2 min read
336 words
Every morning, my tattoo changes.
Not fading. Not healing.
Changing.
New ink. New scene. Like a restless dream trapped under my skin.
Sometimes it’s a forest.
Sometimes it’s a burning car.
Sometimes it’s a face I’ve never seen before.
But today… I rolled up my sleeve and felt my blood run cold.
The tattoo wasn’t random anymore.
It was my bedroom — perfectly detailed, right down to the cracked lamp and the half-open window.
And there I was… asleep in my own bed.
Only I wasn’t alone.
A shadowy figure was curled beside me, face obscured… one hand draped across my chest.
I spent the entire day trying to rationalize it.
Maybe it was stress.
Maybe it was subconscious fear.
But every time I looked at my arm, the tattoo looked more alive.
More detailed.
And I swear… the stranger’s fingers twitched slightly… like it was moving while I wasn’t looking.
My friends told me I was overreacting.
But I knew what I saw.
And last night… I slept alone.
By evening, I was desperate.
I searched my apartment.
Checked every lock.
Every window.
Every shadow.
Then I set my phone to record me while I slept.
At midnight, a dull pulse spread through my arm.
The ink looked swollen — shimmering beneath my skin.
And I swear I felt it…
An icy hand on my chest.
When I woke up, my phone was smashed on the floor.
The recording corrupted.
But the tattoo had changed again.
Now the scene showed me in bed with the shadow…
except this time its face wasn’t hidden.
It was my face.
And on the other side of the bed… a new blank patch of skin waited.
Empty.
But not for long.
🖋️ Welcome to Tales From The Black Screen, where even your skin can betray you.
💀 Subscribe — before the next tattoo appears on you.
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