went to the living room and noticed something on the coffee table. It wasn’t the drawing. It was a single, perfect black ribbon.
I picked it up, my fingers trembling. It felt cool to the touch, almost… lifeless.
Then, I heard a small giggle. It came from the hallway, a child’s giggle, but… hollow.
Mark rushed in, his face pale. “Did you hear that?”
We stood there, frozen, listening. The giggle came again, closer this time.
Suddenly, our daughter, Emily, ran into the room, clutching her own drawing. It was a picture of our family, smiling and happy. But in the corner, drawn in dark purple, was a small, faceless figure. And above it, the same strange symbol.
Emily looked up at us, her eyes wide and innocent. “I drew this for my new friend,” she said. “He says his name is… the Shadow Man.”
Mark and I exchanged a horrified look. The fire hadn’t destroyed it. It had only shifted it. The Shadow Man hadn’t been banished. He’d found a new artist.
We knew then that we couldn’t stay. We packed our bags that day, leaving everything behind. We didn’t tell anyone why. We just left, hoping to outrun the shadow, hoping to protect Emily.
Years later, Emily still draws. She’s a talented artist, full of life and color. But she never uses purple. And we never, ever, let her draw alone.