Black and grey realism tattoo of a screaming long-haired undead figure and a grinning demon holding a trident, across the side of the ribs.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Screaming undead figure and demon on ribs

Realism · Ribs · Black and grey · Photo

A screaming long-haired undead figure looms above a crouching pointed-eared demon that holds a trident, with a clawed hand reaching in from the upper left. The piece uses detailed shading and strong contrast to render smoke, lightning and deep shadow. It is entirely black and grey and fills the side of the torso from the ribs towards the waist.

Realism Ribs Demon Trident Lightning Smoke

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Hob Tarrant had been told the storm would pass by morning, but the thunder over Scarrow Moor kept rolling back on itself like a cart with no brake. He sat on the chapel step with his boots full of rain and watched the lightning stab the bracken. Each flash showed the same thing: a crooked gate, a stone wall, and the small grey shape of the devil waiting at the bottom of the lane, trident planted in the mud like a surveyor's pole.

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"You owe the parish a ledger," the devil said, not unkindly. Its teeth were the colour of old candle wax and its tail twitched at the mud. "Twelve years of tithes, Hob, and not one penny paid."

Hob reached for the iron key in his coat. His grandmother had hung it in the chapel door to keep out things like this, and he had taken it down on a dare, then forgotten to put it back. Above the wall, the wind began to scream. It came off the moor as a long white shape, hair streaming, mouth wide open, and a clawed hand reached down through the smoke as if to pull the whole valley up by its roots.

Hob pressed the key into the devil's palm before he could think better of it. "Take it, then. Take the chapel and the ledger and the lot."

The devil laughed, a sound like a rusted hinge, and closed its fist. The scream stopped. By dawn the gate had come off its hinges and the lane was empty, and on the chapel step lay a single trident-shaped mark pressed into the stone, still warm. Hob never paid another tithe, and he never again stood at a door without checking his pockets.