Ghostemane Ghost Tattoo Novels & Stories

Giovanni turned his back on me, my eyes were on the giant snake coloured tattoo that covered his whole back, I was still staring at the tattoo before he disappeared into a closed door. I settled back, eyes closed, palms resting on the table, and let my mind wander to Giovanni's canvas of tattoos. The intricate snake on his left neck caught my attention first – its delicate scales seeming to slither across his skin. My gaze, though imaginary, traced the vibrant, full-back serpent, its red and black hues dancing in mesmerizing harmony. Next, my mental focus shifted to the cobwebs delicately etched onto his broad neck, their subtle complexity a testament to the artist's skill. The bold, cursive

What in the world? I see a small crowd of angry faces egging them on. Why isn’t anyone stopping this? A girl yells, “Kick the crap out of him, Gaston! Show the royal punk werewolves aren’t to be messed with!” The wind ruffles Sapphire Eyes’s short, glossy brown hair, making it look like he's doing one of those shampoo commercials that make you wish you had better hair. I notice a tattoo on his back: large, black tribal markings that zigzag across his shoulders and go down to the middle of his back in a complicated pattern. When he throws another hard blow, I whistle to get their attention. Andddd it’s ignored. I sigh and make my way toward them.

No matter, it will end soon. "Hold, shaman!" the ghost said. "I have lots to tell you." "What do you have, that interests me?" anger could be seen on the shaman face. All he needs is a talking ghost. Maybe, there is something to learn here. He halted his arm. "Name it." "What happened here?" "Nothing good, I'm afraid. First that armored man came, and now you... he searched for something. He was tall, like a pole that women use for the laundry, he didn't look friendly."

The spirit had no lower jaw, only a gaping, bloody hole. I turned my head to look at the oil portrait of Lorenzo on the table. The man in the painting had sharp, chiseled features that radiated a cold, oppressive aura. But in my eyes, a translucent figure hovered at the edge of the frame. The spirit sat astride the frame, his long legs swinging idly as he shamelessly sized me up. He wore an unbuttoned black shirt, revealing an expanse of tattoos across his powerful chest. Even as a spirit, he seemed more alive than anyone else in the room.

I have so many unanswered questions about this mysterious assassin. I spent the next week preparing for the formal event while also gathering what I could about assassins that were known. None of the information told me anything. I got a few well-known female assassin names. The number one was Phantom Reaper, second was Blade of Bracken (named after this city, Bracken’s Rock), and third was simply Death. Not very original, that one. By evening, it’s time for me to attend this despicable gala to network and attempt to secure funding for my next research project. I dress sharply in a black tuxedo, my white dress shirt is crisp, and I wear a neatly knotted black tie. My hair is usually always a

“You—You can’t—” Ghost moved fast, the cloth twisting around the man’s throat, not choking, just enough to remind him of the line between air and none. He leaned in close, his voice a whisper against the man’s ear. “Who sent you here?” The man tried to laugh, but it cracked into a cough. “You think—” Ghost pulled tighter, just for a heartbeat, then loosened again, letting the man drag in a desperate breath. His pale eyes never blinked. “You think I won’t take you apart piece by piece?” Ghost asked softly. “I buried men alive in Cambodia and listened while they begged me to let the dirt finish the job. Compared to that, you’re a child playing outlaw. So I’ll ask again.”

"Would you spare my life if I do?" "Nope." Frank chuckled, shaking his head. "Not after the endless atrocities that The Ghosters committed. But I can make your death quick." "I…" Mr. Moore felt a chill down his spine. He certainly knew how many terrible things The Ghosters had committed in service of Ghost. Skinning and butchering another human was basically child's play! Nonetheless, Mr. Moore hung his head after clenching his jaw. "I-I'll tell you… Ghost is looking for a new body that's compatible with the power of the spiritron vein, because his has already… already…"

At first, the image was faltering, transparent, but with each minute, it grew brighter and more vibrant, and finally, a man in his fifties was looking at me, still suspended in mid-air. “Tell me your name, spirit.” “Ryner Velimo,” his voice rustled like autumn leaves. “Did you shoot at me today in the arena?” “Yes, Your Highness.” “Why?” “I was paid to do so.” “Who paid you?” The ghost froze. I had expected that to happen a bit earlier, but I still had more than enough power, and I poured it into the pentagram with full force. The lines flashed brightly, the ghost winced in pain, and, finally, started to tell the whole story.

I was so speechless, I just jumped on him and he winced, the tattoo was still hurting a bit. My fingers traced another ink one on his shoulder, he got this one after his dad died, in memory of him. "Do you always do this when I'm asleep" Bryne's husky voice jolts me back and I quickly remove my hand from his chest. He frowns and sits up, resting his back on the headboard. He yawns and stretches. I gulp, watching his thick muscle extends and flexes. "Come here" I nod and crawl to his arms obediently. He draws circles on my back and hums an inaudible tune.

Amanda was the one who went to open the gate. A fair skin young man of about their age, stood still with a serious look on his face. His eyes looked direct into hers, and glared at her with despise, he screened her through her body, from her head down to her toes. Baraka was surprised to see a young kid about his age being the house manager. his self-worth didn’t allow him query. “Hi sir, my name is Amanda, I know what you’re thinking, I am not here alone my mom is with me.” as she smiled and welcomed him. She did not allow his look put her down, she smiled with slight humiliation