UniversalMonk

cross-posted from: https://lemmy.dbzer0.com/post/49071021

Grass (written by Universal Monk)

The field of grass shimmered in the moonlight, each blade catching silver as it moved with waves of slow, restless grace.

From the soil where he’d buried her, she rose, her dirt-caked fingers pointing straight at him, her hollow eyes promising revenge.

END

cross-posted from: https://lemmy.dbzer0.com/post/49213641

I gotta say, it hit me way harder than I expected. One of the more inspiring books that I've read.

I first read it as an assignment when I was a student in Lincoln University which is a historically black college in a very rural area. I'm biracial, and knowing that Booker was too, made it a little more personal to me. When I was young, I sorta took everything too personal, so re-reading this book as an adult has been interesting.

On the surface, some people paint him as someone who was too accommodating to white people in power at the time, too willing to work within the system. But honestly? I think there was something pretty radical in what he was doing.

He wasn’t trying to blow the system up. He was trying to outsmart it; which is my favorite way fo doing things. He was teaching Black Americans how to survive it, how to thrive despite it, and how to build something of their own.

The big thing was his emphasis on vocational training and economic self-reliance. A lot of people don't view it as a socialist text, but I think there’s a strong case to be made that it was actually kinda socialist in spirit.

Not in a theoretical, Marx-reading way, but in the real, ground-up, community-empowering way.

He believed in lifting people up by teaching them skills, organizing schools like Tuskegee to be self-sustaining, and creating networks of support that didn’t rely on charity or pity.

That’s a collective spirit. That’s building infrastructure from below. And to me, that feels closer to socialist principles than it does to capitalist bootstrapping myths. Tho some charge Booker with being capitalist, I just don't see it.

Yeah, he had to play nice with powerful white people. I don’t think it was all because he loved doing it, though he did have some genuine friendships and respect with them. I think it was a lot of strategy.

Booker knew that full equality wasn’t going to happen overnight, and that if black folks waited for white America to hand it over, they’d be waiting forever. So he focused on building real independence. The kind where you don't have to ask anymore, because you've already made your own way.

And the man walked to college. Like literally. Crossed multiple states on foot just for the chance to learn! I bitch when I have to drive across town for something.

Sure, in a truly socialist society he shouldn’t have had to do that at all, but he worked with the world he had. And that grit and that drive made this a really great book for me. I'm trying to shop around and find one of the first editions of it to buy for my collection.

It's a free e-book on Gutenberg: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2376

I gotta say, it hit me way harder than I expected. One of the more inspiring books that I've read.

I first read it as an assignment when I was a student in Lincoln University which is a historically black college in a very rural area. I'm biracial, and knowing that Booker was too, made it a little more personal to me. When I was young, I sorta took everything too personal, so re-reading this book as an adult has been interesting.

On the surface, some people paint him as someone who was too accommodating to white people in power at the time, too willing to work within the system. But honestly? I think there was something pretty radical in what he was doing.

He wasn’t trying to blow the system up. He was trying to outsmart it; which is my favorite way fo doing things. He was teaching Black Americans how to survive it, how to thrive despite it, and how to build something of their own.

The big thing was his emphasis on vocational training and economic self-reliance. A lot of people don't view it as a socialist text, but I think there’s a strong case to be made that it was actually kinda socialist in spirit.

Not in a theoretical, Marx-reading way, but in the real, ground-up, community-empowering way.

He believed in lifting people up by teaching them skills, organizing schools like Tuskegee to be self-sustaining, and creating networks of support that didn’t rely on charity or pity.

That’s a collective spirit. That’s building infrastructure from below. And to me, that feels closer to socialist principles than it does to capitalist bootstrapping myths. Tho some charge Booker with being capitalist, I just don't see it.

Yeah, he had to play nice with powerful white people. I don’t think it was all because he loved doing it, though he did have some genuine friendships and respect with them. I think it was a lot of strategy.

Booker knew that full equality wasn’t going to happen overnight, and that if black folks waited for white America to hand it over, they’d be waiting forever. So he focused on building real independence. The kind where you don't have to ask anymore, because you've already made your own way.

And the man walked to college. Like literally. Crossed multiple states on foot just for the chance to learn! I bitch when I have to drive across town for something.

