Colour tattoo on an arm of a cartoon dog lying on a jack-o'-lantern beneath a bird in a witch's hat flying a broomstick past a full moon, with a bat and stars.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Halloween night scene on an arm

Upper arm · Colour · Photo

A colour tattoo shows a Halloween night scene with a glowing yellow full moon, a yellow bird in a blue witch's hat riding a broomstick, and a small bat. Below, a white cartoon beagle lies on a carved orange jack-o'-lantern with green leaves, set against a deep blue starry sky. The clean, cartoon-style shading and bright colours fill most of the composition on the limb.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You reach the ruined gatehouse as the church clock in the valley begins to strike nine, a lantern swinging from your wrist and a heavy orange gourd tucked under your arm. Ivy has swallowed the portcullis, and the moon hangs so low over the broken keep that it seems to rest on the battlements like a coin on a windowsill. Nobody in Thornbury Vale comes up here on Halloween, which is precisely why your grandmother insisted you bring the pumpkin.

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Inside the great hall the flagstones are furred with frost. Something shifts in the dark behind a pillar, and a small yellow bird drops from the rafters on a broomstick that still has its bristles, wearing a blue pointed hat she clearly took from the scarecrow at Dunmore farm. Her name is Mabel Ferrow, and she has roosted in the belfry since the fire. She circles you twice, chattering the way the old steward used to count coins, then leads you across the courtyard towards the well.

Beside the well, a beagle called Barnaby lies flat on a stone plinth, chin resting on the rim of a carved pumpkin that has been waiting there for a century. He lifts one eyebrow at you. You set your gourd beside his and draw out the candle from your lantern, and Mabel swoops low, scattering a spark from her broom's tail onto the wick. The flame catches. Barnaby sighs, settles his head on the pumpkin's lid, and closes his eyes.

Below the walls, the windows of the village come alight one by one, as if each house has been waiting for a sign that the castle has remembered its lamps.

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