Black and grey realism full sleeve tattoo on an upper arm and forearm, showing three classic horror monster faces among flying bats.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Classic horror monster sleeve with bats

Realism · Upper arm · Black and grey · Photo

A full arm sleeve shown from three angles, featuring several large horror monster faces rendered in black and grey. Bats are scattered across the swirling grey background between the faces. The shading is smooth and detailed, with strong contrast in the faces and softer tones in the background.

Realism Upper arm Forearm Bat Sleeve

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Harrow Pell had threaded the projector on the SS Calloway for eleven crossings without once losing a reel, so when the fourth night's film began running backwards he assumed the lamp had gone soft. The crate had come up from the hold with a tin tag reading ASHBY DISTRIBUTION, FOUR HORRORS, and the lounge had been full of dinner jackets and wet wool since the lamps dimmed. On the sheet a bandaged man was unwinding himself strip by strip, back into his tomb.

Keep reading

Nobody laughed. A purser's wife dropped her gin. Pell cut the lamp and stood in the dark listening to the sea work at the hull, and when he struck a match he saw the four reels on the bench had swapped places, their tins sweating as though they had been carried a long way in a hot hand. The tag now read FOUR HORRORS, SET OF FIVE, and beneath it someone had pencilled a title he did not recognise.

He found the manifest in the chart room. Ashby Distribution had no record of the crate leaving Liverpool, and the only passenger booked under the name on the tag was a Mr Dane, who had boarded at Cork, paid for a cabin at the stern and never once come up to the lounge. Pell went down the iron stairs and knocked. The door swung open on its own. Inside, a row of cinema seats had been bolted to the deck facing a blank sheet, and the seat nearest the porthole was still warm.

He sat down because his legs told him to. When the lamp caught, the sheet showed the lounge from the stern, every seat filled with figures in capes and bandages and stitched grey flesh, and at the back, where Pell himself should have been standing in his booth, a wolf-faced man with his hat in his hands turned slowly to look at him.