Large back tattoo in a watercolour and black horror collage, with a clown, a wolf, a ghost face mask and an Elm Street sign, placed across the back and shoulder.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Horror collage across a back

Back · Mixed · Photo

A large collage tattoo across the back includes a clown face, a wolf head, a ghost face mask at the top right, an Elm Street road sign and a woman's portrait with a mugshot-style plate beneath. Black linework and shading sit alongside soft red splashes and touches of purple wash. The elements are arranged loosely around the centre of the back, with a dark road-sign pole running down through the composition.

Back Clown Wolf Portrait Splatter Car

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Tuesday, 3.14 a.m. Dispatch logged the call from the payphone on Harrow Road, though nobody has used a payphone in this town since the grid went over. The caller gave the same junction three times: Elm Street where it meets the old Route 9, where the sign still hangs on its pole above the scrapyard. Sergeant Vance sent me because I am the only one on nights who doesn't flinch at the name.

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The car was a rust-brown saloon parked square in the middle of the crossroads, headlamps still burning, engine ticking as it cooled. Red spray had been thrown across the windscreen in long, looping arcs. On the passenger seat sat a pale, wide-mouthed mask with its eyeholes packed with dust. Someone had chalked a grinning clown on the tarmac beneath the sign, and a wolf's head had been bolted to the bonnet, its jaw open, its eyes a milky violet in my torch beam.

On the dashboard lay a printed card, number 21250, with the photograph of a woman who looked very calm for someone with red across her cheeks. The name on it matched the street sign, which is the sort of coincidence this town stopped discussing years ago. I radioed it in. The reply came back before I'd finished the sentence: record sealed, do not approach the vehicle.

I approached anyway. The engine had gone quiet. The passenger seat was empty now, and the mask was gone too. Running from the driver's door towards the scrapyard was a line of bootprints, each one a little smaller than the last, as though whoever made them was learning how to walk again. Above me the sign swung on its chain, and I wrote the time down, and then I wrote it down again.