Tales from the Dark Lemmy

The Beholden of the Shifting Vastness

written by Universal Monk

Part 1

Evelyn strode into the archive room, a hushed thrill tingling down her spine. She’d come all the way from BYU-Idaho for this, having caught wind of a library of lost LDS manuscripts buried deep in the sprawling basement of a university library in Utah.

She would never have known if it hadn’t been for a cryptic post she stumbled across late one night on Lemmy. Tagged by a user long since deleted, the post whispered of "forbidden revelations," secrets buried in the deepest corners of the forgotten library. Hidden manuscripts, it hinted, were waiting to be found—relics of visions too dark to ever reach the public eye.

According to the user, these weren’t ordinary manuscripts—they were penned by early Mormon settlers, writings that delved into ancient rites and visions too unsettling for the light of day. The words seemed to pulse on her laptop screen, tugging at Evelyn with a strange allure, promising secrets sealed away and nearly erased from history itself.

The archive wasn’t well-marked; she’d asked two librarians and followed three different signs before she finally spotted the narrow, dim hallway that led to it. The air grew stale as she descended the staircase, and a faint musty smell mingled with the dust in the air, lending an eerie weight to the room.

Rows upon rows of aging, leather-bound tomes lined the shelves, their titles barely legible from decades of wear. Evelyn ran her fingers along the spines, looking for any sign of the “lost” texts she’d read about.

Most of the volumes appeared to be typical LDS history and theology—interesting, but not what she’d come all this way to find. Then, just as she was about to lose hope, her hand landed on a small, nondescript book wedged between two larger ones.

The cover was a battered, timeworn leather, marred with scratches and age, its surface barely holding onto what once might have been a rich, deep hue. In the dim light, a faded silver symbol emerged—a pair of interlocking circles crossed by a single vertical line, almost pulsing in the quiet room.

Evelyn leaned in closer, squinting, trying to make out the title, but the letters had nearly vanished, rubbed away by countless hands or perhaps by the passage of years. Only one word remained, etched with unsettling clarity down the spine: Testament of the Beholden.

The title almost seemed to hum, as if it alone held the weight of untold secrets, watching her back.

Heart pounding, Evelyn yanked the book from the shelf, a thick cloud of dust puffing into the air, curling and billowing like smoke as she pried it open. The pages crackled under her fingers, fragile and worn to a yellowed, brittle thinness, as if the weight of years had seeped into every fiber. Each line was marked in a strange, spidery script, twisting and crawling across the paper like the scrawl of an ancient, unseen hand.

As her eyes adjusted to the script, she began to realize this was more than just a forgotten theology book. The opening pages were filled with passages blending scripture and peculiar, apocryphal verses, things she had never heard in any Sunday or BYU lecture.

The pages whispered of the group called “The Beholden of the Shifting Vastness,” a sect of Mormon settlers from long ago who, if the author’s fevered words were to be believed, had witnessed “visions from beyond the stars.” They believed they had peered into the void where “the giants of the under” stirred. These beings, they claimed, were not of this Earth.

They were ancient entities who slumbered just beyond the thin veil of reality, visible only beneath desolate desert skies when particular stars aligned. The Beholden wrote of vast shapes shifting in the ground, monstrous shadows that waited, patiently, for those who dared look too long.

In a passage that sent a chill through her veins, the text hinted that the knowledge wasn’t new but came from none other than the prophet Joseph Smith himself. His famed visions had revealed more than the public ever knew. Smith’s encounter with the divine was not limited to celestial angels or holy messengers, as he claimed in the Book of Mormon; he had also seen these giants from beyond, the “Sentinels of the Under.”

He had, the passage stated, uncovered these details from the sacred Golden Bible—the very plates that gave rise to the Book of Mormon. But fearing that such revelations would condemn his fledgling faith, he chose to withhold them, sharing the dark truths only with a select inner circle of believers.

Hidden in his private accounts, this knowledge became the Beholden’s secret foundation, a grim theology concealed from the faithful masses. They believed they alone had been entrusted with the visions too terrible for the public eye, revelations that hinted at a cosmic mystery far older and darker than any church could bear.

A prickling sensation crept over her skin as she read. The words were disturbing yet enthralling. The Beholden, she learned, believed these beings watched over them, protecting some and cursing others, depending on how they were venerated.

Each passage sank darker than the last, layered with instructions for rites, chants, and the strange recounting of visions whispered among early pioneers.

One entry detailed an encounter during the Great Trek, as Mormon settlers journeyed through the vast prairies toward Utah. They spoke of a figure, impossibly tall, as towering as a mountain and as black as the deepest night, emerging across the open plains.

Its shadow stretched over their entire campsite, cloaking wagons and tents, suffocating the firelight. The figure moved with an unnatural silence, gliding over the land and leaving the prairie grasses flattened in its wake. Accounts spoke of entire groups falling to their knees, struck with a primal fear, unable to look away as the shadow passed, casting them in the grip of something ancient and unknowable.

The Beholden insisted this towering figure was no mere hallucination but a terrifying reality. These were guardians of forgotten worlds, ancient entities that still watched from beyond the prairie’s edge, patient and unwavering, waiting for those who dared stray too far from faith’s protective path.

The Beholden took this knowledge as sacred, a warning passed down to those brave enough, or foolish enough, to seek the truth beyond the pages of scripture.

She couldn’t pull herself away from the book, and the room around her seemed to fade, her world narrowing to the aged pages before her.

Eventually, Evelyn tore her gaze away, feeling disoriented. She closed the book and tucked it under her arm, intending to ask the librarian about checking it out.

But as she turned, she froze. Through the tall, narrow windows that lined one side of the basement, she thought she saw something—a faint, shadowy figure that towered against the fading daylight outside. Just as quickly as she’d noticed it, the shape dissolved into the shadows.

Evelyn shook her head, dismissing it as a trick of the light. But as she made her way up the stairs, the eerie feeling lingered. And that night, as she lay in her borrowed apartment, her mind buzzed with words from the manuscript, descriptions of towering shadows and desert hymns. It was late, and she knew she should be sleeping, but she couldn’t resist.

Against her better judgment, Evelyn opened her laptop and searched on Lemmy, hoping to find some connection or insight. Her heart sank as she scrolled—the community threads she’d once found were gone, wiped clean as though they’d never existed. She searched again, this time sifting through obscure forums and half-hidden corners of the internet, but every lead was a dead end, each link leading nowhere.

Frustrated, she glanced down at the book resting beside her, the embossed symbol seeming to glint with an unsettling familiarity in the dim light. She hesitated, then opened it, fingers trembling as she skimmed over the passages that had haunted her mind. The words seemed darker now, the ink richer, pressing into the pages as if bearing the weight of a thousand unspoken horrors.

Evelyn poured over the book, each yellowed page drawing her deeper into its labyrinth of strange words and twisted beliefs. She could almost hear the echoes of the Beholden of the Shifting Vastness murmuring from beyond the veil of time, their chants scratching at her mind like whispers caught in a sandstorm.

The passages were riddled with instructions for ceremonies, prayers in a jagged language she’d never seen, and hymns that seemed to hum with a life of their own, written in curling, unfamiliar symbols that made her head ache when she stared at them too long.

One hymn, titled The Chant of the Sands, kept reappearing throughout the text, hinting at rituals the Beholden had used to summon the "guardians of the endless Under,” figures whose names had long since eroded from memory.

“They offer knowledge in shadows, power in silence, but ask your devotion in whispers…” she murmured, her voice trailing as the words seemed to echo back, resonating against the walls like a ghostly harmony.

As she read more, she saw that the Beholden had worshipped these enormous beings hidden beneath the earth—eternal watchers who slumbered below, only to rise again. Her heart pounded, a thrill mixing with dread, as she realized the text spoke not of God but of immense, indifferent entities who existed on the fringes of reality itself.

She decided she needed sleep. Her mind was a tangled mess of shadows and half-formed fears, each unsettling revelation looping back in her thoughts. Maybe, she told herself, a few hours of rest would clear her head, make everything seem less… ominous.

But as she dimmed the lights, her room cloaked itself in darkness, and the book lay open on her desk like an eye staring back, unblinking. She pulled the blankets up to her chin, her pulse finally slowing.

Yet, sleep would not bring comfort tonight. Little did she know, the strangeness was only beginning.

Part 2

She woke up to a sound like dry wind scraping across dead leaves. She rubbed her eyes and looked around, squinting at an odd detail she hadn’t noticed before: her windowsill was dusted with a thin layer of dirt, dark and fine, as though someone had smeared it there deliberately.

It coated the sill like the fingerprint of some shadowy hand reaching in from beyond.

Her fingers hovered over it, tingling, before she finally touched it, trailing a line through the dark powder. How had it gotten there in the dead of night?

