First off, apologies for all the AI posts, but the big AI players do this thing where they drop their latest products right next to each other to try to steal the news cycles from each other, so AI alternates between droughts and floods. 

So on that note, the other big news besides the resolution of the character consistency problem in AI-generated images is that Google’s Gemini 2.5 has jumped ahead of the other models on the benchmarks. Among other things I won’t go into, this is interesting because Gemini can output a very large amount of text. 

Before, the use of AI to write fiction was limited to microfiction (extremely short stories). I generated an experimental story some time ago which was cute, but nothing special. It was also decent for mass-producing premises for fictional works. 

Now, with Gemini we can make 5-7k word short stories in one go. To test it out I prompted it to make a “Mormon-themed horror short story of about five thousand words” four times, with four complete short stories. I don’t want to dump 20,000+ words into one blogpost, but I also didn’t think simple links would quite do it justice, so for each story I am including a title, summary, the first little bit and, if you are interested in reading the whole thing, a link to the entire 5-7k word short story.  

Some of the dialogue is formulaic (“some things are best left undisturbed!”), and there are meta-themes that pop up in each of the stories (nice Mormon person uncovers some dark secret), plus I don’t know where the preoccupation with tithing houses comes from (even though the plots of the two stories are quite different). However, while previous AI Mormon fiction would awkwardly drop little LDS tropes here and there, now it is adept at organically weaving the LDS experience into fiction, even if there are still some occasional errors (e.g. a woman being baptized for a man by proxy, “solo tracting,” etc.). On the whole the output is quite good. 

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The Tithing House Echoes

Eliza Harmon, the new Relief Society President, discovers unsettling supernatural occurrences while organizing the basement of a pioneer-era church building in Oakhaven. She uncovers the tragic story of Abigail Vance, who mysteriously vanished after failing to meet an unclear tithing demand in 1889. Despite attempts to dismiss or bury the past, Eliza remains haunted by Abigail’s unresolved sorrow lingering beneath the chapel.

The weight of the calling settled on Eliza Harmon not like a comforting mantle, but like the damp chill that permeated the lower level of the Oakhaven Ward meetinghouse. Relief Society President. It sounded important, venerable even, a link in a chain stretching back to Nauvoo. But here, in this aging building tucked into a shallow canyon where the Utah sky felt simultaneously vast and close, it mostly meant wrestling with leaky faucets, outdated decor, and the labyrinthine politics of the annual Harvest Dinner.

And the basement. Especially the basement.

Oakhaven wasn’t large. Founded by determined pioneers who’d found the valley defensible and the creek reliable, it had thrived, then plateaued. Now, it mostly held onto its history and its aging population. The meetinghouse itself was a testament to that history – a sturdy, rock-faced pioneer structure from the 1880s, expanded awkwardly in the 1950s, and cosmetically touched-up sometime in the late 70s, judging by the avocado-green accents in the foyer bathrooms.

To read more see The Tithing House Echoes

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The Tithing House 

Returning to his small Utah hometown of Harmony Creek after his parents’ deaths, Ethan Tanner uncovers dark secrets involving ritual sacrifices made by prominent local families to an ancient entity beneath a mysterious building known as the Tithing House. His investigations reveal unsettling truths about his family’s role and the horrific nature of the town’s prosperity, ultimately culminating in Ethan disrupting a sacrificial ritual meant to offer a newborn child. Ethan barely escapes as chaos consumes the townspeople, leaving him haunted by uncertainty over Harmony Creek’s fate and the terrifying possibility that the town’s dark covenant continues.

The dust of Harmony Creek tasted different. Ethan hadn’t been back in fifteen years, not since he’d left for college with a sigh of relief that felt less like freedom and more like parole. Now, rolling down the single paved road that cleaved the small Utah town in two, the familiar red dust coating his rental car felt heavier, grittier, clinging with an unwelcome intimacy. It wasn’t just dust; it was memory, settling thick and suffocating.

