Prophet of the Venus Maw
Prophet of the Venus Maw
written by @UniversalMonk
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 important interests, bigger ideas, things the small minds of Lemmy clearly weren’t ready for. His thoughts drifted back to his love of plants. That was where his mind could roam free, where he didn’t need anyone’s approval or validation. Let them bicker over nonsense online; they’d never understand the brilliance of what he was working on.
With a shrug, he pushed the thought of Lemmy out of his mind. He was done wasting time there. There were far more interesting things waiting for him in the woods, where the plants didn’t care what anyone thought.
He preferred the solitude. There was a peace in the way the trees swayed and whispered to each other, like ancient sentinels sharing secrets that only the forest knew. The rustle of the leaves, the creak of old branches—it was a symphony that made him feel more at home than any city or crowded town ever could.
Cities were too loud, too full of people and their endless chatter. Here, he could lose himself in the dense undergrowth, studying the plants and animals that thrived in the shadows, marveling at the occasional strange phenomena the forest had to offer.
John had taken early retirement for this. For the stillness, the quiet, the endless green. He’d traded the humdrum grind of office life for this decrepit old cabin deep in the woods. The pension wasn’t as padded as it could’ve been if he’d stuck it out another five years, but he didn’t care. He’d lived a sparse, debt-free life, knowing this was where he belonged. Surrounded by nature, the wild beauty of it all, he didn’t need much.
He ran a muscular arm through his short, graying hair, the lines of his tanned skin catching the morning light. He’d spent decades behind a desk, but now his body was stronger, leaner from days spent hiking through the woods. Today was no different. He was itching to get out, to explore, to see what the forest had in store for him.
But among all the things that fascinated him, it was carnivorous plants that truly captured his imagination. The quiet menace of these green hunters, lying in wait for their prey, had become his obsession. The way they lured insects with sweet nectar, then snapped shut—swift, efficient, deadly. John could watch them for hours, utterly entranced.
John set off, his boots crunching against the leaf-strewn path as he made his way toward the south side of the woods. This part of the forest was thicker, darker—untouched. The trees here stood taller, their branches intertwined like skeletal arms. Each step felt like breaking through layers of forgotten earth, the thicket pressing against him, thick with secrets. His pulse quickened. He loved this feeling, the thrill of the unknown.
Suddenly, something strange flickered in the corner of his eye. He stopped. Just ahead, half-hidden beneath a tangled curtain of vines and moss, was a Venus flytrap. But not just any flytrap. No, this one was monstrous. It towered over the others he'd studied, easily three times larger, its leaves a deep, sickly green, so vibrant they seemed to hum with life. It almost glowed in the shadowy underbrush, as if it didn’t belong here, as if it had come from somewhere else.
The teeth along the edges of its leaves—no, not teeth—fangs. Thick, serrated, and sharp enough to tear through flesh. They curved inward, waiting, hungry. The plant looked like it was ready to consume anything unfortunate enough to wander too close.
John’s breath hitched. His chest tightened with a strange mixture of awe and fear. He dropped to one knee, eyes wide, heart pounding in his chest. Slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, he knelt closer. The air around the plant felt different. Heavy. Alive. He could almost hear it breathing, each leaf twitching slightly as though it sensed his presence. The grotesque beauty of it was overwhelming, captivating.
He spent the entire afternoon crouched beside it, his fingers trembling as he scribbled frantic notes into his worn, leather-bound journal. Each detail more incredible than the last. This flytrap was different—ancient, powerful. It wasn’t just a plant. No, this was something more. Something that had been waiting, watching, growing. And it had chosen to reveal itself to him.
As dusk crept in, the forest shifted around him. Shadows stretched long and thin, creeping across the ground like fingers reaching for something just out of sight. John stood up slowly, his muscles stiff from hours of crouching beside the flytrap. He stretched, feeling the satisfying crack of his spine.