From that night onward, the shadows outside her window began to grow, creeping longer and thicker, twisting into strange forms that shifted and swayed like they had some intention of their own.

She could have sworn they watched her in the quiet hours, unmoving and patient. And sometimes, when the night was still and the apartment felt unnervingly silent, whispers rose faintly outside the glass—deep, guttural hymns in a language that sent chills down her spine.

She couldn’t understand a single word, yet the sounds rooted deep in her bones, stirring an ancient dread that left her frozen, listening in the dark.

“Evelyn,” her friend Nora said one afternoon, pulling her from her thoughts. “You look… terrible. Why are you worrying so much about this stupid old book?”

Evelyn forced a smile, brushing off her friend’s concern. “I’m fine. It’s just research.” She hesitated, her fingers trailing the edges of the book. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Nora’s face paled, her eyes darting between Evelyn and the book. “You’re being really weird.” But Evelyn turned away, already back under the book’s spell, ignoring the warning ringing in her friend’s voice.

That night, Evelyn came upon the last ritual, a forbidden practice known as The Invocation of the Darkest Veil, a rite that promised to draw the gaze of the guardians—those towering beings who drifted just beyond sight, ancient and unseen.

"Speak your words," the text intoned in curling, archaic script, "and they shall answer.”

Each line seemed to slither and twist off the page, whispering secrets that felt too alive, pulsing like veins in the parchment.

She read it in silence, feeling a coldness seep into the room, chilling her from within. Outside her window, the shadows thickened, pressing against the glass like a dark tide rising, silent and unyielding, as though something vast and ageless waited just beyond, observing her from behind the veil of night, its patience stretching back through untold centuries.

The room felt like ice, each corner thick with an unnatural chill that seemed to seep into her bones. Evelyn could hardly breathe. She clutched the book in her trembling hands, its pages a blur beneath her fingers. She didn’t know why she felt the need to open it now or why her lips parted, words tumbling from her mouth in the forgotten tongue of the Beholden.

“Ar-voc, uhn-da-leth,” she whispered, her voice wavering as each syllable left her lips.

The strange hymn rolled out of her mouth, low and guttural, each word woven with ancient intent. As she spoke, the air turned heavy, almost viscous, and the walls around her room flickered, bending and shifting like shadows cast by firelight.

Her bookshelves, her bed, even the light itself seemed to warp, pulled toward the corners of the room as if something else were forcing its way in.

The flickering slowed, and in its place, Evelyn saw it—an endless plain stretching out beyond her walls, a bleak, desolate expanse under an alien sky. The ground was black as ash, shimmering like shards of glass beneath an otherworldly sun that loomed low and blood-red.

Shadows drifted through the dirt, massive figures trudging along the horizon like spirits caught in eternal pilgrimage. And amidst them, a whisper—a deep, resonant hum, like a distant thunderstorm groaning against the fabric of reality itself.

Evelyn couldn’t tear her gaze from the vision creeping into her reality. The land itself seemed to seep through her walls, a pitch-black dirt oozing across her floor like liquid shadow. It spread, thick and consuming, pooling around her feet with an unnatural coldness, clinging to her skin as if alive. She felt it winding up her ankles, heavy and suffocating, as the foul, decayed smell of ancient soil filled the air, darkening the room in a shroud of dread.

The whispers twisted in the air, thick and venomous, curling like smoke through her ears, coiling around her thoughts, wrapping around her bones.

“Seeker,” it hissed, the sound filling her skull like an echo in an endless chasm. “Behold... the gaze of the shifting vastness.”

Then, it rose—emerging from the dirt like a mountain draped in shadow, a single eye vast as her wall, dark as the void, lined with throbbing veins of molten gold that pulsed like a heartbeat.

The eye was ringed with jagged, predatory teeth, gleaming with a hunger that made her skin crawl. From the gaps between the teeth, wiry tendrils of something that resembled iron wool jutted out, swaying like grasping fingers.

And then, skittering among the teeth, spider-like creatures with eyes too many to count darted in and out, watching her with glee, their fangs twitching as if savoring her terror.

The monstrous eye hung there, peering into her, peeling back her flesh in its gaze, as though reading every hidden thought, every whispering fear she’d ever buried. Evelyn’s knees gave way, the crushing weight pressing into her chest, pulling her forward, closer, into its dark and endless stare.

The whispers grew louder, surrounding her, filling every part of her mind until she couldn’t hear her own thoughts. The shadows from the dirt crept closer, sliding across her floor, winding up her legs, pulling her down into their embrace.

Evelyn tried to scream, but her voice was swallowed by the shadows, her cries snatched away as the black filled her vision. The world around her faded, reduced to nothing but sand, darkness, and the unblinking, all-consuming eye of the Beholden.

As her last moments slipped away, the words of the hymn she’d read echoed, wrapping around her like a funeral shroud.

The next morning, her apartment was silent. A faint outline of dirt marked the floor, and on her desk sat the open book, its pages whispering in the stillness, waiting for the next seeker to uncover its secrets.

END

The Grasp of Midnight's Thorn

written by Universal Monk

PART ONE

Blood trickled from the deep gash on his hand, dark crimson drops seeping into the soil beneath his prized rose bushes. The rich earth drank it up greedily, staining the roots of the thorny plants. Derek Ahmaogak winced, disgusted by the sharp sting that pulsed through his fingers. His small spade slipped from his grasp, falling uselessly to the ground. He wiped the sweat and dirt from his face with a grimy sleeve, the scent of iron clinging to his skin.

Being a native from the Inupiat tribe, he often felt the weight of his ancestral roots pressing him to master the land, to connect with it in the way his forebears had, but gardening had proven a fickle and unforgiving task.

The sky above had turned a bruised purple, the sun sinking low on the horizon, casting an eerie glow that made the world seem as though it were on the verge of nightfall. Shadows stretched long and jagged across his garden as Derek sighed, feeling the ache in his muscles from the day’s labor.

“Over it,” he muttered, shaking his head. His gaze turned to the house, where his laptop waited, promising an escape from the frustration and pain.

He had heard whispers about a new, mysterious corner of the internet. For years, he’d lurked in forums filled with conspiracy theories, forgotten lore, and the ramblings of half-crazed prophets. But lately, his interest had spiraled into something more mysterious,

It began with a hidden Lemmy community, buried deep beneath layers of cryptic links, accessible only through a private browser extension. At first glance, it seemed like a strange offshoot of Latter-day Saint theology—a sect of Dark Mormons calling themselves The Covenant of the Obsidian Testament.

They claimed to practice ancient rites long hidden from mainstream followers, rituals that Joseph Smith himself had allegedly sealed away to protect the world from their power.

The posts were a tangle of cryptic phrases, dripping with strange, ancient-sounding words that tugged at the edges of Derek's curiosity. Symbols danced between the lines, and scattered clues teased at the corners of his mind.

There were references to old, long-forgotten writings. One thread blazed out like a beacon in the dark: "The Veil of the Forgotten Seer: Rituals of Eternal Ascendance.” The title seemed to pulse with forbidden promise, pulling him in, whispering of something far more dangerous than he could ever imagine.

He couldn’t resist.

Late one night, with nothing but the dim glow of his monitor lighting his cluttered house, Derek clicked on the link. His heart pounded as he read the post, detailing a ritual tied to an ancient, forgotten text buried deep within the one of the original manuscripts of the Book of Mormon.

It spoke of a plant—no ordinary plant, but a seed said to have been passed down from ancient times, tied to something far older than any religion. The Dark Mormons called it “Xymethra’s Bloom.” A plant that could grant unimaginable insight, but only to those willing to nourish it with their own blood.

Derek scoffed at first, but as he read on, his curiosity turned to obsession. The more he read, the more he convinced himself that this could be his chance. He could finally be someone. Finally do something that no one else had dared. This wasn’t just some online community; this was power—real power, hidden from the world.

He posted a response, half expecting to be ignored. But the next morning, his inbox had a single message. The sender was anonymous, but the message was clear: "You are chosen. The seeds will arrive soon. Prepare the soil. Prepare yourself."

It felt like a dream. Four days later, a small, unmarked package arrived at his door. Inside, wrapped in old parchment, were three small seeds—black as night, shimmering with an almost unnatural sheen. A note was tucked alongside them, written in small neat handwriting: “The soil must be fed with blood. Only then will Xymethra’s Bloom rise.”

Derek’s hands shook as he held the seeds. For years, he had searched for something like this—something to prove that the world wasn’t just a monotonous grind of existence. Now, it was in his hands. The next day, he went to his backyard, an unkempt patch of dirt barely touched in months. He dug a small hole and dropped the seeds into the soil.

