The Man Who Hunted Sea Lions on Lemmy

The Man Who Hunted Sea Lions on Lemmy

written by @UniversalMonk

The cold night wind swept in from the north, sharp and biting, sending ripples across the dark water. Each wave lapped softly against the side of the boat, a rhythmic, almost soothing sound in the otherwise eerie silence.

In the center of the boat, a man sat hunched over, his shoulders tense. His fingers raked through his thinning disheveled hair as he muttered to himself, his voice barely rising above the whispering wind, the words tangled in frustration and something darker.

“I’m gonna do it," he said. "Whatever it takes. I’m gonna get that fucking troll! All he does is fucking sealion and bullshit 24 hours a day. Trying to trick everyone. Calling himself a Socialist Mormon Satanist. Bullshit! It’s obvious he works for Russia. And the fucking mods don’t do anything about it. Fuck that! I’ll do something about it!”

A piercing cry tore through the heavy night, sharp and unnatural, like something dying just out of sight. The man jerked his head up, a cold shiver crawling down his spine. That sound—wild and unearthly—had to be the screech of a swamp bird, hidden somewhere in the blackness, likely nesting on the shadowy island that sat like a ghost in the center of the lake.

This was where SHE lived—the one he’d come to see. The WITCH. He’d heard about her from another Lemmy user, whispered like some dirty secret. He stood there for a moment, hesitation gnawing at him. Was this really the answer? The only way to stop the troll?

That twisted monk troll, who was probably looking up propaganda right now, laughing as he spewed lie after lie. "Oh, I’m just sharing articles I’m interested in," the evil bastard would say. What a load of crap, the man thought. Yeah, he had to go through with this.

The clouds shifted, peeling back just enough for the cold, ghostly light of the moon to spill over the water for the first time that night. The man tightened his grip on the oars, heart pounding, and began to row.

Each stroke bit into the black water, the boat surging forward, cutting a path straight toward the island. The wind whispered around him, the silence broken only by the creak of wood and the splash of oars. After a dozen hard strokes, his arms burned, but he let the boat glide, drifting toward a narrow, shadowy inlet that seemed to swallow the light whole.

The bird's cry pierced the air again, this time closer, its eerie call almost like laughter, mocking his courage. Just like that twisted piece of filth he was determined to stop. The troll who called himself Universal Monk!

The man wet his dried lips with the tip of his tongue.

“Just fucking do it,” he told himself. It was this night or never.

In his mind, he could see Universal Monk hunched over a dimly lit desk somewhere in Russia, the glow of the screen casting shadows over his sneering face. Fingers tapping away on the keyboard, pumping out lie after lie, each keystroke dripping with malice.

And for what? A fat stack of Russian bitcoins, piling up in his virtual wallet, the digital currency of deceit. All the while, he probably laughed, knowing every twisted post, every fake article, spread like poison through the internet, his pockets getting heavier with each click.

And the man would see that it would not stop--not until he knew the scheming troll was dead.

The witch would do that for him. Oh yes, she’d do it.

The boat glided into the inlet, swallowed by the darkness beneath the thick tangle of branches overhead, cutting off the last slivers of moonlight. The man reached out, yanking on the vines and limbs, pulling himself deeper into the blackness. The boat scraped against the muddy bank with a dull thud. Quick as a flash, he grabbed a rope and looped it around a gnarled tree stump, knotting it tight.

He slipped over the side of the boat and his boots sank into the soft mud. There was a sucking sound as the mud reluctantly gave up its hold and the man pulled himself up onto firm ground.

His eyes swept the darkness, locking onto a faint path cutting through the thick underbrush. He lingered for a second, doubt gnawing at him. Then, with a deep breath, he steeled himself and pushed forward into the shadows.

Loops of vines hang from a dense canopy, swaying in the cold breeze. The path was covered in mud and grass, making it slippery and treacherous. The thick foliage blocked out the moon, leaving the path dark and foreboding.

Distant thunder let the man know that a storm was brewing in the distance, making the night even more oppressive and ominous. Entangling vines wound around his ankles and branches snapped and lashed his face. It was if the island was trying to stop him. But no, he wouldn’t be stopped. He must go on!

Up ahead, a sudden flash of yellow light flared, then vanished, like a door had been cracked open and slammed shut in an instant. The man froze, a wave of panic clawing at him. He could turn back now, leave this cursed place behind, head home where everything was safe and familiar. Back to his room in his mom’s house. Back to his A.I. girlfriend. Back to his keyboard.

No! He hadn't come this far to turn in this tracks and run like a kid trapped in a cemetery at night. There was no turning back. That fucking troll, Universal Monk must pay for his treachery!

Cautiously, the man pressed on down the path, eyes sharp. The thick underbrush began to thin, and the pale light of the stars and moon filtered through, beckoning him forward. The trail opened into a clearing.

He stopped for a moment, catching his breath, then moved across the open ground until he stood before a weathered old shack, looming like a forgotten ghost.

He noticed the door of the shack slowly opening.