But then, a faint rustling caught his ear, soft but unmistakable, like something shifting in the brush.
He froze, eyes narrowing as he glanced down at the plant. His heart gave a small jolt. The flytrap—was it facing him? He was certain that when he had knelt earlier, the plant's leaves were angled in another direction, away from him. But now... now it seemed to have turned. Its massive, fang-like teeth were pointed directly at him, as if it had shifted, watching him. The dark, fleshy leaves twitched ever so slightly in the waning light, a movement that felt unnervingly deliberate.
Was it like that before? John’s pulse quickened. He took a step back, unsure. He blinked, shaking his head, trying to shake off the creeping unease crawling up his spine. Plants didn’t move like that—not without a reason.
It was the wind, surely. Or maybe he’d just been sitting so long, his mind was playing tricks on him. Still, he felt the weight of the plant’s gaze—if that’s what you could call it—bearing down on him. It was as though it had been observing him the entire time, and now, it had decided to show a little more of its true nature.
John swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He didn’t want to leave. Every fiber of his being told him to stay, to continue watching, studying. But it was getting late. Reluctantly, he backed away, never taking his eyes off the plant.
“I’ll be back,” he muttered under his breath, his words more a promise than a plan. He knew he couldn’t leave this discovery alone. No, he needed to understand this thing—this creature—no, this being. It wasn’t just a plant anymore. It had revealed something deeper to him, something ancient and unknown, and he couldn’t stop now.
As he turned and made his way back through the thickening shadows of the forest, he found himself replaying the moment over and over in his mind. The plant had moved. He was sure of it.
Marking the spot in his memory, John swore he would return tomorrow—and every day after that if he had to.
Over the next several days, John found himself drawn back to the plant, unable to stay away. He spent hours sitting beside it, sketching its jagged leaves, observing the way it moved ever so slightly, as if sensing his presence. It was more alive than any plant he’d ever studied. And soon, John’s fascination turned into something deeper.
He began to bring the flytrap offerings—at first, small insects, which it devoured eagerly. The snap of its leaves closing around a fly or beetle thrilled him in a way he couldn’t explain. It was as if the plant was communicating with him, showing its appreciation. He even started talking to it, telling it about his day, his thoughts, and the solitude of his life.
“I know you’re more than just a plant,” he whispered one evening as he watched the flytrap digest a beetle. “You’re something special, aren’t you?”
The plant seemed to respond, its leaves shifting ever so slightly, like it was acknowledging him. John smiled, feeling an odd connection, like he had found a kindred spirit in this silent predator.
One day, as John sat in his usual spot beside the flytrap, the forest seemed to hold its breath. The air was thick, charged with an almost unnatural stillness, when a rabbit emerged from the undergrowth. Its soft brown fur shimmered under the dappled sunlight, each hair catching the light in a way that made the creature almost glow against the dark green backdrop of the woods. Its delicate ears twitched, constantly alert, swiveling at the slightest rustle. Its large black eyes—round and innocent—scanned its surroundings, always searching for danger but never suspecting what lay right beside John.
The flytrap seemed to awaken. There was no mistaking it this time. The plant’s massive leaves quivered, not from the breeze, but from something deeper, almost instinctual.
Slowly, they began to shift, the jagged edges of its fanged leaves curling ever so slightly inward, like a predator preparing to strike. John’s breath caught in his throat. The plant was moving with intent, and it was watching the rabbit.
The rabbit, oblivious to the danger lurking nearby, bent its head, nibbling at a patch of grass. It took a small hop closer to the plant, its twitching nose brushing the air. John felt his pulse quicken as he watched, frozen in morbid fascination. The Venus flytrap's leaves stretched outward, slow, deliberate—like a snake uncoiling.
It wasn’t just reaching for the rabbit. It almost seemed to be hunting.