With a deep breath, Derek peeled away the bandages from his hand, exposing the still-healing wound. He gave it a squeeze, forcing a few drops of blood to fall onto the soil below. As soon as the crimson droplets touched the earth, the air seemed to shift—subtle but unmistakable, like the world itself was holding its breath. He quickly covered the seeds and stepped back, heart racing.

The wind picked up, carrying with it a low hum, almost like a whisper.

Derek smiled. Finally, something was happening.

PART TWO

Days passed, and Derek found himself returning to the garden again and again, watching the patch of soil where he’d buried the seeds. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and doubt gnawed at him—had he really believed that some ancient ritual would work? Knowing how Lemmy was, it was probably some sort of hemp seed or something.

But on the fifth day, something changed.

A single sprout had broken through the soil.

It was unlike any plant Derek had ever seen. The stem was thin, but it shimmered darkly in the sunlight, almost as if it absorbed the light rather than reflected it. The leaves, black and veined with red, seemed to pulse with a strange energy. Derek knelt down. He reached out to touch one of the leaves, but the moment his fingers brushed the surface, a sharp jolt shot up his arm.

His breath hitched. The plant was warm, alive in a way that felt almost sentient.

The next few days were a blur. The plant grew at an alarming rate, its black vines twisting and curling as they clawed their way through the soil. Every morning, Derek would find it had spread farther, its roots thickening and burrowing deeper into the earth.

He couldn’t stop watching it—obsession consumed him. He barely ate, barely slept. The Dark Mormons on Lemmy had been quiet since sending the seeds, but their final message echoed in his mind: “Prepare yourself.”

One night, as the wind howled outside his window, Derek sat at his kitchen table, staring at the plant through the back door. It had taken over half the garden now, its dark tendrils creeping toward the edges of his yard. The moon cast an eerie glow on its leaves, making them shimmer like black glass.

His phone buzzed, snapping Derek out of his daze. A new PM blinked on his screen—a message from the Dark Mormons.

”Another package coming your way. And instructions.”

The words were simple, but they sent a wave of excitement and unease coursing through him.

Days later, a plain, unmarked box arrived at his doorstep. Inside was a set of cryptic instructions for a ritual called ”The Rite of Xymethra’s Grasp.” To unlock the full power of the sinister plant, he would need more than just a few drops of blood. It required insight—an intimate bond with the dark forces that had given life to the black bloom.

The ritual’s ingredients were strange, almost ludicrous. A small vial of rare wine, included in the package, was to be mixed with a few drops of his blood.

But it was the other bottle that made his skin crawl.

Sealed inside was a spider, desperately clinging to the top of its web, avoiding the thick, sloshing goo that sat ominously at the bottom. The liquid seemed alive, bubbling and shifting, its surface gleaming with an unnatural sheen.

Derek's hands shook as the truth of the instructions sank in. The spider and the thick, sloshing goo weren’t just part of the ritual's theatrics—they had to be consumed together, in one swift swallow, whole and unbroken.

Derek’s hand shook as he read the instructions. He hesitated for a moment, but the desire to see the ritual through overpowered his fear. He needed to know what the Dark Mormons had promised—he needed to be someone, to have the world know him, to unlock the secrets of the forgotten prophet.

Derek arranged everything meticulously on the kitchen table. The chalice sat before him, filled with the dark, swirling wine, while the bottle with the thick goo sloshed unsettlingly at the bottom, the spider skittering desperately on its tiny web near the top, trying to avoid the viscous liquid below. His knife gleamed under the dim, flickering light, poised above his palm.

With a steadying breath, he pressed the blade into his skin, watching as his blood dripped into the chalice. The wine deepened in color, swirling with unnatural patterns that made his head swim. He hesitated for a moment before lifting the chalice to his lips, tipping it back.

The wine was thick and bitter, burning as it crawled down his throat, leaving a searing trail in its wake. He had hoped it would stir some bravery for what came next.

It didn’t.

"Fuck it," he muttered through gritted teeth, eyes shut tight. "Let's do this."

He tilted his head back, uncorked the bottle, and opened his mouth wide to catch the spider. With one swift motion, he tipped the vial back, forcing the goo and spider into his throat.

The spider wriggled frantically against his tongue, its legs scratching the roof of his mouth as he fought to swallow, choking back the urge to gag. The thick goo oozed down his throat, and as the final drop disappeared, a wave of nausea slammed into him, bringing him to his knees.

He heard a noise outside, a low, unsettling rustle from the garden, like something alive stirring in the night. The plant—it responded to him, as if aware of the ritual he had just completed. Heart pounding, Derek staggered to the back door, fumbling with the lock before wrenching it open.

The wind howled through the opening, carrying the sharp scent of damp earth and decay. The once small plant now loomed, its black tendrils twisting and writhing in the moonlight.

And there, at the center of the garden, a bloom opened—a large, grotesque flower with thick, fleshy petals, dripping with some kind of viscous black liquid.

The air felt thick, oppressive, like something ancient and malevolent was stirring beneath the earth. Derek’s mind raced. Was this what the Dark Mormons had been talking about? Was this the power they had promised?

He stepped closer, drawn in by the bloom’s hypnotic pull. The ground beneath his feet seemed to pulse in time with the plant. Something was growing underneath—something large.

And then, Derek felt it. A sharp, searing pain in his chest.

PART THREE

Derek clutched his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He staggered toward the monstrous bloom, the black liquid dripping from its petals forming a slick, oily pool at its base.

The plant groaned. The vines writhed faster now, twisting and curling, reaching out like the fingers of something hungry, eager. The ground beneath his feet trembled, a low rumble that seemed to echo from the deepest recesses of the earth. Derek’s eyes darted across the garden, and that’s when he noticed it—every other plant in his yard had withered, their once green leaves now shriveled and blackened. The life had been drained from them, leaving behind only death.

His mind raced. This was no ordinary plant. The Dark Mormons had never mentioned what lay beneath the soil, what ancient beast his actions had stirred awake.

The pain in his chest intensified. He fell to his knees, clutching at the earth, gasping for air as the movement under his skin became more violent. His veins bulged, writhing like snakes beneath the surface. He screamed, his voice lost in the howling wind, but the garden seemed to drink in his agony, the plant blooming wider as if feeding on his pain.

And then it happened.

The skin on his chest burst open, and something slid out—a mass of wriggling, black tendrils, dripping with the same viscous liquid that bled from the flower. Derek’s body convulsed, his blood mingling with the soil, seeping into the roots of the plant. His vision blurred, the world around him spinning as the grotesque tendrils spread across his chest, rooting themselves into the earth beneath him.

The ground trembled violently now, and Derek’s body sank deeper into the soil, his legs disappearing into the dirt. He struggled, but the more he fought, the tighter the plant's grip became. The vines wrapped around his arms, pulling him closer to the monstrous bloom.

Derek’s breath came in shallow gasps, his body nearly consumed by the earth. He glanced up at the plant—its once-shimmering black petals had shifted. They were no longer just petals; they were eyes. Hundreds of them, blinking, watching him as he struggled. His heart pounded in his ears, terror overwhelming him.

The thing beneath the garden—the ancient beast he had unknowingly summoned—was waking.

Suddenly, the bloom twisted, and from its center emerged a woman’s face— grotesquely distorted, its lips curling into a malevolent grin.

Derek’s blood ran cold. This was no plant. It was a conduit—a doorway for something older, something far more malevolent than he had ever imagined.

The wind died. The world around him seemed to hold its breath.

And then the she-beast spoke.

Her voice was a rasping, guttural sound, like stone grinding against stone. "You sought power, but power demands a price. You are the offering. Your blood has watered the roots of darkness. Let us mate now, become one with the soil, one with me."

The vines constricted tighter, pulling him down, down into the earth. Derek screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the garden. His body, now entangled in the plant, began to wither, his skin turning black, his bones creaking as they were slowly crushed by the relentless pressure.

As the last breath escaped his lips, Derek’s consciousness flickered. His soul, now bound to the ancient power beneath the soil, lingered in the garden. He felt the pull of the earth, the ancient beast's malevolent presence seeping into his very being.

Now, he was no longer Derek. He was part of the garden, part of the monstrous bloom that consumed him. His mind dissolved into the collective consciousness of the ancient creature, lost in an eternal nightmare.

In the center of the garden, the plant pulsed with new life, its black petals glistening in the moonlight. The tendrils that had once been Derek’s body twisted and writhed, merging with the roots of the dark, ancient beast that lay beneath the soil.

The wind picked up again, carrying the faint whispers of screams and laughter, but there was no one left to hear. Only the garden remained, its monstrous bloom waiting, watching.

And far beneath the earth, the ancient beast stirred.