A sickly yellow light spilled over the cracked, warped steps. Standing in the doorway was the ugliest woman the man had ever laid eyes on. It was her—the witch. She hummed to herself, a low, gravelly sound that crawled under his skin.

As the man drew closer, he noticed her shriveled skin. She had a hawkish, hooked nose and her face was scarred with pockmarks and pits. Her skin was a zombie-white, colorless pall, her hair was lank and lusterless, and her eyes were leonine, fierce and cold.

He could smell a rancid and infernal smell coming from a cauldron in the corner, and saw bits of frogs' legs, bat wings and eyes of newt scattered around the floor.

The woman had sickle-shaped eyebrows, and her teeth were blackened and broken into stubs, like old tombstones. Her voice rose higher and higher as she neared the end of her incantation, and her eyes glinted with hostility.

She leaned in close, her face just inches from his, and the stench of mildew and rot hit him like a punch. Her wrinkled lips, shriveled over toothless gums, peeled back as she let out a harsh cackle. “Who the fuck are you? Get the fuck outta here!”

The man shifted uneasily, sweat started to drip down his forehead. “Wait! I heard you could help me. I’ve got a problem with this guy on Lemmy, and—”

“What the fuck is a Lemmy?” she snapped.

“It’s a computer thing,” he stammered. “There’s this guy, and he keeps posting bullshit, and—”

“You’re here about some goddamn computer? Fuck you. You the government? Get the fuck outta here. You fucking pussy government types. Fuck off!”

“No,” he stammered again, his voice faltering. “No. I’m not. See, there’s this guy... he calls himself Universal Monk, and he’s—”

“Oh, a monk. A dark monk,” she muttered, her eyes narrowing with eerie satisfaction. “Yes, yes, that makes sense now. You must be the one I visioned about. The signs never lie.” As she spoke, it seemed like she was digging into the shadows of his mind, uncovering the festering secret he’d barely admitted to himself.

“What do you mean?” the man asked, his voice barely steady.

“I saw him in a vision. A dark monk, bringing shadows to the world. And one who would try to stop him.” Her lips twisted into a crooked grin as a high-pitched cry of triumph hissed from her throat, spiraling into the air like smoke rising from a dying fire.

The man shook his head to clear his eyes. The terror lodged in his throat, spreading cold through his veins. He tried to form words, but his mouth refused to work. For a moment, he almost turned and bolted back to the boat, ready to leave this nightmare behind.

But he couldn’t. Not yet. He needed the old witch.

“Yeah,” The man said at last in a weak voice. “He’s aways posting bullshit propaganda. And fucking sealioning. You should see the fucking sealioning! I wanna see him hurt. I want you to hurt him.”

Her eyes drilled into his, dark and piercing, like she could see straight through to the fear gnawing at his core. Slowly, the old witch lifted her bony, clawed hand, its gnarled fingers bent at odd angles, and motioned him closer.

"This ain’t free, you know," she hissed, her voice like gravel scraping over metal. "You got money? And I don't accept that bullshit bitcoin!"

She threw her head back, a laugh bursting from her chest, sharp and jagged, revealing even more of those yellowed, decaying teeth, cracked and crumbling in her mouth.

The man’s breath hitched as he nodded, his movements stiff and reluctant. He stepped forward, his heart pounding in his ears, and carefully placed a tightly folded wad of cash into her outstretched hand, careful not to let his fingers brush her sickly, cold skin.

He followed her to a cast-iron cauldron hanging over the fire, glowing red from the bed of coals beneath it. The stench of the bubbling brew hit him like a wall, thick and putrid, filling the room with the reek of decay. The witch stood before the cauldron, stirring the vile mixture with a gnarled stick, her lips moving in a low, garbled chant.

The words “monk” and “sea lion” slithered between the foul names of whatever cursed ingredients she had thrown into the boiling mess.

At last, she stopped. “Proof,” she rasped, her voice like stones grinding together. “You got anything that shows this dark monk causing harm?”

The man’s hands shook as he pulled out his phone, the device feeling foreign and fragile in his grip. He scrolled, his voice unsteady. “See? Here, he says he doesn’t understand why I’m calling him a liar. See that? Right there. Perfect example of his bullshit sealioning act.”

The witch’s eyes gleamed with cruel delight as she snatched the phone from his trembling hand. She stared at it for a moment, but her gaze was more fixed on the man, her eyes feasting on the fear etched across his face.

Without a word, she tossed the phone into the cauldron. It bobbed on the surface of the boiling brew for a moment before sinking slowly, swallowed by the bubbling, foul-smelling sludge.

“Hey!” the man said. "That's my phone!"

"Not anymore," the witch said, cackling. “You idiot fuck. Damn, I miss the old ways.”

She crouched low, snatching a charred piece of wood from the fire, the ember still glowing faintly at the edges. The man trailed her across the room, heart pounding, as she reached for an ugly, twisted doll hanging from a hook on the wall.

Without a word, she began to sketch on the doll’s blank face, quick strokes, her hand moving with a kind of fevered precision. Every now and then, she’d glance at him, her lips curling into a crooked grin before turning back to her work, a soft, sinister laugh bubbling up from her throat.