Sure, in a truly socialist society he shouldn’t have had to do that at all, but he worked with the world he had. And that grit and that drive made this a really great book for me. I'm trying to shop around and find one of the first editions of it to buy for my collection.

It's a free e-book on Gutenberg: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2376

So I started a piefed account, mostly for my writing so that dbzer0 (and Lemmy) wouldn’t have to put up with all my weird fiction stories all the time. Plus, I wanted to check out the biggest Piefed space, piefed.social, because I'm excited about some of the new concepts they are bringing to the table.

I created a writing community, a Socialist community, and a Green Party community there today.

Nothing outrageous or controversial. I posted one news article in each of the Socialist and Green Party communities, and a couple to my writing comm.

The Socialist and Writing communities were local only, so they wouldn’t even show up in the larger Fediverse. I only posted in my own communities. No controversy intended, none created.

I just got banned, almost immediately after starting the communities. The reason in the mod log says: "Universal Monk".

The admin, @[email protected], hasn't replied to my DM asking why (yet). I guess being me is reason enough. I feel so famous! Or maybe infamous?

I'm still a libertarian socialist tho! Piefed.social and Lemmy ain't gonna change my mind.

Oh, I already know how the votes (down) here are gonna go! But doing my part in adding content to Lemmy anyway; being the change I wanna see. No regrets! :)

EDIT: I'm posting this here, and I've repeated it in this thread. Just in case piefed.social banned me on the assumption that I’m “conservative” because I’ve posted links to conservative news articles… then, by that same logic, shouldn’t I also be considered socialist and anarchist because I post so much socialist and anarchist content? I actually post way more socialist content than anything else. And there is nothing in my fiction writing that is conservative at all. My entire post history is public, it doesn't take much effort to see that I post practically anything I find interesting.

I haven't had any Nicole spam in a while. Did Lemmy finally take care of it or did the stalker guy finally give up? Any more info or news about this?

Grass (written by Universal Monk)

The field of grass shimmered in the moonlight, each blade catching silver as it moved with waves of slow, restless grace.

From the soil where he’d buried her, she rose, her dirt-caked fingers pointing straight at him, her hollow eyes promising revenge.

END

The Lady of Endless White (written by Universal Monk)

Part 1

Dr. Henry Caldwell leaned back in his chair, the sunlight from the window streaking across his table. London hummed faintly outside, the muted cacophony of hooves on cobblestones and distant street vendors hawking their wares. For a man of his stature, life had fallen into a rhythm: polite society in the mornings, consultations in the afternoons, and evenings steeped in quiet solitude.

But that rhythm had been disrupted. A letter had arrived three days prior, delivered by an impeccably dressed servant.

Its elegant script bore the name Marquis Laurent d'Etoile, requesting Caldwell’s immediate assistance. The Marquis described a delicate matter involving his niece and insisted on Caldwell visiting in person at the Marquis’s estate just outside Kensington. Though cryptic, the letter’s urgency attended to Caldwell’s curiosity enough to accept.

Now, he found himself in a modest inn near the estate, a quiet refuge from the dust of the road. He had chosen to stop here before making his way to the enigmatic mansion, both to gather his thoughts and learn what he could about the place from the locals.

It wasn’t the house itself that lingered in his mind—it was what he couldn’t see. On his journey, Caldwell had passed the mansion, hidden behind towering white walls that gave nothing away. No chimneys. No black gates. No garden spilled over its edges. Just an unbroken expanse of white, glaring under the midday sun.

He sipped his watered wine, staring across the street at the stark white barrier that separated the mansion from the rest of the world. The innkeeper, an older man with a sour expression, had humored his earlier questions about the house with a mix of boredom and superstition.

“Been like that for a year now,” the man said, polishing a glass. “All white, inside and out. Servants, horses, carriages—every last thing painted like it’s snowing every single day.”

“And the occupants?” Caldwell pressed. “What do you know of them?”

“Foreigners,” the innkeeper grunted. “Rich ones. Their money comes from some kind of newspaper network or bulletin system they run, called ‘Lemmy’ or something like that.” He shook his head, his tone thick with disdain. “They keep to themselves, mostly. Except for that one fellow who goes to town. Always changes into black, like the devil himself, before stepping outside. Folks around here call them the white mad folk. Not that they’ve ever set foot in here.”