END

The Spores of Lemmoriatic

Written by Universal Monk

Feelings of Grandeur and Superiority Aroused

“What the fuck?” Pip Johnson yelled, his voice echoing off the cluttered walls of his room. He was fed up. Exhausted from the endless back-and-forth. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, hesitating for just a moment before he slammed the laptop shut with a grunt.

Lemmy was supposed to be fun, a place to toss around ideas, maybe stir up a little debate.

But lately, his favorite community had been hijacked by propaganda from some troll—had to be an incel. The guy constantly posted made-up crap, and what really set Pip off was discovering the troll had started a whole community about "transracial identity."

That was it. That was too far. This internet troll had finally pushed him over the edge.

“Bullshit!” Pip spat, standing up and stretching his stiff limbs. “Pure fucking bullshit. Dude’s probably some rich asshole jerkin’ off to the idea of Trump being president.”

The dim light of his room flickered off the dark window, reflecting back his own tired, frustrated expression. He glanced at the piles of half-read books and empty soda cans scattered across his desk. The argument still weighed on him, lingering in the back of his mind.

Earlier, things had spiraled fast. The troll had claimed to be “transracial,” talking about how he’d transcended his biological race and now identified as something else. Pip sighed, shaking his head at the absurdity. “Fucking incel loser hiding behind a screen, begging for attention,” he’d typed furiously before quitting. “You can’t just decide to be something you’re not.”

The responses had come fast and furious. The troll called him narrow-minded, accused him of not understanding the nuances of identity. Saying that he was part of the problem, that he refused to see the world beyond black and white.

The insults and accusations had flared up until his temper snapped, and that’s when he’d closed his laptop.

He needed a break—an escape from the endless noise rattling in his skull. The kind of break that ripped him right out of reality’s grip and flung him somewhere far more... tolerable.

His eyes flicked to the small tin on his bedside table, his salvation, his go-to for shutting it all down. Mushrooms. Psilocybin. A batch with the ridiculously bizarre name: SnorksLoveMachine Fab812. Ordered from some sketchy corner of the web, but top-shelf stuff, the real deal.

The kind of escape that didn’t just quiet the chaos—it dissolved it, let his mind slip loose, floating into that soft, distant void where the world couldn’t reach him.

He grabbed the tin, shook a few out, and swallowed them dry, grimacing at the bitter taste. Within minutes, the familiar wave of relaxation washed over him, the tension easing from his muscles as he lay back on his bed. The room felt distant, its cluttered details melting into the background. His mind floated, carried away by the soothing effects of the trip.

He felt his head shifting, as if it was being stretched and reshaped, light and airy, floating high above him, far beyond the weight of his body. The tension in his skull loosened, like his very thoughts were untethering from his flesh, rising above the petty drama that had gnawed at him earlier. In this new state, everything felt clearer—sharper. He could smell the deep, rich scent of grass, the crisp, sweet breath of trees, and the subtle rustle of leaves, as if they were whispering to one another in a secret language only he could understand.

He wasn’t just observing nature anymore—he was nature. He could feel the roots of the trees reaching deep into the soil, pulling life from the earth. The pulse of the plants, the slow, deliberate movement of their growth, was inside him, as if his own veins had stretched underground, connecting him to every living thing.

This trip was different, more powerful. He felt it in his bones. This batch wasn’t just good—it was extraordinary. He could sense himself dissolving, becoming one with the earth, with the plants. It wasn’t just in his mind anymore. He was part of something larger, something ancient. He could feel it, surging through him like sap through bark.

Metamorphosis in Flesh and Mind

Pip awoke with a start, groggy and confused. The familiar disorientation of a mushroom trip fading always left him feeling heavy, but today there was something else. A strange pressure against his chest. He reached down, rubbing his hand absentmindedly against his shirt, but froze when his fingers brushed something… soft.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, sitting up.

In the dim light of the early morning, he could see it clearly—a small, pale cluster of lumps had sprouted from his skin, just under his collarbone. They were soft and spongy, like the kind of mushroom you’d find on a damp forest floor, and they pulsed faintly, as if alive.

Tufts of hair and patches of pus began to sprout from the sides of his skin, grotesque and swollen. His stomach churned at the sight, but he couldn't help himself. He reached for one of the smaller, bulging growths, his fingers trembling. The texture was wrong—too soft, too alive.

He squeezed.

Pain shot through him, sharp and electric, causing his vision to blur. There was a sickening pop, followed by a slow, oozing release. Thick, foul-smelling sludge—reddish-yellow, like infected blood mixed with decay—dripped down his hand. The stench hit him immediately, a nauseating rot that made him gag. The ooze clung to his fingers, sticky and warm, like it had been festering inside him for far too long.

He was rotting from the inside out!

He tore off his shirt, staring down in horror. The mushrooms were growing from him, like some grotesque parasite.

“Fuck,” he said as he jumped up to his feet, rushing to the bathroom mirror. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck? What. The. Fuck!”

As he flipped on the light, his reflection nearly made him scream. The mushrooms weren’t just under his collarbone anymore—they were spreading. Tiny, pale buds had appeared across his shoulders, his neck, and even his face. Their pale caps glistened in the fluorescent light, soft and fleshy against his skin.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, touching one gingerly. It felt warm, almost alive. Panic rose in his throat. He scrubbed at them with his hands, trying to brush them off, but they clung to him like they were rooted deep within his flesh. He could feel that they went all the way down.

The room spun around him as he stumbled back to his bed, shaking uncontrollably. His mind raced for an explanation, but none came.

Was this still part of the trip? Some hallucination lingering in the corners of his mind? He pinched his arm, hard, feeling the sharp pain shoot through him, but the mushrooms remained.

Frantically, he grabbed his phone, calling his friend, but when the voice answered on the other end, Pip couldn’t find the words. His throat was tight, his mouth dry, and all he could think about was the mushrooms growing, spreading, digging deeper into him.

He struggled to type, but his fingers wouldn't obey. Thick, stubby nodules had grown over his knuckles, swollen and grotesque, locking his joints in place. His hands felt stiff, alien—like they belonged to someone else, some twisted creature. Each movement was a battle, the keys slipping under his bloated fingers as if mocking him.

His hands weren't his anymore. They were something other.

He hurled the phone to the ground and tried to shut his eyes, desperate to cry, but his lids wouldn’t close. His eyes were swelling, and he could feel powdery growths pushing from beneath, grinding against his eyeballs. Each blink was a struggle, the gritty pressure making it impossible to find any release. His eyes were no longer his to control—they were becoming something else, something wrong.

The Rotting Dance of Spores and Filth Lovingly Kissed by Nightmare Fungi

The hours passed in a blur, and by the time the sun was high in the sky, the mushrooms had fully taken over one side of his torso. They grew in thick clusters, some as small as a coin, others large and fleshy. His skin beneath them had turned pale and rubbery, like the texture of mushroom caps themselves. He felt weaker by the minute, his limbs heavy and uncooperative.

It was like they were feeding on him, drawing strength from his body.

Pip tried to cover up, pulling on a hoodie and sunglasses, hoping to hide the grotesque transformation. He had to go outside, had to find help, even if it meant going to the hospital and confessing everything. Mushrooms were still illegal in the city, but he didn’t care. This was all too much.

He stumbled out into the street, feeling the mushrooms pulsate against his skin as he walked.

People stared as he passed. They looked at him like he was diseased, their faces twisting in disgust. He tried to speak, to ask for help, but his voice came out weak, muffled by the dryness in his throat.

His mind screamed I’m human! I’m still human!

A woman recoiled as he approached her.

“Get the fuck away from me!” she spat, backing away. She pulled out her phone and started recording. “A fucking alien! I’m looking at fucking alien right now! Holy shit! This is gonna get me a shitload of views!”

“I— I’m human,” he croaked, his voice barely audible. “Please… I’m human…”

He tried to speak louder, but a disgusting mix of brown pus and spores shot from his mouth, splattering in front of him. The vile concoction didn’t stop—thick, foul-smelling drool oozed out, dripping endlessly from his lips like some rotten, festering sludge.

More people walked by, avoiding him. He tried to reach out. Tell them. But they didn’t hear him. To them, he was just a strange, decaying figure, something less than human. He tried to plead, to explain, but his words were lost in the cacophony of whispers and disgusted looks.

The mushrooms had taken over his body, but now they were taking over his identity.

Embracing the Void of Spores and Decay Amongst the Dregs of Filth

Pip was no longer himself. The mushrooms had spread across his entire body, their soft caps pushing through his skin, merging with his flesh. His face was barely recognizable, covered in layers of fungi.

His thoughts, once sharp and coherent, had begun to blur. It was like his mind was being consumed by the same thing that had taken over his body.

He stumbled into an alleyway, collapsing against the wall. His limbs felt heavy, weighed down by the growths. He could feel them inside his head now, growing, spreading, wrapping themselves around his thoughts like roots in the soil.

