Realism tattoo on a forearm showing a graveyard scene with a pale zombie woman, a shambling figure, a dog, a skull and headstones in grey tones.

Zombie graveyard scene on a forearm

Realism · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A large tattoo wraps around a limb and depicts a graveyard scene with a pale, long-haired female zombie in the centre, a second shambling undead figure on the right reaching forward, and a figure on the left among headstones. A small dog, a skull at the bottom and a headstone with partly legible lettering sit in the lower part of the design. The shading is smooth and detailed, mostly in greys and greens, with touches of muted pink and blue.

Realism Forearm Zombie Graveyard Skull Dog Woman Tombstone

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Ada,

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I have not slept since Tuesday, and you may tell Father it is not the curate's sermons keeping me up. The dead are walking in Sallow Cross. Mrs Prothero met old Tom Ridley at the lych gate on Monday, his jaw hung loose, asking her for her husband's name. She gave it to him out of politeness. He went after the Prothero boy instead, which the wardens say is what they do when a name is all they have left.

The worst is the small ones. The Hollins spaniel was buried under the yew in March, and on Friday I heard claws on the flagstones behind me, and there he was, grey about the muzzle, nosing at the grave of Abel Greaves as though he expected a biscuit. I did not have the heart to shoo him. I carried the lantern and he kept to my heels past the broken angel and the stones where the rain has worn every name to nothing.

Mrs Ellery was the last I found. She was the sexton's wife and sang alto for thirty years, and she stood in the middle of the path with her long hair down, which I never once saw her do in life. Her face was candle wax, her hands held loose at her sides, not reaching, just waiting, the way she waited at the vestry door for her husband to finish his ale. I said her name. She turned slow as a church clock, and I understood she was not hungry for me at all. She only wanted through to her own plot.

So I opened the gate. The dog went first. I will write again when the frost comes and the dead lie down.

Your loving brother, Edwin