Before John could react, the Venus flytrap snapped shut around the rabbit’s hind legs, trapping it in its powerful grasp. The rabbit thrashed wildly, kicking and wriggling, but the plant held firm, its jagged leaves squeezing tighter. John watched in horrified awe as the rabbit’s struggles grew weaker and weaker until it finally lay still.
He should have been disgusted. He should have intervened, saved the poor creature from its grisly fate. But instead, he felt something else—admiration. The flytrap’s efficiency, its unrelenting hunger for survival, mesmerized him.
It wasn’t just a plant anymore. It was a force. A living, breathing thing that thrived on the cycle of life and death, and John had played a part in that.
From that moment on, John’s visits became ritualistic. He brought the plant larger offerings—birds, squirrels, and eventually even deer.
The plant grew larger with each meal, its leaves thickening, its reach expanding. And with each visit, John became more and more convinced that the Venus flytrap was sentient. It wasn’t just surviving—it was evolving, becoming something more powerful, more dangerous.
Weeks passed, and John’s obsession with the plant deepened. His once-careful observations turned into long, rambling conversations with the flytrap, his voice low and reverent as he knelt before it. He could swear he heard it whispering back, a soft rustling of its leaves that seemed to form words just out of reach.
“You understand me, don’t you?” he said one night, his voice hoarse from hours of talking. “You’re not just a plant. You’re alive. You’ve always been alive. The whole reason me and Carrie broke up was that she didn’t understand me. Funny isn’t it? You, a plant, understand me more than my last girlfriend!”
The plant’s leaves twitched, and John smiled. It was listening.
But as his connection to the plant grew, so did the rumors in the nearby town. People had started noticing the strange behavior of the animals in the forest. Hunters reported finding carcasses—animals that had been drained of life, their bodies left to rot in the underbrush. Some claimed they had seen John wandering the woods at odd hours, his eyes wild, muttering to himself.
The local authorities were starting to take notice. They had heard the stories about John, how he’d become obsessed with some monstrous plant deep in the woods. Some thought he was crazy. Others thought he was dangerous.
The flytrap had become a monster now, its massive leaves stretching out like thick, curling tendrils, nearly wrapping around the entire clearing. The once small space now felt suffocated by the plant’s sprawling presence.
Its serrated, fanged edges gleamed in the faint light, giving the impression that it could devour anything that dared come too close. John stood in awe, marveling at its size, its raw power.
But a dark shadow had begun to creep into his thoughts, an unsettling feeling stirring deep inside his mind.
Before he had discovered this plant, he’d overheard strange tales whispered in hushed voices at the town’s old tavern. They were stories meant to be laughed off, but there had always been an edge of truth in the eyes of the storytellers—a flicker of unease.
They spoke of this southern stretch of the forest, where the trees grew darker, thicker. The locals called it cursed, a place where rituals once took place, performed by an old sect known as the Dark Mormons. Sacrifices had been made in those woods, they said—terrible sacrifices to dark forces that slumbered beneath the earth, forces that predated even man himself.
John hadn’t believed it then, not really. They were just tales, meant to scare off drunken listeners. But now, sitting here, surrounded by this unnatural, towering plant, the stories came flooding back to him with a cold clarity.
One tale in particular gnawed at his mind—Jebediah Lecent, a devout follower of the Dark Mormons, had lost his grip on sanity over 120 years ago. The man had slaughtered his entire family in the dead of night, then, in a fit of frenzied devotion, hacked off his own feet with an ax.
He believed the blood he spilled would fertilize his garden, making it grow so he could donate the bounty to the dark cause. A garden to bring forth their prophet, born not of flesh, but from the earth itself—deep, deep beneath the soil. Something ancient, slumbering, and hungry.
At the time, John had scoffed at such stories, brushing them aside as backwoods superstition. But now, as he gazed at the grotesque majesty of the flytrap, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the plant was somehow tied to those old, twisted legends.