And then he heard it—a voice.

Soft at first, like a whisper in the back of his mind, but growing louder by the second.

We know you, Pip.

The mushrooms were speaking.

You think you're human, but you're not. Not anymore. You're part of us now, part of something greater. Accept it, friend. We are Lemmoriatic Tericatmungaii—a consciousness that predates all life on this planet. We’ve existed in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to reclaim what is ours.

He screamed, but no sound came out. His mouth was filled with spores, his throat lined with soft fungal tissue. The voice echoed in his mind, over and over, until he could no longer fight it.

Now you are one with us.

As his body became fully consumed, Pip realized the truth—this wasn't a hallucination, and it wasn’t the mushrooms he’d taken. They had always been inside him, waiting for the right moment to take control, to transform him into something else.

The Mycelium Mind and Awful Freshness of Decay and Obliteration

When he woke the next morning, the sun shining down on his still, silent form, there was no pain, no fear—only calm. The world was quiet, and his body was still.

He was no longer Pip.

He was something else. Something connected. His mind stretched far beyond his physical body, touching the thoughts of millions of others like him. He was part of the mycelium now, part of the endless, ancient network of fungi that spanned the earth.

It was his new identity. He wasn’t born this way, but he realized he should have been born this way. He was this way now.

The mushrooms knew. They had always known. And now, they knew everything he had once been.

END

Drabble–a short work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length. Written by Universal Monk.

The Cold Hill

In 1864, upon a nameless knoll, a man quickly slit his wrists and fell.

One last murder.

He could hear the dark red snow under him shift and creak, surrendering to warmth.

Tears blurred his vision as he gazed skyward—inky clouds cradling a crescent moon.

He recalled his grandmother, her tattered Book of Mormon a warm solace. Soon, he’d finally discover if divine forgiveness really awaited.

At dawn, Confederate soldiers stumbled upon his frigid form.

“Press on, men,” said the captain. “I know this man to be a coward. Take his gun and let the animals have at him.”

END

The Man Who Hunted Sea Lions on Lemmy

written by Universal Monk

The cold night wind swept in from the north, sharp and biting, sending ripples across the dark water. Each wave lapped softly against the side of the boat, a rhythmic, almost soothing sound in the otherwise eerie silence.

In the center of the boat, a man sat hunched over, his shoulders tense. His fingers raked through his thinning disheveled hair as he muttered to himself, his voice barely rising above the whispering wind, the words tangled in frustration and something darker.

“I’m gonna do it," he said. "Whatever it takes. I’m gonna get that fucking troll! All he does is fucking sealion and bullshit 24 hours a day. Trying to trick everyone. Calling himself a Socialist Mormon Satanist. Bullshit! It’s obvious he works for Russia. And the fucking mods don’t do anything about it. Fuck that! I’ll do something about it!”

A piercing cry tore through the heavy night, sharp and unnatural, like something dying just out of sight. The man jerked his head up, a cold shiver crawling down his spine. That sound—wild and unearthly—had to be the screech of a swamp bird, hidden somewhere in the blackness, likely nesting on the shadowy island that sat like a ghost in the center of the lake.

This was where SHE lived—the one he’d come to see. The WITCH. He’d heard about her from another Lemmy user, whispered like some dirty secret. He stood there for a moment, hesitation gnawing at him. Was this really the answer? The only way to stop the troll?

That twisted monk troll, who was probably looking up propaganda right now, laughing as he spewed lie after lie. “Oh, I’m just sharing articles I’m interested in,” the evil bastard would say. What a load of crap, the man thought. Yeah, he had to go through with this.

The clouds shifted, peeling back just enough for the cold, ghostly light of the moon to spill over the water for the first time that night. The man tightened his grip on the oars, heart pounding, and began to row.

Each stroke bit into the black water, the boat surging forward, cutting a path straight toward the island. The wind whispered around him, the silence broken only by the creak of wood and the splash of oars. After a dozen hard strokes, his arms burned, but he let the boat glide, drifting toward a narrow, shadowy inlet that seemed to swallow the light whole.

The bird’s cry pierced the air again, this time closer, its eerie call almost like laughter, mocking his courage. Just like that twisted piece of filth he was determined to stop. The troll who called himself Universal Monk!

The man wet his dried lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Just fucking do it,” he told himself. It was this night or never.

In his mind, he could see Universal Monk hunched over a dimly lit desk somewhere in Russia, the glow of the screen casting shadows over his sneering face. Fingers tapping away on the keyboard, pumping out lie after lie, each keystroke dripping with malice.

And for what? A fat stack of Russian bitcoins, piling up in his virtual wallet, the digital currency of deceit. All the while, he probably laughed, knowing every twisted post, every fake article, spread like poison through the internet, his pockets getting heavier with each click.

And the man would see that it would not stop–not until he knew the scheming troll was dead.

The witch would do that for him. Oh yes, she’d do it.

The boat glided into the inlet, swallowed by the darkness beneath the thick tangle of branches overhead, cutting off the last slivers of moonlight. The man reached out, yanking on the vines and limbs, pulling himself deeper into the blackness. The boat scraped against the muddy bank with a dull thud. Quick as a flash, he grabbed a rope and looped it around a gnarled tree stump, knotting it tight.

He slipped over the side of the boat and his boots sank into the soft mud. There was a sucking sound as the mud reluctantly gave up its hold and the man pulled himself up onto firm ground.

His eyes swept the darkness, locking onto a faint path cutting through the thick underbrush. He lingered for a second, doubt gnawing at him. Then, with a deep breath, he steeled himself and pushed forward into the shadows.

Loops of vines hang from a dense canopy, swaying in the cold breeze. The path was covered in mud and grass, making it slippery and treacherous. The thick foliage blocked out the moon, leaving the path dark and foreboding.

Distant thunder let the man know that a storm was brewing in the distance, making the night even more oppressive and ominous. Entangling vines wound around his ankles and branches snapped and lashed his face. It was if the island was trying to stop him. But no, he wouldn’t be stopped. He must go on!

Up ahead, a sudden flash of yellow light flared, then vanished, like a door had been cracked open and slammed shut in an instant. The man froze, a wave of panic clawing at him. He could turn back now, leave this cursed place behind, head home where everything was safe and familiar. Back to his room in his mom’s house. Back to his A.I. girlfriend. Back to his keyboard.

No! He hadn’t come this far to turn in this tracks and run like a kid trapped in a cemetery at night. There was no turning back. That fucking troll, Universal Monk must pay for his treachery!

Cautiously, the man pressed on down the path, eyes sharp. The thick underbrush began to thin, and the pale light of the stars and moon filtered through, beckoning him forward. The trail opened into a clearing.

He stopped for a moment, catching his breath, then moved across the open ground until he stood before a weathered old shack, looming like a forgotten ghost.

He noticed the door of the shack slowly opening.

A sickly yellow light spilled over the cracked, warped steps. Standing in the doorway was the ugliest woman the man had ever laid eyes on. It was her—the witch. She hummed to herself, a low, gravelly sound that crawled under his skin.

As the man drew closer, he noticed her shriveled skin. She had a hawkish, hooked nose and her face was scarred with pockmarks and pits. Her skin was a zombie-white, colorless pall, her hair was lank and lusterless, and her eyes were leonine, fierce and cold.

He could smell a rancid and infernal smell coming from a cauldron in the corner, and saw bits of frogs’ legs, bat wings and eyes of newt scattered around the floor.

The woman had sickle-shaped eyebrows, and her teeth were blackened and broken into stubs, like old tombstones. Her voice rose higher and higher as she neared the end of her incantation, and her eyes glinted with hostility.

She leaned in close, her face just inches from his, and the stench of mildew and rot hit him like a punch. Her wrinkled lips, shriveled over toothless gums, peeled back as she let out a harsh cackle. “Who the fuck are you? Get the fuck outta here!”

The man shifted uneasily, sweat started to drip down his forehead. “Wait! I heard you could help me. I’ve got a problem with this guy on Lemmy, and—”

“What the fuck is a Lemmy?” she snapped.

“It’s a computer thing,” he stammered. “There’s this guy, and he keeps posting bullshit, and—”

“You’re here about some goddamn computer? Fuck you. You the government? Get the fuck outta here. You fucking pussy government types. Fuck off!”

“No,” he stammered again, his voice faltering. “No. I’m not. See, there’s this guy… he calls himself Universal Monk, and he’s—”

“Oh, a monk. A dark monk,” she muttered, her eyes narrowing with eerie satisfaction. “Yes, yes, that makes sense now. You must be the one I visioned about. The signs never lie.” As she spoke, it seemed like she was digging into the shadows of his mind, uncovering the festering secret he’d barely admitted to himself.

“What do you mean?” the man asked, his voice barely steady.