His parents’ sudden deaths – a mundane highway accident miles away from this isolated valley – had necessitated his return. He was the sole heir, the reluctant custodian of a small, sturdy house and a legacy he’d tried his best to shed. Harmony Creek wasn’t just a place; it was an identity, woven tightly with the threads of faith, community, and a particular brand of unwavering obedience that had always prickled Ethan’s skin.

To read more see Tithing House

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The Empty Name

Sister Eliza Vance, a dedicated genealogist working at the Church History Library, becomes obsessed with her mysterious ancestor, Jedediah Blackwood, whose dark past involves ritualistic and forbidden practices in the isolated Shadow Creek Hollow. As she prepares to perform proxy temple ordinances for Jedediah, she begins experiencing terrifying supernatural occurrences and realizes his spirit may seek to use the sacred rites as a bridge to regain power in the present. Ultimately, during the baptismal ordinance, Eliza senses Jedediah’s malevolent attempt to invade her spirit and flees, narrowly preventing his dark intentions but leaving her haunted by the unresolved legacy and the unsettling awareness that some spiritual doors, once opened, cannot be fully closed.

Part 1: The Weight of Parchment

Salt Lake City breathed history, exhaled reverence. For Sister Eliza Vance, fresh off her mission in the damp, grey heart of England and now immersed in a prestigious fellowship at the Church History Library, it felt like coming home to the source. The air here, crisp and dry under the looming Wasatch Front, tasted of potential, of connection. Surrounded by the tangible echoes of the past – pioneers’ journals brittle with age, photographs capturing resolute faces squinting into unforgiving suns, the faint scent of aging paper and binding glue – Eliza felt a profound sense of purpose. Her work wasn’t just archival; it was resurrection, linking hands across the veil, weaving the tapestry of generations spoken of so often in Sunday School.

She moved through the climate-controlled stacks and quiet reading rooms with a competence that belied her twenty-four years. Her fingers, accustomed to tracing lineage charts and deciphering faded cursive, handled the artifacts with gentle reverence. She saw the library not merely as a repository of facts, but as a waiting room for souls, stories yearning to be rediscovered, names waiting to be spoken aloud in the hallowed halls of the nearby temple. Her own patriarchal blessing had spoken of a gift for “uniting families,” and she felt the truth of it resonate with every file retrieved, every microfilm reel spooled.

To read more see Empty Name

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Where Sorrow Sings

Two Mormon missionaries, Elder Jacob Madsen and Elder Thomas Davies, are transferred to the isolated Romanian village of Cernavod?-Mic?, a place burdened by an ancient, malevolent entity known as the Jelitor, or “Sorrow-Drinker.” The missionaries struggle against increasing despair and supernatural manifestations as the Jelitor exploits their personal fears and weaknesses, feeding off their spiritual turmoil. A desperate confrontation at haunted ruins leads Elder Jacobs to attempt a priesthood blessing, temporarily weakening but not defeating the entity. Recognizing they’re only nourishing the Jelitor by staying, the missionaries defy their mission president and flee the valley, deeply shaken and forever marked by the understanding that some darkness cannot simply be driven away—it endures, patiently feeding on sorrow.

Part 1: Transfer to the Valley of Weeping

The air in the Ploie?ti train station hung thick and grey, tasting of diesel fumes and damp concrete. Elder Jacob Madsen adjusted the impeccable knot of his tie, the familiar gesture a small anchor in the swirling unfamiliarity of Romania. Beside him, Elder Thomas Davies shifted his weight, sketchbook clutched in one hand, his gaze drifting towards the weary faces of the waiting passengers, his expression a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

“Zone Leaders should be here any minute, Elder,” Jacobs said, his voice maintaining the cheerful, confident tone mandated by the Missionary Handbook and his own optimistic nature. He checked his watch, a precise Swiss Army model his father, a former mission president himself, had given him. Six months into his mission, Jacobs still operated with the crisp efficiency he’d learned in the MTC, fueled by unwavering faith and a lineage steeped in Church leadership back in Provo, Utah.

To read more see Where Sorrow Sings