Large coloured and black-and-grey tattoo on an upper arm showing a winged pale face with dark hair, flanked by a green skull and a coloured demonic face.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Winged face and skulls on upper arm

Upper arm · Mixed · Photo

A large tattoo covers the upper arm, centred on a pale female face with dark hair, black lips and heavy shadowing, with feathered wings rising behind it. A green and teal skull sits at the lower left and a coloured grinning face with orange and blue tones sits at the lower right. Most of the piece is shaded in black and grey, with colour concentrated in the skulls and lower figure.

Upper arm Face Wing Skull Woman Hair

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The fiddler at Cold Ashby swore the stranger came in with the rain, though nobody saw the door open. He had a pale face, hair falling past his shoulders, and lips so black they looked scorched. Under his good wool coat there was a ridge along each shoulder blade, and when he took off his hat the lamps dipped low, as if bowing.

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He asked Nell Harrow to dance, and she, who had refused every lad in the parish since Michaelmas, said yes before he had finished the question. They danced the Hunter's Reel and then the slow one after it. He never tired, and he never once trod on her feet. Between figures he tapped his cheek with two fingers, and on the back of his hand was a green skull with its jaw hanging open, grinning at her like a joke it had been saving.

Her father, the miller, watched from beside the cider barrel and did not like the way the stranger's shadow lay on the boards. It did not move when the candles did. Where it touched the floor the wood had gone grey. Old Tam, who had once seen the Fairwater ghost and lived, said the only cure was a bargain: keep the thing dancing until cockcrow, or it would take whoever stopped first.

Nell kept going. Her feet bled through her stockings and the fiddler's bow snapped twice. When the cock finally crowed, the stranger bowed, laid a heap of black feathers on the bench, and was gone. The hall was empty. Her shoes sat beside the feathers, the leather worn through at the toes. She was found in the orchard in the frost, humming the reel. She never danced again, but on still nights the frost on the window grows a face, and it keeps time with the clock.