UniversalMonk

Zarahemla

Flash fiction horror written by @UniversalMonk.

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

Whispers from the Elder’s Garden

(A Micro Macabre Chronicle is a bizarre, unsettling tale, crafted in exactly 200 words. Written by @UniversalMonk)

The Abernathy estate loomed at the edge of town, overgrown with wild, unnatural flora.

Whispers claimed that long ago, a sect known as the Dark Mormons had twisted the land with forbidden rituals, making the garden a place where strange things thrived. The townsfolk avoided it, but curiosity clawed at me.

One evening, against my better judgment, I ventured closer, peering through the rusted iron gate.

The garden was alive, its plants twisted in grotesque forms, black petals sickly glistening under the pale moonlight. A thick, unnatural mist clung to the ground, swirling around the plants.

As I watched in horrified fascination, one of the vines twitched, seeming to pulse with life.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the mist—cloaked in shadows, silent, yet undeniably beckoning me forward. I fled, heart racing, desperate to escape. But the next morning, a note was waiting on my doorstep: ”Return tonight.”

Against sense, I returned. The gate creaked an eerie welcome. The plants seemed to whisper, their movements hypnotic. Too late, I realized I’d walked into a trap. The garden claimed me, consumed me.

Now, I wander the estate, a shadow among shadows, doomed to forever beckon the next soul who dares visit.

(Drabble–a short work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length. Written by @UniversalMonk)

Whispers of the Dark Mormons

The man leaned over his keyboard, staring at his flickering monitor as he whispered the Prayer of Eternal Passage he found in Lemmy’s Dark Mormon community.

The words felt wrong, like nails scratching inside his head, but curiosity won out.

As he finished the spell, the air around him chilled, and the smell of burnt roses filled the room. Shadows stretched horrifically, and with a loud crack, Greg vanished.

All that remained were his clothes, a spiral of ash, and burnt rose petals scattered across the floor. The last echo of his voice hung in the air: “I am beyond.”

END

(Drabble–a short work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length. Written by @UniversalMonk)

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