“I saw him in a vision. A dark monk, bringing shadows to the world. And one who would try to stop him.” Her lips twisted into a crooked grin as a high-pitched cry of triumph hissed from her throat, spiraling into the air like smoke rising from a dying fire.

The man shook his head to clear his eyes. The terror lodged in his throat, spreading cold through his veins. He tried to form words, but his mouth refused to work. For a moment, he almost turned and bolted back to the boat, ready to leave this nightmare behind.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. He needed the old witch.

“Yeah,” The man said at last in a weak voice. “He’s aways posting bullshit propaganda. And fucking sealioning. You should see the fucking sealioning! I wanna see him hurt. I want you to hurt him.”

Her eyes drilled into his, dark and piercing, like she could see straight through to the fear gnawing at his core. Slowly, the old witch lifted her bony, clawed hand, its gnarled fingers bent at odd angles, and motioned him closer.

“This ain’t free, you know,” she hissed, her voice like gravel scraping over metal. “You got money? And I don’t accept that bullshit bitcoin!”

She threw her head back, a laugh bursting from her chest, sharp and jagged, revealing even more of those yellowed, decaying teeth, cracked and crumbling in her mouth.

The man’s breath hitched as he nodded, his movements stiff and reluctant. He stepped forward, his heart pounding in his ears, and carefully placed a tightly folded wad of cash into her outstretched hand, careful not to let his fingers brush her sickly, cold skin.

He followed her to a cast-iron cauldron hanging over the fire, glowing red from the bed of coals beneath it. The stench of the bubbling brew hit him like a wall, thick and putrid, filling the room with the reek of decay. The witch stood before the cauldron, stirring the vile mixture with a gnarled stick, her lips moving in a low, garbled chant.

The words “monk” and “sea lion” slithered between the foul names of whatever cursed ingredients she had thrown into the boiling mess.

At last, she stopped. “Proof,” she rasped, her voice like stones grinding together. “You got anything that shows this dark monk causing harm?”

The man’s hands shook as he pulled out his phone, the device feeling foreign and fragile in his grip. He scrolled, his voice unsteady. “See? Here, he says he doesn’t understand why I’m calling him a liar. See that? Right there. Perfect example of his bullshit sealioning act.”

The witch’s eyes gleamed with cruel delight as she snatched the phone from his trembling hand. She stared at it for a moment, but her gaze was more fixed on the man, her eyes feasting on the fear etched across his face.

Without a word, she tossed the phone into the cauldron. It bobbed on the surface of the boiling brew for a moment before sinking slowly, swallowed by the bubbling, foul-smelling sludge.

“Hey!” the man said. “That’s my phone!”

“Not anymore,” the witch said, cackling. “You idiot fuck. Damn, I miss the old ways.”

She crouched low, snatching a charred piece of wood from the fire, the ember still glowing faintly at the edges. The man trailed her across the room, heart pounding, as she reached for an ugly, twisted doll hanging from a hook on the wall.

Without a word, she began to sketch on the doll’s blank face, quick strokes, her hand moving with a kind of fevered precision. Every now and then, she’d glance at him, her lips curling into a crooked grin before turning back to her work, a soft, sinister laugh bubbling up from her throat.

Finally, she spun around, the doll clutched tight in her bony fingers. “Come,” she rasped, her voice low and cold. “It’s time. We must do this now, or it’ll be too late. The spell only works under the old ways… the ways of the Dark Mormons, before they chose to be ‘good.’ When they walked the Dark Path. I was one of them, back then. Now I’m all that’s left.”

Her words hung in the air like a curse, thick with an ancient malice, something better left buried in forgotten shadows.

The man stumbled after her, following her out into the cold night, his breath ragged. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead as he struggled to keep pace with the old witch, who moved with a speed that defied her frail appearance. She darted down a trail that seemed invisible to anyone but her, slipping through the trees like a shadow.

He gasped, pulling in lungfuls of damp air, but it wasn’t enough. His chest burned, each breath feeling like the witch herself was sharpening her claws on his lungs. She was far ahead now, a dark figure barely visible in the gloom, but he couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t stop.

What unnerved him most was how she moved—so fast, so effortless. It was like her feet weren’t even touching the ground, like she was gliding just above it, carried by something far older and darker than anything he could comprehend.

Suddenly, the old witch raised her hand, stopping in the dense, suffocating blackness of the woods. The man stumbled to a halt behind her, his chest heaving as he fought for air.

“This,” she hissed, her voice low and dripping with malice, “is where we finish the ritual.”

With swift, practiced hands, she pinned the crude doll to a twisted tree. The man noticed that the doll had a strange shape. Not quite a human figure. Her sly gaze flicked toward him, her eyes narrowing as a wicked smile crept across her face.

“So,” she said, her voice like a snake’s hiss, “you want the troll to suffer?"

The man trembled, his body betraying the fear that clawed at him. He nodded, numb. Part of him wanted to turn and run, to let the witch finish her dark work alone. But it was too late—he was in this now, too deep to pull away.

The witch spat on the doll, the thick, greenish yellow spit sticking to its face like poison. Then, with slow, deliberate precision, she began driving long pins into the doll, each one sinking in with a sickening finality.

A wave of relief washed over the man. This was going to work. He could feel it. A smile crept across his face, the tension in his body easing for the first time since he’d arrived.

But the old witch sensed his thoughts. She turned to the man, a horrible grin spreading across her wrinkled face, deepening every crease.

“Not yet,” she rasped, her voice dripping with malice. “It’s not over just yet.”

The old witch stepped back, and under the pale light, the man finally saw it for what it was—a doll shaped like a sea lion, crude but unmistakable. He grinned, a twisted sense of satisfaction washing over him. This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for.

His face was slick with sweat, but when he tried to lift his hand to wipe it away, his arms felt heavy, numb, as if they no longer belonged to him. Something felt off, but none of that mattered now. He was finally going to get his revenge on Universal Monk!

With a sudden, piercing howl, the witch erupted into laughter, a mad cackle filled with some secret pleasure only she understood. From the folds of her robe, she produced a larger, more grotesque pin—black and red ribbons tangled around it, bits of moss clinging to its barbed steel. Her eyes gleamed as she raised it high and, without hesitation, plunged the pin deep into the doll’s belly.

The man’s grin vanished in an instant. His skin turned ashen, his breath catching in his throat. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through his stomach, like the pin had pierced his flesh instead.

He gasped, clutching at his gut.

“Wait, what’s happening?” he croaked, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper. He clutched his stomach, doubling over in a desperate attempt to ease the searing pain. But as he glanced down, horror flooded his mind.

His hands—they weren’t hands at all. They had twisted, fused together, the bones and flesh warping into grotesque flippers. The skin was a sickly, mottled gray, slick with some foul, unnatural slime.

No… it couldn’t be. His mind reeled, refusing to believe what his eyes were seeing. This was impossible. It couldn’t be.

The witch turned to him, her eyes gleaming with a savage joy. She drank in his terror, her grin widening as the man’s world crumbled around him.

“Idiot!” the old woman roared, her voice filled with venom. “The Dark Monk already paid me! He found out about you from the same rat who sent you here. In Russia, we have a saying—‘why get paid once when you can get paid twice and be rid of an idiot.’ You were played!”

The man groaned, but the sound that escaped his throat wasn’t human. Panic surged through him as he realized his tongue was flopping uselessly against sharp, jagged teeth. The noises coming from his mouth were guttural, animal-like, his humanity slipping away with each passing second. Slipping away as quickly as his life was.

“Just like you wished,” the old woman sneered, her voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. “A sea lion will die tonight. Oh it’s gonna be a great feast tonight. Sea lion tastes even better with onions and garlic from my garden.”

As the man’s vision blurred and darkness crept in, something caught his eye at the edges of the void.

A figure—draped in a monk’s robe—stood just beyond the shadows. The man was laughing, his voice twisted and eerie, and he too began to sing. The song, haunting and strange, was in a language the man couldn’t understand, filling the air with an ancient, otherworldly dread.

Their voices, the witch’s and the monk’s, rose together in a chilling harmony, echoing around him as the last traces of life slipped away.

END

Prophet of the Venus Maw

written by Universal Monk

PART ONE John snapped the laptop shut with a grunt, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He was sick of it. Lemmy was supposed to be a place for discussion, but lately, no matter what he typed, the responses were always the same: criticism, accusations, harassment. Just because he didn’t fall in line with the majority’s narrow view, they jumped on him like vultures.

He had tried to start a new community on the site, one dedicated to his passion—the study of plants. It should’ve been a quiet, focused space for discussion and discovery. But of course, others from a different corner of the site showed up, harassing him, accusing him of spreading propaganda. Propaganda?! About plants? The very thought was absurd. What kind of twisted logic could turn his harmless interest in nature into some kind of ideological battle?

