"Hey, Noah, can you draw us?" My friend, Joey, practically begged me on his hands and knees, pulling his girlfriend close to him. Cindy nodded in agreement with her boyfriend's request.

I raised an eyebrow, chuckling to myself. "You do realize you'll have to stand still for a while? I can only really draw still-life stuff."

They both shrugged it off, already sitting in a position they could hold for a while. I grabbed my sketchbook and got to drawing. It didn't take long to sketch out their forms, followed by the details that would make each of them unique—the freckles across Cindy's mouth, the muscles along Joey's arms, the way her hair sort of swirled like a tornado. As I leant back to take a peak at the finished product, I realized I had accidentally drawn Joey's hand on Cindy's shoulder... Or at least I thought it was Joey's.

They were not even remotely similar. Unlike Joey's broad and large hands, the fingers on Cindy's shoulder were wrinkled, devoid of any moisture. Long, rotting nails jutted out like bones from the tips of its fingers, digging into Cindy's hot pink blouse. I looked over at her,, but there was no hand to be there. Just as I went to erase the decrepit limb, Joey took the book out of my hand.

Cindy looked delighted, clasping her hands together. However, as her eyes trace the drawing, she must have hovered over the rotting hand because her face fell. She pointed at it, causing Joey's expression to drop with hers. After a moment, his face lit up with laughter. "Oh man, that actually freaked me out for a moment! You're such an artist!" He squeezed her shoulders, smiling at me. "Thanks, Noah." Cindy thanked me half-heartedly, not so psyched about the weird hand.

As I tore the paper out of the sketchbook and handed it to them, I couldn't help but wonder why I drew that. I don't recall doing so—not consciously at least. In all likelihood, I did it because I saw someone hold something and that image stuck with me. I wasn't sure why the hand looked so twisted, but I wasn't going to question the coincidence. It was just one of those weird moments, nothing more.

Still, I couldn't get the hand out of my head. On the bus back home from school, I pulled out my sketchbook and began doodling the girl sitting in front of me. I wasn't the type to do this, but I needed to see if what happened was just a one-time occurrence. The drawing started off fine; she was wearing a dark coat and was staring at the phone in her hand, brown hair draping over her face. That should've been all that there was... But my hand continued to move.

I began drawing another figure, this one far more inhumane, with decomposing skin, gnarly bones protruding from underneath. Slowly, its form became more apparent; though humanoid, it was obviously anything but human.

It was perched on the shoulders of the girl, head tilted with curiosity as it watched whatever the girl's phone was playing. Where eyes should've been were instead replaced by hollow sockets, flies entering and exiting. Its mouth, agape and forever held in an expression of shock, seemed to sag, the skin connecting the jaw and the skull teetering on the edge of ripping apart.

Despite the fact I couldn't see it, I was able to draw the thing with extreme detail; each pore, each blemish, every wrinkle, each hair, everything about it was etched into the paper with perfect accuracy. Frantic, I flipped a page and drew the girl yet again, this time in far less detail. I realized that the constant scratching of lead on paper was disturbing the other passengers, but I couldn't stop.

Once the silhouette of the girl was finished, my hands yet again moved on their own, muscle memory guiding each careful stroke. The creature was yet again seated on the girl's shoulders, only now it wasn't looking at the girl's phone.

It was looking at me.

One final time, I flipped the page and scribbled an incoherent mess that barely resembled the girl. But the feeling of needing to continue the drawing ceased; the thing moved. In that instant, I hopped off at the next stop and dashed for my home, cradling the sketchbook to my chest. I frantically looked around, drawing the scenery in the hope that I'll be able to find that thing again.

Each time I did, it would be there, either waiting for me with a curious tilted head or running along the roofs on all fours, still glaring right at me. Eventually, I reached my house. Once I spun around and locked the door behind me, I made a quick sketch of the door. To my horror, the urge to continue drawing once I finished continued, and the ghastly expression was printed behind the window. Somehow, despite the fact it had no eyes, I knew that it was making eye contact.

Scared beyond belief, I ran to my room, barricading it with my bed and dresser. Then, huddled in the corner on the opposite side of the door, I began filling the pages with drawing after drawing of the entrance. At first, there was nothing special in the first 30 or so pages. But then came those nails; those long, black talons that held the bottom of the door, trying to pry it open. It tried and tried, each drawing showing the thing's hands in a different position. I thought it would give up, but I'm on my third sketchbook now and it still hasn't let up.

I'm writing this now to give my sore hands a break. It's beginning to wear the door down; nail marks cover the outer frame, splinters of wood are sticking out, and the paint itself has begun peeling away. Calling the police isn't an option, and the room doesn't have any windows; I can't leave.

I don't know why I'm even bothering to post this. I guess it's some sort of last wish. I know this probably comes off as some sort of schizo rant, but it's not. There are things that don't live in our realm of existence. Maybe it was my fault for being so curious, putting my nose into places where it shouldn't go, but I couldn't help myself.

If you ever find the need to draw something that you can't see or feel, ignore it, keep your distance, put your pencil down, just for the love of God don't let it know you can see it, because it can see you.