Drawn

Upon entering my driveway, I was forced to halt. Ceasing to walk any further, I tried to register whatever had stopped me. It was a rather odd feeling, like something had been staring at me. When I turned to search my environment I spotted nothing out of the ordinary, however I distinctly remember seeing someone standing there when I'd reached my driveway, in the trees about the corner of my eye. Someone had been standing on the edge of the forest, where the soil and trees meat the gravel and asphalt of the cul-de-sac.
It'd been looking in my direction. Usually, when occasions like this happened, I was able to prove my fears incorrect by finding an object that I might've foolishly mistaken for something else more breathtaking. This did not happen. I glanced about the area where I'd seen the figure, only to find its absence among the trees. Around me, the air became distilled, frozen with a grip of fear so powerful that where I was once compelled to halt, I suddenly felt I must leave.
With a slight rush and panicking suspicion, I leapt up the steps to my porch and quickly grabbed the keys to the house that'd been hidden in one of the Halloween pumpkins. I took one last study of the forested area where I'd seen the person. The trees shook violently with the brutal wind of the evening. With the storm worsening, and an increasing fear swelling within me, I thought it best to step inside.
The second the door was closed, the wind silenced, and my feet within my own home, I began to rationalize. Why had I been so scared? I wondered, as skepticism began to dominate fear. There was no serious reason for me to be taken so aback by what I saw- or rather- what I didn't see. I knew I was an easily frightened person, but to be so shocked by what was most possibly a miscomprehension on my part was atypical of me. Cowardly as I was, I was indeed a rational individual. Something about this incident felt different, I thought, or else I wouldn't have taken such panic to escape it.
It was the way the disappearance of the figure happened, like it was intentional. All I could see of the figure was a blur of color, that of a white man, on which I noted a lack of clothing. The person had appeared the size of a rather large man, dominating any size of any I'd ever seen or heard of. What shocked me so much, what assured me what I'd seen was not a natural item of the forest was its contrast to its surroundings. It had shared its own vibrant colors, individual in its environment. It had its own, wiggling shadow. It moved under the slightest vibrations of the wind. It felt alive- for the brief two seconds I'd seen it before turning to see that it'd gone, it felt alive.
My bedroom was a mess of spare clothing, trash, and scattered papers. It was a disaster, the aftermath of some storm inconceivable by the human mind. One could hardly walk in it without tripping if the smell hadn't killed them first. Deciding cleaning might help me calm down a bit, I began to organize the items on the floor.
I hardly knew where to begin, but I concluded that the papers, filled with recent drawings from the past weeks, would be the easiest, most enjoyable, and most efficient course of action to begin with according to my room's current state. I had a drawer with folders inside, all of which meant to hold different categories of drawings I'd collectedly created over the years.
Some of the drawings inside dated all the way back to the fifth grade. I'd actually begun drawing long before then, but time had appropriately ridden of most of my earlier sketches. The more time I spent cleaning my room, the more time I had to consider the events that'd happened before entering my home, and the more I began to rationalize. What I saw had been nothing more than a visual mishap I finalized, a misunderstood observation. What I had seen to be a man was indeed nothing more than an object of the forest, and if not, then it was an imaginative sighting, something I had personally and mentally conceived. Whatever the case, it was ridiculous to concern myself over such a brief glance.
By the time my room was completely clean, the stench half gone, I felt renewed. The horrible day I'd had at school was swept away along with the trash that once belonged to my carpet. Sitting down on my chair, I hardly knew what to do with myself now. Homework seemed like the most logical option. After bringing my backpack to my desk and removing my binder from inside where my homework for the day had resided, a sketch I'd done that day slipped from one of my organizers.
This was one I'd spent a considerable amount of time on. I dropped my backpack and binder on the floor and turned my attention to the drawing. It'd taken me nearly all day to perfect its detail, and now, all I could do was stare at it. In all my drawings I found imperfections. I could always spot endless mistakes. Whether it was in its general outlining, concept, or detail, I could always find them, but not this one.
No, at this one I could envy. It was near Halloween, so I thought I might indulge in the holiday by drawing something frightening. To celebrate, morbidly, I'd drawn a monster. Its joints were horrid conjugations of mixed flesh and bone particles, its limbs terrible, jagged formations of skin and muscle.
Scrawled at the top of the page was a word, evidently the thing's name. "Vanisher." The thing had a face so retched I cringed at my own creation. It held a size similar to that of a rather large man.
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