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
“Step into Zarahemla, where one man’s quest for fame goes from ‘Lemmy’ to ‘lemme out!’”