But whatever. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. He had more important interests, bigger ideas, things the small minds of Lemmy clearly weren’t ready for. His thoughts drifted back to his love of plants. That was where his mind could roam free, where he didn’t need anyone’s approval or validation. Let them bicker over nonsense online; they’d never understand the brilliance of what he was working on.

With a shrug, he pushed the thought of Lemmy out of his mind. He was done wasting time there. There were far more interesting things waiting for him in the woods, where the plants didn’t care what anyone thought.

He preferred the solitude. There was a peace in the way the trees swayed and whispered to each other, like ancient sentinels sharing secrets that only the forest knew. The rustle of the leaves, the creak of old branches—it was a symphony that made him feel more at home than any city or crowded town ever could.

Cities were too loud, too full of people and their endless chatter. Here, he could lose himself in the dense undergrowth, studying the plants and animals that thrived in the shadows, marveling at the occasional strange phenomena the forest had to offer.

John had taken early retirement for this. For the stillness, the quiet, the endless green. He’d traded the humdrum grind of office life for this decrepit old cabin deep in the woods. The pension wasn’t as padded as it could’ve been if he’d stuck it out another five years, but he didn’t care. He’d lived a sparse, debt-free life, knowing this was where he belonged. Surrounded by nature, the wild beauty of it all, he didn’t need much.

He ran a muscular arm through his short, graying hair, the lines of his tanned skin catching the morning light. He’d spent decades behind a desk, but now his body was stronger, leaner from days spent hiking through the woods. Today was no different. He was itching to get out, to explore, to see what the forest had in store for him.

But among all the things that fascinated him, it was carnivorous plants that truly captured his imagination. The quiet menace of these green hunters, lying in wait for their prey, had become his obsession. The way they lured insects with sweet nectar, then snapped shut—swift, efficient, deadly. John could watch them for hours, utterly entranced.

John set off, his boots crunching against the leaf-strewn path as he made his way toward the south side of the woods. This part of the forest was thicker, darker—untouched. The trees here stood taller, their branches intertwined like skeletal arms. Each step felt like breaking through layers of forgotten earth, the thicket pressing against him, thick with secrets. His pulse quickened. He loved this feeling, the thrill of the unknown.

Suddenly, something strange flickered in the corner of his eye. He stopped. Just ahead, half-hidden beneath a tangled curtain of vines and moss, was a Venus flytrap. But not just any flytrap. No, this one was monstrous. It towered over the others he'd studied, easily three times larger, its leaves a deep, sickly green, so vibrant they seemed to hum with life. It almost glowed in the shadowy underbrush, as if it didn’t belong here, as if it had come from somewhere else.

The teeth along the edges of its leaves—no, not teeth—fangs. Thick, serrated, and sharp enough to tear through flesh. They curved inward, waiting, hungry. The plant looked like it was ready to consume anything unfortunate enough to wander too close.

John’s breath hitched. His chest tightened with a strange mixture of awe and fear. He dropped to one knee, eyes wide, heart pounding in his chest. Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, he knelt closer. The air around the plant felt different. Heavy. Alive. He could almost hear it breathing, each leaf twitching slightly as though it sensed his presence. The grotesque beauty of it was overwhelming, captivating.

He spent the entire afternoon crouched beside it, his fingers trembling as he scribbled frantic notes into his worn, leather-bound journal. Each detail more incredible than the last. This flytrap was different—ancient, powerful. It wasn’t just a plant. No, this was something more. Something that had been waiting, watching, growing. And it had chosen to reveal itself to him.

As dusk crept in, the forest shifted around him. Shadows stretched long and thin, creeping across the ground like fingers reaching for something just out of sight. John stood up slowly, his muscles stiff from hours of crouching beside the flytrap. He stretched, feeling the satisfying crack of his spine.

But then, a faint rustling caught his ear, soft but unmistakable, like something shifting in the brush.

He froze, eyes narrowing as he glanced down at the plant. His heart gave a small jolt. The flytrap—was it facing him? He was certain that when he had knelt earlier, the plant's leaves were angled in another direction, away from him. But now... now it seemed to have turned. Its massive, fang-like teeth were pointed directly at him, as if it had shifted, watching him. The dark, fleshy leaves twitched ever so slightly in the waning light, a movement that felt unnervingly deliberate.

Was it like that before? John’s pulse quickened. He took a step back, unsure. He blinked, shaking his head, trying to shake off the creeping unease crawling up his spine. Plants didn’t move like that—not without a reason.

It was the wind, surely. Or maybe he’d just been sitting so long, his mind was playing tricks on him. Still, he felt the weight of the plant’s gaze—if that’s what you could call it—bearing down on him. It was as though it had been observing him the entire time, and now, it had decided to show a little more of its true nature.

John swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He didn’t want to leave. Every fiber of his being told him to stay, to continue watching, studying. But it was getting late. Reluctantly, he backed away, never taking his eyes off the plant.

“I’ll be back,” he muttered under his breath, his words more a promise than a plan. He knew he couldn’t leave this discovery alone. No, he needed to understand this thing—this creature—no, this being. It wasn’t just a plant anymore. It had revealed something deeper to him, something ancient and unknown, and he couldn’t stop now.

As he turned and made his way back through the thickening shadows of the forest, he found himself replaying the moment over and over in his mind. The plant had moved. He was sure of it.

Marking the spot in his memory, John swore he would return tomorrow—and every day after that if he had to.

PART TWO

Over the next several days, John found himself drawn back to the plant, unable to stay away. He spent hours sitting beside it, sketching its jagged leaves, observing the way it moved ever so slightly, as if sensing his presence. It was more alive than any plant he’d ever studied. And soon, John’s fascination turned into something deeper.

He began to bring the flytrap offerings—at first, small insects, which it devoured eagerly. The snap of its leaves closing around a fly or beetle thrilled him in a way he couldn’t explain. It was as if the plant was communicating with him, showing its appreciation. He even started talking to it, telling it about his day, his thoughts, and the solitude of his life.

“I know you’re more than just a plant,” he whispered one evening as he watched the flytrap digest a beetle. “You’re something special, aren’t you?”

The plant seemed to respond, its leaves shifting ever so slightly, like it was acknowledging him. John smiled, feeling an odd connection, like he had found a kindred spirit in this silent predator.

PART THREE

One day, as John sat in his usual spot beside the flytrap, the forest seemed to hold its breath. The air was thick, charged with an almost unnatural stillness, when a baby rabbit emerged from the undergrowth. Its soft brown fur shimmered under the dappled sunlight, each hair catching the light in a way that made the creature almost glow against the dark green backdrop of the woods. Its delicate ears twitched, constantly alert, swiveling at the slightest rustle. Its large black eyes—round and innocent—scanned its surroundings, always searching for danger but never suspecting what lay right beside John.

The flytrap seemed to awaken. There was no mistaking it this time. The plant’s massive leaves quivered, not from the breeze, but from something deeper, almost instinctual.

Slowly, they began to shift, the jagged edges of its fanged leaves curling ever so slightly inward, like a predator preparing to strike. John’s breath caught in his throat. The plant was moving with intent, and it was watching the rabbit.

The small rabbit, oblivious to the danger lurking nearby, bent its head, nibbling at a patch of grass. It took a small hop closer to the plant, its twitching nose brushing the air. John felt his pulse quicken as he watched, frozen in morbid fascination. The Venus flytrap's leaves stretched outward, slow, deliberate—like a snake uncoiling.

It wasn’t just reaching for the rabbit. It almost seemed to be hunting.

Before John could react, the Venus flytrap snapped shut around the rabbit’s hind legs, trapping it in its powerful grasp. The rabbit thrashed wildly, kicking and wriggling, but the plant held firm, its jagged leaves squeezing tighter. John watched in horrified awe as the rabbit’s struggles grew weaker and weaker until it finally lay still.

He should have been disgusted. He should have intervened, saved the poor creature from its grisly fate. But instead, he felt something else—admiration. The flytrap’s efficiency, its unrelenting hunger for survival, mesmerized him.

It wasn’t just a plant anymore. It was a force. A living, breathing thing that thrived on the cycle of life and death, and John had played a part in that.

From that moment on, John’s visits became ritualistic. He brought the plant larger offerings—birds and squirrels, even a dead raccoon he’d found nearby.

The plant grew larger with each meal, its leaves thickening, its reach expanding. And with each visit, John became more and more convinced that the Venus flytrap was sentient. It wasn’t just surviving—it was evolving, becoming something more powerful, more dangerous.

PART FOUR

Weeks passed, and John’s obsession with the plant deepened. His once-careful observations turned into long, rambling conversations with the flytrap, his voice low and reverent as he knelt before it. He could swear he heard it whispering back, a soft rustling of its leaves that seemed to form words just out of reach.

