The Tattoo Shop Ghost

The Tattoo Shop Ghost

The tattoo shop ghost was rarely seen, but his presence was a constant, subtle caress. Customers often spoke of a cool breeze that brushed their skin, leaving behind a shiver that was more soothing than chilling. They described it as a gentle hug, lingering until they stepped outside, where a soft wind would carry it away. Sceptics dismissed it as fancy, but believers would search the shadows whenever an unexplained sound echoed through the studio.

He resided in the dimly lit back room, a space where forgotten tasks and discarded remnants of the day accumulated. Unfiled documents formed a precarious tower on a three-legged stool, and rolls of kitchen paper lay on an old desk. He would sit among these forgotten things, a silent observer. His spectral clothes hung loosely on his gaunt frame. Occasionally, he would drift through the shop, a restless wanderer searching for a trace of his past. Each attempt only deepened the emptiness, leaving him with a profound sense of loss and confusion. He knew memories should exist, but they remained stubbornly out of reach.

Wren, the woman who owned the tattoo shop, was his only solace, a beacon in his spectral existence. He longed for her touch, for her hands to grace his intangible form and adorn him with the vibrant colours she brought to life on others. Wren lived in the small, decaying flat above the studio, with cracked walls and peeling paint and mismatched rugs that softened the worn wooden floors. She had encountered the ghost more than anyone else, having been there since a time when female tattooists were rare. She still carried the weight of those early years - the lingering stares, the whispered doubts, the unwelcome touches that had marked her journey. The ghost had never witnessed that struggle; he had only known the studio filled with the confident energy of the young women who now worked there. His presence didn't bother Wren; it was a welcome, quiet companionship.

He was tall and thin, with sunken eyes like pools of dark ink. His bony frame reminded Wren of the skeleton hand given to her by a former lover, a fellow tattooist. It was a right hand, and when she cradled its cold, smooth fingers in her warm palm, she felt a connection to the vibrant life it once held. It was a reminder to embrace her own life, to keep creating. The ghost knew the hand wasn't his; he had spent hours comparing its delicate structure to his own. The finger bones were too short. He had traced its delicate carpal bones with wisps of his essence. Something about its smallness, its grace, filled him with an inexplicable longing, a mirroring of the quiet sadness Wren sometimes carried beneath her steady demeanour. He had seen her cry, felt the phantom warmth of her tears on his non-existent tongue - a taste that stirred a faint, but still out of reach, memories.

Wren had tried to speak to the ghost, her soft words lost in the cacophony of sounds that overwhelmed his spectral senses. They were just another layer of noise, driving him back to his corner, where the creaking plaster was the only sound he could discern before he dissolved into a pale, blue mist.

One night, the rhythmic words of the Shipping Forecast, a familiar comfort in the quiet hours, drifted from Wren’s flat above. As she repeated the soothing syllables, ‘Thames, Humber, German Bight,’ an idea sparked within her. She hurried to her small wardrobe and in a flurry of fabric and forgotten treasures, she unearthed an old wooden box, its surface worn smooth by time, etched with tiny cracks, the scent of aged wood and forgotten memories emanated from it.

Inside lay her great-grandmother's Ouija board. Holding it carefully, she descended the worn stairs to the silent studio. The air was heavy, thick with the sterile scent of disinfectant, the silence pressed in on her. She placed the board on her inking table, the dark wood gleaming softly in the lamplight. She upturned a water glass, placing it on the board. Then, she began to chant the first words that came to her, a heartfelt plea cast into the stillness: ‘Dover, Portland, Biscay. Dover, Portland, Biscay.’ Exhaustion eventually claimed her, and she slumped back in her chair, unaware that her call had finally reached him. Whether it was the profound quiet of the night or this new, strange method of reaching him, he couldn’t tell. But her words, though still without meaning, resonated with a faint familiarity. A wave of sadness washed over him as he watched her turn off the light and leave the room.

Wren woke the next morning, the warmth of her coffee mug a small comfort. Her gaze drifted downstairs to the Ouija board, still resting on the inking table. A nervous tremor ran through her hands as she carefully returned it to its box, a sense of unease mingling with a strange sense of hope. As she retreated into the back room, a flicker of movement caught her eye. A tall, dark shadow of a figure stood near the precarious stack of paperwork, its arms outstretched as if seeking balance. Their eyes met across the veil, a silent recognition passing between them. The air crackled with an unspoken energy, a connection that transcended the boundaries of the living and the dead. The moment stretched, suspended in time, until the sharp ring of the doorbell announced the arrival of Wren’s first customer, shattering the fragile silence.

The client rubbed her arms, a visible shiver tracing her skin. “I feel a presence in here,” she murmured, clutching the sides of her chair. “Is this place… haunted?”

Wren laughed softly, her gaze flickered to the back room, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Maybe… actually yes but he’s no harm… I think he's just lonely,” she said, her voice a low murmur, “and perhaps a little… curious.”

He couldn’t decipher her words, but he sensed their warmth, their gentle acceptance. An invisible pull drew him closer, until he stood between Wren and her client, drawn by an energy he couldn't explain. If he had possessed a physical form, he knew he would be covered with the swirling indigo stars that began to bloom on the young woman’s outstretched arm, a vibrant testament to Wren’s artistry. As the intricate design unfolded, Wren felt a sudden crackle in the air, a subtle energy that danced on her own skin, a silent acknowledgment of the unseen presence that now seemed so close, so… familiar.