Tales from the Cryptic Lemmy !talesfromthecrypticlemmy@midwest.social

Welcome to this pulp horror writing space, where I’m bringing back the gritty, wild days of pulpy horror and bizarre storytelling!

This is the place for short, sharp stories that grip you with suspense, creep you out, and keep you scrolling down. Please try to keep the word count under 4,000 words.

Whether it’s creatures from the shadows, twisted revenge, or strange, unexplainable horrors, this is your home for bite-sized, fast-paced fiction.

Embrace the weird, the terrifying, and the utterly bizarre—just like the good old days.

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The Lamanite

written by @UniversalMonk

Claire Stembowski had found it: the perfect spot to sit down. She noticed a large, flat boulder just off the path, warmed by the sun and overlooking a breathtaking vista of the park.

Her visit to Garden of the Gods had been nothing short of magical. The towering red rock formations reached for the sky, casting long, intricate shadows as the day waned into early evening. She had spent the past hour running the paths, losing herself in the natural wonder of the place.

With a contented sigh, Claire settled onto the boulder, feeling the ancient energy of the land pulse beneath her. The sun was low, the evening still fresh, and there was a light breeze that caught strands of her black hair and whipped them around in a playful dance.

She reached up, letting her fingers find the single braid in her hair, twirling it absentmindedly as her eyes settled on the stunning red rocks jutting out from the earth, framed by beautiful, ancient trees. Thei

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

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.

(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

The Slithering Curse of Blackroot Forest

written by @UniversalMonk

The cold evening air bit at Emily's skin as she left her friend’s house, pulling her jacket tighter against the chill that seemed to creep up from the darkening streets. It was a clear night, with a full moon illuminating her path.

She had always loved walking home through Blackroot Forest Park—despite the rumors. Disappearances in the woods were a favorite topic in her small town, whispered about in hushed tones by her classmates. Kids had gone missing before, sure, but Emily had always rolled her eyes at the stories.

A kid in her grade had vanished a year ago, one of those quiet types. The town went wild with theories: runaway, kidnapping, something sinister lurking in the trees. Emily had never believed any of it. The woods were just woods, after all—trees, dirt, and a few animals. The rumors? Nothing more than scared people spinning wild tales.

She pulled her jacket tighter, her breath fogging in the cold

Prophet of the Venus Maw

written by @UniversalMonk

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

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 di

The Man Who Hunted Sea Lions on Lemmy

written by @UniversalMonk

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 o