“I think I’ve heard of that,” Caldwell replied. “Some sort of news system, meant to be more independent. A good idea, but if you ask me, it’ll probably just end up as one of those echo chambers that all newspapers become. I once wrote a letter to a newspaper in—”

Caldwell’s words were cut short by the sudden clatter of hooves outside. He turned toward the window, setting his glass aside. Across the street, a plain white carriage came to a halt at a narrow gate in the wall.

A man emerged, tall and pale, dressed entirely in white. Even the gloves on his hands gleamed unnaturally clean. The transformation was swift and deliberate. A servant, similarly dressed in white, handed the man a black overcoat, hat, and shoes. The white garments vanished beneath the dark layers, leaving a figure that now looked somber, almost funereal.

The man stepped into the carriage, and as it rattled away, the gate closed behind him with a soft click.

Caldwell sat motionless, his mind racing. This must be the Marquis himself, he realized. What sort of household operated in such a manner? His thoughts were interrupted when the innkeeper returned with another muttered observation.

“That one—always him,” the innkeeper said, jerking his head toward the departing carriage. “The white mad folk send no one else out. Suppose they think he’s the only one who can blend in with the rest of us.”

Caldwell nodded absently, his curiosity deepening. He resolved to learn more, though he knew the answers would come soon enough.

By the time he reached the estate, the air had turned cool, and the afternoon sunlight cast long shadows across the white walls. A servant greeted him at the gate, dressed entirely in white, and led him through a blindingly pristine courtyard.

The Marquis Laurent d'Etoile entered the receiving room with measured steps, his dark eyes weary yet alert. His presence commanded attention, though his face carried the heaviness of long-kept secrets.

“Dr. Caldwell,” the Marquis began, his French accent refined but faint. “Your reputation precedes you. I trust the journey was not too burdensome?”

Caldwell inclined his head. “Not at all, though your estate has certainly intrigued me. I must admit, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

The Marquis’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “It is unique, yes, but that is not the purpose of your visit. I have come to request your assistance in a matter both delicate and urgent.”

Caldwell gestured for him to sit. “How can I help, Marquis?”

The Marquis hesitated, then sighed. “It concerns my niece, Lady Colette d'Etoile. She is unwell. Her condition is unlike anything I have read about, and I require discretion as much as expertise.”

“What can you tell me of her symptoms?” Caldwell asked, leaning forward.

“She is sensitive to color,” the Marquis said, his voice low. “Particularly red. It incites a madness in her that I dare not describe here. To protect her, I have ensured her environment remains pure and untainted.”

Caldwell raised an eyebrow. He leaned back. “You mean the white house?”

The Marquis nodded. “Yes. Everything she sees must be white. Even the sight of a servant’s shadowed sleeve might provoke... episodes.”

“And you want me to examine her?”

“Precisely. I believe you can help. But I must warn you—her condition requires the utmost care. Any misstep could be disastrous.”

Caldwell studied the man. There was desperation in his tone. “I’ll do what I can,” he said finally. “When shall we begin?”

The Marquis stood, his movements as precise as his words. “Tomorrow. I will send my carriage for you again. And, Doctor—bring nothing with you that is not white. Every detail matters. Even your hair must be hidden beneath a white covering to ensure not a single strand peeks out. I understand how unusual this all sounds, but it is imperative. Only white.”

Part 2

Dr. Caldwell adjusted the crisp white suit the Marquis had insisted he wear. The outfit felt unnatural, the fabric too pristine, as if any speck of dust might unravel its perfection. He stood in the mansion’s grand vestibule, surrounded by a suffocating brightness. Every surface, from the walls to the marble statues, glared back at him in stark, unbroken white. Even the air felt sterile.

“Follow me,” said the Marquis, his voice hushed but firm. He led Caldwell up a wide staircase, its steps muffled by thick white carpeting, the balustrades painted to match. Each step echoed in Caldwell’s chest, an unnatural rhythm that heightened his unease.

At the door to Colette’s chamber, the Marquis paused. “She may seem lucid,” he warned, his dark eyes locking onto Caldwell’s. “But don’t let her charm fool you. Beneath it lies a darkness neither of us can fully comprehend. A darkness like no other, I assure you.”

Without waiting for Caldwell’s response, the Marquis pushed open the door.

The room was enormous, a cathedral of cold light that pressed against the senses. White curtains, heavy and lifeless, filtered the sunlight into a ghostly glow, bathing everything in an eerie luminescence. The furniture gleamed like freshly fallen snow, pristine yet unnervingly sterile.

