Black and grey tattoo of a faceless hooded spirit with a small pale face, shaded to a reddish fade, on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Faceless spirit on a forearm

Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A tall, hooded faceless spirit with a small pale face and simple black features fills the length of the forearm. The black body is softly shaded, with the tones fading to grey and then to a reddish tint towards the bottom edge. The figure sits centrally on the arm against a plain, blurred background.

Forearm Spirit Hooded figure Character

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The grey thing had stood at the bottom of the slipway since the tide turned, tall as a gatepost and twice as patient. Morag Ross did not look at it while she trimmed the wick. Looking only encouraged them, her mother had said, the way a dog takes a glance for an invitation. So she kept her eyes on the brass and the wet stone and listened to the gulls settling on Skerrin Point for the night.

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It had come up from the cellar of the old fish house in the spring, though nobody could say who had carried it there. It was a long black shape with a hood that never quite lifted, and beneath the hood a small pale face with two dashes for eyes and a mouth like a dropped thread. It followed people quietly, the way a draught follows a door. It took what it was given: bread left on the sill, a cup of tea gone cold, the coins the boats paid for the lamp. It never once spoke.

Tonight it lifted one hand, long as an oar, and held it out empty. Its hem, where it met the wet step, had faded to the colour of rust. "You've been fed, haven't you," Morag said, and it bowed, the way the hall clock bowed when the wind came off the Atlantic. She had never asked it for anything. Now she did. Her brother's boat had not come in since noon, and the fog lay on the water like wet wool.

The spirit took the lamp in both hands and walked out along the slip, and the fog closed behind it. The light moved out over the water, low and steady, the way a light should move when someone is coming home. At first light the Ross boat came round the point with its sail furled and a lantern still burning in the bow, and nobody on Skerrin could say who had lit it.