Finally, she spun around, the doll clutched tight in her bony fingers. "Come," she rasped, her voice low and cold. "It’s time. We must do this now, or it’ll be too late. The spell only works under the old ways… the ways of the Dark Mormons, before they chose to be ‘good.’ When they walked the Dark Path. I was one of them, back then. Now I’m all that’s left."

Her words hung in the air like a curse, thick with an ancient malice, something better left buried in forgotten shadows.

The man stumbled after her, following her out into the cold night, his breath ragged. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead as he struggled to keep pace with the old witch, who moved with a speed that defied her frail appearance. She darted down a trail that seemed invisible to anyone but her, slipping through the trees like a shadow.

He gasped, pulling in lungfuls of damp air, but it wasn’t enough. His chest burned, each breath feeling like the witch herself was sharpening her claws on his lungs. She was far ahead now, a dark figure barely visible in the gloom, but he couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t stop.

What unnerved him most was how she moved—so fast, so effortless. It was like her feet weren’t even touching the ground, like she was gliding just above it, carried by something far older and darker than anything he could comprehend.

Suddenly, the old witch raised her hand, stopping in the dense, suffocating blackness of the woods. The man stumbled to a halt behind her, his chest heaving as he fought for air.

"This," she hissed, her voice low and dripping with malice, "is where we finish the ritual."

With swift, practiced hands, she pinned the crude doll to a twisted tree. The man noticed that the doll had a strange shape. Not quite a human figure. Her sly gaze flicked toward him, her eyes narrowing as a wicked smile crept across her face.

"So," she said, her voice like a snake’s hiss, “you want the troll to suffer?"

The man trembled, his body betraying the fear that clawed at him. He nodded, numb. Part of him wanted to turn and run, to let the witch finish her dark work alone. But it was too late—he was in this now, too deep to pull away.

The witch spat on the doll, the thick, greenish yellow spit sticking to its face like poison. Then, with slow, deliberate precision, she began driving long pins into the doll, each one sinking in with a sickening finality.

A wave of relief washed over the man. This was going to work. He could feel it. A smile crept across his face, the tension in his body easing for the first time since he'd arrived.

But the old witch sensed his thoughts. She turned to the man, a horrible grin spreading across her wrinkled face, deepening every crease.

"Not yet," she rasped, her voice dripping with malice. "It’s not over just yet."

The old witch stepped back, and under the pale light, the man finally saw it for what it was—a doll shaped like a sea lion, crude but unmistakable. He grinned, a twisted sense of satisfaction washing over him. This was it. The moment he'd been waiting for.

His face was slick with sweat, but when he tried to lift his hand to wipe it away, his arms felt heavy, numb, as if they no longer belonged to him. Something felt off, but none of that mattered now. He was finally going to get his revenge on Universal Monk!

With a sudden, piercing howl, the witch erupted into laughter, a mad cackle filled with some secret pleasure only she understood. From the folds of her robe, she produced a larger, more grotesque pin—black and red ribbons tangled around it, bits of moss clinging to its barbed steel. Her eyes gleamed as she raised it high and, without hesitation, plunged the pin deep into the doll’s belly.

The man’s grin vanished in an instant. His skin turned ashen, his breath catching in his throat. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through his stomach, like the pin had pierced his flesh instead.

He gasped, clutching at his gut.

“Wait, what’s happening?” he croaked, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper. He clutched his stomach, doubling over in a desperate attempt to ease the searing pain. But as he glanced down, horror flooded his mind.

His hands—they weren’t hands at all. They had twisted, fused together, the bones and flesh warping into grotesque flippers. The skin was a sickly, mottled gray, slick with some foul, unnatural slime.

No... it couldn’t be. His mind reeled, refusing to believe what his eyes were seeing. This was impossible. It couldn't be.

The witch turned to him, her eyes gleaming with a savage joy. She drank in his terror, her grin widening as the man’s world crumbled around him.

“Idiot!” the old woman roared, her voice filled with venom. "The Dark Monk already paid me! He found out about you from the same rat who sent you here. In Russia, we have a saying—'why get paid once when you can get paid twice and be rid of an idiot.' You were played!"

The man groaned, but the sound that escaped his throat wasn’t human. Panic surged through him as he realized his tongue was flopping uselessly against sharp, jagged teeth. The noises coming from his mouth were guttural, animal-like, his humanity slipping away with each passing second. Slipping away as quickly as his life was.

"Just like you wished," the old woman sneered, her voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. "A sea lion will die tonight. Oh it’s gonna be a great feast tonight. Sea lion tastes even better with onions and garlic from my garden."

As the man’s vision blurred and darkness crept in, something caught his eye at the edges of the void.

A figure—draped in a monk’s robe—stood just beyond the shadows. The man was laughing, his voice twisted and eerie, and he too began to sing. The song, haunting and strange, was in a language the man couldn’t understand, filling the air with an ancient, otherworldly dread.

Their voices, the witch’s and the monk’s, rose together in a chilling harmony, echoing around him as the last traces of life slipped away.

THE END