The air hung thick with a strange, clashing scent—like the comforting musk of old books buried under layers of sharp, medicinal soap. The contrast clawed at Caldwell’s mind, as though the room was desperately trying to scrub away its own history. Yet none of it mattered when Caldwell saw her.

Lady Colette d'Etoile sat near the window, her hair cascading over her shoulders like a river of pale white silk. It shimmered faintly in the muted light, so devoid of color that it seemed almost translucent, as if the life had been drained from each strand. Her features were delicate, almost fragile, like porcelain that might shatter under the weight of a single touch.

Yet her dark eyes, in stark contrast, held a quiet defiance that defied her ethereal appearance. She turned her gaze toward Caldwell, studying him with a mixture of curiosity and weariness, as if she had seen far too much of the world yet wished to see even more.

“Dr. Caldwell,” she said, her voice soft and lilting. “You’ve come to see the Marquis’s horrible prisoner, I assume?”

Caldwell hesitated, taken aback. “I’ve come to see you. Your uncle is concerned about your health. And from what he has mentioned to me, I am concerned as well.”

Colette laughed—a sad, brittle sound. “My health? Or his pride? He’d rather call me mad than admit the truth.”

“And what truth is that?” Caldwell asked, stepping closer.

“That he is the mad one,” she said simply. “Look around you. This prison of white isn’t for me. It’s for him. He cannot bear the sight of color, the world’s vibrancy. He suffocates me here to justify his own delusions.”

Her words unsettled Caldwell. There was no tremor in her voice, no hint of instability. She seemed entirely sane, even serene, despite her unnatural surroundings.

He seated himself across from her, watching as her hands rested lightly on her lap. “Your uncle says the color red affects you. That it incites uncontrollable... reactions.”

Her smile faded. “He’s been saying that for years, hasn’t he? It’s easier for him to paint me as a monster than confront his own fears. Do I seem mad to you? Do I seem so horrible? You have kind eyes, I know you’ll find the truth.”

Caldwell studied her carefully, searching for any flicker of madness in her expression. There was none, only a quiet sorrow that seemed to cling to her like a veil. He hesitated, unsure whether to believe her calm demeanor or the Marquis’s dire warnings. Rising slowly, he gave her a final glance before stepping out of the room, his mind swirling with unanswered questions.

The white corridors felt colder as he made his way to the study, where the Marquis waited. The man was already pacing when Caldwell entered, his movements sharp and restless. “You’ve been speaking with her,” the Marquis said abruptly, his voice tight with agitation. His usual composure was unraveling, the cracks beginning to show. “Did she claim I’m the one who’s mad?”

“She did,” Caldwell admitted, meeting the man’s glare. “But I must say, Marquis, there’s nothing about her demeanor that suggests madness.”

The Marquis stopped abruptly, his face pale. “You didn’t see her that night, Doctor. The blood. The screams. It was not the girl you spoke to—it was something else entirely. Something driven by an unnatural hunger.”

“What precisely happened?” Caldwell pressed. “I will need more information before I can help.”

“She was only a child,” the Marquis murmured, staring at his hands as though they still bore the stains of some terrible memory. “A servant cut himself in her presence—a small wound. But when she saw the blood... she changed. Her eyes, her strength. It was as though she became a beast. Red seems to drive her insane.”

He shuddered, his voice faltering. His eyes grew slightly watery, and he blinked rapidly, as if trying to hold back the weight of the memory. “A most horrible thing. Horrible.”

Caldwell frowned. “But you’ve kept her isolated ever since. How do you know such an event would occur again? You might be prolonging her suffering for no reason. I must protest that I’ve never heard of anyone having such an allergy to the color red before.”

The Marquis’s eyes flashed with anger. “Do you think I would subject her to that again, Doctor? I swore to protect her from herself—and protect others from her.”

Caldwell nodded, but doubt crept into his mind. The Marquis’s conviction bordered on fanaticism. Was he exaggerating, or had his fear become a delusion? Only one way remained to uncover the truth.

Part 3

The bouquet of red flowers lay hidden in Caldwell’s bag as he prepared for his next visit.

