Cryptic Chronicles of the Lemmy Anarchia

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 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