It had grown far too fast, its roots spreading too deeply, its tendrils too knowing. The way it seemed to recognize him, the way it responded to him as if it knew his very thoughts—no, this wasn’t just a freak of nature. It was something ancient, something alive in a way plants shouldn’t be. And it was using him.
A chill ran down John’s spine. The plant wasn’t just growing. It was awakening. An ancient force, long dormant, was stirring—and the flytrap was its vessel.
But John didn’t care. The plant had consumed his every thought, his every desire. It was his world now, and he was bound to it—body, mind, and soul.
One night, as John crouched beside the flytrap, his mind thick with days of isolation and the fog of obsession, a sound pierced through the usual rustling of the leaves. It wasn't the familiar whisper of nature. No, this was different—sharper, more distinct.
More.
John's breath caught in his throat. He blinked, his pulse quickening. Had he imagined it?
More, the voice repeated, this time louder, commanding.
His heart hammered in his chest as he glanced around, but the forest remained deathly still. The only sound was the faint groan of branches shifting in the wind. Yet, the voice... it was unmistakable. And it wasn’t just in his mind. It was coming from the plant!
John stumbled to his feet, his legs shaking. The words echoed in his head, compelling him, pulling him closer. He had to feed it. He didn’t know why, but he knew with certainty—the plant needed him. It wanted more.
He wandered through the woods in a daze, his mind fogged, consumed by a single purpose—he needed to find something, anything to offer the flytrap. His eyes darted through the tangled trees, desperate, frantic, as his breath came in shallow gasps. He felt the plant’s hunger gnawing at him, an unrelenting pull.
And then he saw it—a deer, limping through a patch of moonlit undergrowth. It was wounded, its back legs dragging awkwardly behind it, twisted and useless, like it had been hit by a car or mauled by something larger. The animal grazed quietly, unaware of John’s presence. Its weakness made it the perfect offering.
John’s heart raced as he crept closer, eyes locked on his helpless prey.
John moved quickly, his movements mechanical, as if he were no longer in control. He stalked the deer, his breath shallow, his heart pounding. When he finally reached it, he grabbed the animal by the throat, dragging it toward the clearing where the plant waited, hungry, eager.
The plant's massive leaves snapped open, wider than he'd ever seen, a gaping maw lined with jagged teeth, glistening in the dim light. John shoved the deer forward, his heart pounding as he watched the flytrap’s fangs close around the animal’s body with a sickening crunch. The sound of bones snapping echoed through the clearing. The plant squeezed, crushed, its hunger undeniable.
But something was different this time. The leaves didn’t just stop at the deer. They twitched, then began to reach further. They were reaching for him.
Before he could react, thick tendrils snaked out from the base of the plant, coiling around his ankles like vines with minds of their own. John’s eyes widened in horror as they yanked him toward the flytrap’s gaping maw. He struggled, adrenaline flooding his veins, but it was useless. The plant’s grip tightened, dragging him closer, pulling him into its grasp.
For the first time, John understood. The plant hadn’t just wanted his offerings. It wanted him.
“Unbeliever,” the voice whispered again, cold and distant. “Come to me. Fulfill your destiny. Hail, the return of the Prophet Smith!”
John screamed, thrashing against the plant’s hold, but it was no use. The flytrap’s tendrils were like iron, pulling him closer and closer to its waiting jaws.
When the authorities finally arrived at John’s cabin, they found the place in disarray. Books and notes were scattered across the floor, journals filled with frenzied scribblings about the plant. But there was no sign of John.
The townspeople whispered of the Venus flytrap, of the monstrous plant that had consumed him. But no one dared to enter the forest, not after what had happened.
The clearing where the flytrap had grown remained untouched, its leaves still and silent. But some nights, when the wind was just right, those who wandered too close to the edge of the woods claimed they could hear a voice.
A soft, whispering voice.
“Bring more. The prophet will return upon waves of blood.”
The plant’s hunger was never-ending. And its patience was eternal.
THE END