The Marquis’s warnings echoed in his mind, but he pushed them aside. He couldn’t let superstition cloud his judgment. If Colette’s so-called madness was real, it would manifest. If not, it would confirm his suspicions about the Marquis.

When he entered the white mansion once more, his heart pounded against his ribs.

The bouquet trembled slightly in Caldwell’s hand as he stood outside Colette’s room. Beneath the white paper wrapping, the vibrant red petals burned like embers in the sterile light of the mansion.

He opened the door.

Colette sat by the window, her pale hair glowing faintly in the muted daylight. She turned to him, her face softening when she saw him. “Dr. Caldwell,” she greeted, her voice as calm as ever. “Back to tend to the Marquis’s ‘madwoman’? How lovely that I haven’t scared you off.”

Caldwell managed a thin smile and closed the door behind him. He took a few measured steps toward her, the weight of the bouquet growing heavier with each step.

“Not at all,” he said, unwrapping the flowers. “I’ve even brought you something.”

As the crinkled paper unfurled, the flowers emerged in a burst of crimson, their fiery petals a shocking contrast to the sterile white that dominated the room. The vibrant color seemed to bleed into the space, defying the oppressive monotony of its surroundings.

Colette’s gaze locked onto the bouquet, her dark eyes widening, the faint glimmer of surprise flickering across her delicate features. She didn’t move, her stillness unnerving, as though she were a marble statue suddenly confronted by something alive and untamed. The room itself seemed to hold its breath, the vivid red casting a surreal, almost forbidden energy into the air.

Her breath quickened, shallow and uneven, like the first gusts of an oncoming storm. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair with such ferocity that her knuckles blanched, the delicate skin stretched tight over bone. “What... is this?” she whispered, her voice trembling, barely more than a hiss.

Her tongue flicked out, wetting her lips again and again in a strange, compulsive rhythm, and then she smiled—an unnerving, brittle curve of her mouth that didn’t reach her eyes. Her gaze darted between the flowers and Caldwell’s face, sharp and rapid, her pupils dilating like an animal scenting prey. There was something wild in her movements now, her head tilting slightly as if she were sizing him up, her smile growing as the tension in the room thickened like a palpable fog.

“It’s just a bouquet,” Caldwell said softly, though his heartbeat thundered in his ears. “No need to get yourself too worked up. I wanted to prove—”

The rest of his words evaporated as Colette’s entire demeanor shifted into something grotesque and primal. Her face contorted unnaturally, her delicate features twisting into a mask of rage and hunger. Her pupils dilated until her eyes were nearly black, and a guttural growl, low and feral, reverberated from deep within her chest.

Her body jerked violently, and her movements grew erratic—sharp, animalistic.

Then she screamed, a piercing, guttural cry that shattered the silence. The words were incomprehensible, some ancient language that clawed at the air like curses ripped from the pages of forbidden texts.

Her head snapped toward Caldwell, her lips curling back to reveal gleaming teeth as she shrieked in a voice both chilling and otherworldly, “I’ll consume all of you and send you right to hell!”

Before he could react, she lunged at him, her movements faster than anything human. Her hands struck his chest with the force of a predator taking down prey, slamming him hard to the cold, white floor

Her fingers clawed at his face, sharp and unrelenting, leaving trails of fire where her nails raked his skin. Her head jerked back, and her mouth opened unnaturally wide before she sank her teeth into her own tongue, biting down so hard that a torrent of red spilled from her mouth. The blood dripped down her chin, staining the whiteness of her dress in vivid, horrifying streaks.

Colette’s eyes burned with a terrifying intensity as she lowered her face to Caldwell’s neck. Her teeth found flesh, tearing with a brutal ferocity. Pain exploded through Caldwell’s body, a searing agony that sent him thrashing beneath her.

Her growls deepened, mingling with his muffled cries as she pinned him with a strength that defied her slender frame. It was as though she had become something not of this world, a creature of pure instinct and hunger.

He struggled, but she was relentless. Her once-delicate features were contorted into something grotesque and feral, her mouth smeared with his blood. The white room seemed to blur around him as darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

Through the haze of pain, Caldwell heard the door burst open. Voices shouted, hands pulled Colette away, and the Marquis’s anguished cries filled the air. Then everything faded.

Caldwell woke to the faint scent of antiseptic and the soft murmur of voices. He was in a bed, his body weak and aching. A sharp pain throbbed at his neck, and his fingers brushed against a bandage.

