Black tentacled sea creature tattoo

Inside was an octopus, or near enough. Its body sat squat as a fist, crowned with a tall ridged spine like a sea urchin pulled up by its hair, and the arms were black as wet slate. They didn't lie still. Even dead, they curled back on themselves into tight spirals, the way a garden hose coils when you let it drop. Old Ferris from the ice house took one look and went to fetch his coat, and he didn't come back for the rest of the day.

I weighed it at closing, out of habit, and the scale read nothing. The tray was dry except for a ring of salt water where the sack had sat. Then I saw the marks on the flagstones: a line of spirals, wet and fresh, leading from the slab across the market to the edge of the quay. Each one was perfect, as if drawn with a compass by someone very patient.

I followed them with the lamp until the last spiral sat right at the lip of the wall, where the tide was coming in fast. Rain filled the marks behind me as I walked. When I looked back from the steps, the stones were smooth again, and somewhere under the black water something was turning slowly, arm over arm, in no hurry to be found.