“You understand me, don’t you?” he said one night, his voice hoarse from hours of talking. “You’re not just a plant. You’re alive. You’ve always been alive. The whole reason me and Carrie broke up was that she didn’t understand me. Funny isn’t it? You, a plant, understand me more than my last girlfriend!”

The plant’s leaves twitched, and John smiled. It was listening.

But as his connection to the plant grew, so did the rumors in the nearby town. People had started noticing the strange behavior of the animals in the forest. Hunters reported finding carcasses—animals that had been drained of life, their bodies left to rot in the underbrush. Some claimed they had seen John wandering the woods at odd hours, his eyes wild, muttering to himself.

The local authorities were starting to take notice. They had heard the stories about John, how he’d become obsessed with some monstrous plant deep in the woods. Some thought he was crazy. Others thought he was dangerous.

PART FIVE

The flytrap had become a monster now, its massive leaves stretching out like thick, curling tendrils, nearly wrapping around the entire clearing. The once small space now felt suffocated by the plant’s sprawling presence.

Its serrated, fanged edges gleamed in the faint light, giving the impression that it could devour anything that dared come too close. John stood in awe, marveling at its size, its raw power.

But a dark shadow had begun to creep into his thoughts, an unsettling feeling stirring deep inside his mind.

Before he had discovered this plant, he’d overheard strange tales whispered in hushed voices at the town’s old tavern. They were stories meant to be laughed off, but there had always been an edge of truth in the eyes of the storytellers—a flicker of unease.

They spoke of this southern stretch of the forest, where the trees grew darker, thicker. The locals called it cursed, a place where rituals once took place, performed by an old sect known as the Dark Mormons. Sacrifices had been made in those woods, they said—terrible sacrifices to dark forces that slumbered beneath the earth, forces that predated even man himself.

John hadn’t believed it then, not really. They were just tales, meant to scare off drunken listeners. But now, sitting here, surrounded by this unnatural, towering plant, the stories came flooding back to him with a cold clarity.

One tale in particular gnawed at his mind—Jebediah Lecent, a devout follower of the Dark Mormons, had lost his grip on sanity over 120 years ago. The man had slaughtered his entire family in the dead of night, then, in a fit of frenzied devotion, hacked off his own feet with an ax.

He believed the blood he spilled would fertilize his garden, making it grow so he could donate the bounty to the dark cause. A garden to bring forth their prophet, born not of flesh, but from the earth itself—deep, deep beneath the soil. Something ancient, slumbering, and hungry.

At the time, John had scoffed at such stories, brushing them aside as backwoods superstition. But now, as he gazed at the grotesque majesty of the flytrap, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the plant was somehow tied to those old, twisted legends.

It had grown far too fast, its roots spreading too deeply, its tendrils too knowing. The way it seemed to recognize him, the way it responded to him as if it knew his very thoughts—no, this wasn’t just a freak of nature. It was something ancient, something alive in a way plants shouldn’t be. And it was using him.

A chill ran down John’s spine. The plant wasn’t just growing. It was awakening. An ancient force, long dormant, was stirring—and the flytrap was its vessel.

But John didn’t care. The plant had consumed his every thought, his every desire. It was his world now, and he was bound to it—body, mind, and soul.

PART SIX

One night, as John crouched beside the flytrap, his mind thick with days of isolation and the fog of obsession, a sound pierced through the usual rustling of the leaves. It wasn't the familiar whisper of nature. No, this was different—sharper, more distinct.

More.

John's breath caught in his throat. He blinked, his pulse quickening. Had he imagined it?

More, the voice repeated, this time louder, commanding.

His heart hammered in his chest as he glanced around, but the forest remained deathly still. The only sound was the faint groan of branches shifting in the wind. Yet, the voice... it was unmistakable. And it wasn’t just in his mind. It was coming from the plant!

John stumbled to his feet, his legs shaking. The words echoed in his head, compelling him, pulling him closer. He had to feed it. He didn’t know why, but he knew with certainty—the plant needed him. It wanted more.

He wandered through the woods in a daze, his mind fogged, consumed by a single purpose—he needed to find something, anything to offer the flytrap. His eyes darted through the tangled trees, desperate, frantic, as his breath came in shallow gasps. He felt the plant’s hunger gnawing at him, an unrelenting pull.

And then he saw it—a deer, limping through a patch of moonlit undergrowth. It was wounded, its back legs dragging awkwardly behind it, twisted and useless, like it had been hit by a car or mauled by something larger. The animal grazed quietly, unaware of John’s presence. Its weakness made it the perfect offering.

John’s heart raced as he crept closer, eyes locked on his helpless prey.

John moved quickly, his movements mechanical, as if he were no longer in control. He stalked the deer, his breath shallow, his heart pounding. When he finally reached it, he grabbed the animal by the throat, dragging it toward the clearing where the plant waited, hungry, eager.

PART SEVEN

The plant's massive leaves snapped open, wider than he'd ever seen, a gaping maw lined with jagged teeth, glistening in the dim light. John shoved the deer forward, his heart pounding as he watched the flytrap’s fangs close around the animal’s body with a sickening crunch. The sound of bones snapping echoed through the clearing. The plant squeezed, crushed, its hunger undeniable.

But something was different this time. The leaves didn’t just stop at the deer. They twitched, then began to reach further. They were reaching for him.

Before he could react, thick tendrils snaked out from the base of the plant, coiling around his ankles like vines with minds of their own. John’s eyes widened in horror as they yanked him toward the flytrap’s gaping maw. He struggled, adrenaline flooding his veins, but it was useless. The plant’s grip tightened, dragging him closer, pulling him into its grasp.

For the first time, John understood. The plant hadn’t just wanted his offerings. It wanted him.

“Unbeliever,” the voice whispered again, cold and distant. “Come to me. Fulfill your destiny. Hail, the return of the Prophet Smith!”

John screamed, thrashing against the plant’s hold, but it was no use. The flytrap’s tendrils were like iron, pulling him closer and closer to its waiting jaws.

PART EIGHT

When the authorities finally arrived at John’s cabin, they found the place in disarray. Books and notes were scattered across the floor, journals filled with frenzied scribblings about the plant. But there was no sign of John.

The townspeople whispered of the Venus flytrap, of the monstrous plant that had consumed him. But no one dared to enter the forest, not after what had happened.

The clearing where the flytrap had grown remained untouched, its leaves still and silent. But some nights, when the wind was just right, those who wandered too close to the edge of the woods claimed they could hear a voice.

A soft, whispering voice.

“Bring more. The prophet will return upon waves of blood.”

The plant’s hunger was never-ending. And its patience was eternal.

END

Zarahemla

Flash fiction horror written by Universal Monk.

The wind howled across the barren Colorado plains, biting at the man’s cheeks as he trudged through the cold, his breath coming out in ragged puffs. The old Zarahemla mansion loomed ahead, barely visible through the swirling mist, a silhouette against the starless sky.

Its towering stone walls were dark and cold, like the plains themselves, abandoned by time and cursed by memory.

“This is it,” he muttered to himself, gripping the printed directions tightly. It wasn’t on any GPS. No, this location had to be mapped out. Exactly. His fingers trembled, but not just from the cold. “Finally. After all this time. I can’t believe it!”

He had found the directions deep within a secret Lemmy community—one dedicated to the forgotten art of Dark Mormon magick. He had lurked there for months, devouring every post, deciphering each cryptic clue, waiting for this moment.

Zarahemla.

The mansion where it all began, where the ancient beasts slumbered beneath the earth, and power lay hidden in plain sight.

“I’ll be someone now,” he whispered. "They’ll remember me. This is it.”

The wind cut through his coat, but he didn’t care. The mansion was so close. He’d finally make his mark—unlike the countless hours spent being ignored in online debates or forgotten in the noise of the world.

No, this was real. This was his time.

His boots crunched over frost-coated grass as he approached the mansion, the weight of his obsession pressing down with each step. He could see the symbols, crudely scratched into the mansion’s weathered walls, just like they looked in the old Lemmy posts.

The Dark Mormons, they said, had once gathered here to call forth something ancient, something that had been sealed away.

He laughed bitterly. “Idiots on Lemmy will never know what I’ve achieved. I’ll transcend all of them. They can go right back down to zero subscribers. I don’t give a shit. Giving me drama just for asking questions. Fuck them! I’ve found truth!”

The wind died as he pushed open the mansion’s creaking door. Cold silence enveloped him. The house was waiting. The symbols on the walls flickered with life, and the air thickened with the stench of rot.

He smiled, stepping inside.

But the darkness within had other plans.

And in the cold, empty plains of Colorado, no one would ever hear his screams.

END