The Marquis sat beside him, his face pale and drawn. “You’re awake,” he said quietly.

“What... happened?” Caldwell’s voice was hoarse.

The Marquis sighed, his hands trembling as they rested on his lap. “You saw it for yourself. The curse she bears.”

Caldwell’s mind raced with fragments of memory—the flowers, the attack, the blood. “I have no explanation.” he said. “Nothing I’ve encountered comes close to this.”

“I’m not sure exactly how it happened,” the Marquis began, his voice laden with weariness and regret. “But she was reading some cursed book—the one based on the so-called ‘Golden Bible’ those Mormons are passing around these days. Damn these new religions. I miss the old days, when faith didn’t dabble in such dark absurdities.”

He paused, shaking his head. “She met with them in secret. They gave her some strange vial to drink, said it would unlock hidden knowledge in the text. After that, she claimed she could read the ‘passages between the passages’ in the book—words she said were meant only for the chosen. Nonsense, of course. But soon after, she changed. The sight of red now... it stirs something deep and uncontrollable in her. Something primal. It’s as if she becomes... less than human.”

Caldwell leaned forward, his expression hardening. “This has happened before?”

The Marquis nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to his hands. “Her younger sister,” he said, his voice cracking under the weight of the memory. “Colette was just eighteen when we found her. Her sister’s throat had been torn open, blood everywhere. Colette was on the floor... feeding.” He drew in a shaky breath, his eyes distant. “We’ve kept her confined ever since. I had hoped you might provide answers, Doctor. Something—anything—that could bring her back to normality.”

“I’ll need to do some research,” Caldwell said. “I have colleagues at the university—experts in unusual cases. I could contact them, with your permission, of course.”

“There’s no need for that,” the Marquis replied, his face darkening further. His voice was heavy, each word dropping like a stone. “She’s dead. The servants... they had no choice. If they hadn’t acted, she would have killed you.”

————————

The days blurred into one another as Caldwell recuperated in the quiet solitude of his own home. The soft creak of floorboards and the faint ticking of the clock were his only companions. Yet, no matter how calm his surroundings, the memory of Colette lingered, vivid and unrelenting.

Her feral rage burned in his mind, the echo of her guttural growl, the feel of her teeth tearing into his throat. Just as haunting, though, was the image of her sorrowful smile, the gentle cadence of her voice as she spoke of her confinement.

Caldwell paced the length of his parlor, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight against the night. His hand unconsciously brushed the bandages at his neck, tracing the faint outlines of scars beneath. He still couldn’t reconcile the two sides of Colette—the ethereal, tragic woman and the bloodthirsty creature that had nearly ended him. Which was the real Colette? Or had both been true all along?

The Marquis’s parting words echoed in his thoughts, solemn and final: “Some truths, Doctor, are better left buried. Remember that.”

He turned toward the mirror over the mantle, staring at his reflection. The faint scars caught the dim light, ghostly lines that would remain long after his wounds had healed. He whispered to himself, almost in defiance, “I will.” But even as he said it, he knew the memory of her dark, ravenous eyes and crimson-streaked mouth would haunt him forever.

His steps faltered, and he turned toward the bookshelf on the far wall, a sudden compulsion pulling him forward. His personal library was small but curated with care, each volume a testament to his lifelong thirst for knowledge. His fingers drifted across the spines, pausing on a single, unassuming book—a Book of Mormon, its plain cover unremarkable.

He hesitated, the Marquis’s warning flickering at the edge of his mind. Then, with a deliberate motion, he pulled the book from the shelf and carried it to the desk. The lamp flickered as he sat down, the room’s shadows seeming to shift and gather around him.

Slowly, Caldwell opened the book, its spine creaking faintly, and began to leaf through the pages.

END

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 Machine (written by Universal Monk)

I noticed Caleb Williams looked different. Skinny. Hair turned gray. Grotesque veins grouped up and bulged under his forehead.

“I’ve invented something,” he said. “It activates the primitive nerve centers of my brain. I can see other dimensions that exist and overlap our own!”

Poor Caleb could finally see the things that made dogs bark. Those strange shapes skirting the edge of night. New colors unknown to mankind.

Yeah, he looked different. That’s because he could see different. He could see everything.

He hanged himself on November 16, 1899.

I have just acquired his invention.

Now I want to see.

END