That morning began like any other. 🌿 The air was crisp, the sky a pale blue, and the smell of wet earth filled the yard. I stepped outside with my watering can, humming softly as I moved between the flowerbeds. Everything seemed calm and ordinary—until I reached the old tree near the fence. That’s when I saw them.
Dozens of small, yellow-orange spheres hung from the branches, glistening faintly in the morning light. At first glance, they looked like miniature oranges, oddly uneven, some fused directly into the bark. I froze, blinking to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. The sight was both beautiful and eerie. 😳
I leaned closer, my curiosity stronger than my hesitation. The surface of one sphere was slightly translucent, like jelly, and when I touched it, it yielded under my fingers—soft and damp. A faint, sweet yet rotten smell wafted up. My stomach twisted. It was as if the tree was growing strange fruit made of flesh.
For a moment I just stood there, unsure what to do. Then panic kicked in. I ran back inside, grabbed my phone, and searched frantically online. My hands trembled as I typed: *“yellow-orange balls on tree bark soft wet smell.”* Within seconds, images popped up on the screen—identical to what I’d just seen. My heart pounded as I read the name: **Cyttaria**, a parasitic fungus. 🍄
According to the article, this fungus usually grew in South America, on a specific type of beech tree called *Nothofagus*. It was rare—almost impossible to see it here. The text said that because of changing climates, its spores could now travel thousands of kilometers, latching onto new trees, silently spreading.
I felt a chill crawl down my spine. How could something so far from its home appear here, in my small backyard? Was it the wind? Or something else?
As I kept reading, my unease deepened. Cyttaria didn’t kill a tree immediately—it invaded the wood from within, slowly feeding on it. The tree tried to defend itself, forming tumor-like swellings, which the fungus used to burst through, creating those jelly-like spheres. Over time, the tree would weaken, dry out, and eventually die.
I went back outside, this time armed with gloves and garden shears. The air felt heavier now, the branches whispering faintly in the breeze. The bright spheres seemed to pulse in the light, as if alive. I carefully cut off one of the infected twigs and placed it on the ground. A drop of orange liquid seeped from the cut.
It looked almost… alive.
Unable to shake the feeling that I was being watched, I stepped back. Something about the tree felt wrong. The bark seemed to move slightly, as though breathing. Maybe it was just the wind—but when I leaned closer, I heard a faint crackling, like whispering sap. 😨
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those glistening orange spheres. Around midnight, I thought I heard a faint tapping against the window. I got up, heart pounding, and peered outside. The garden was dark, the tree just a silhouette against the moonlight. Nothing unusual—until I noticed a faint glow on the branches.
The spheres were shining. Softly, like lanterns in the night.
The next morning, I called my friend Daniel, a botanist who had helped me before with strange plants. He arrived with his tools and a calm smile. “Don’t worry,” he said, putting on his gloves. “We’ll see what this is.” But as soon as he saw the tree, the color drained from his face.
“This is definitely Cyttaria,” he said quietly. “But it’s… not normal. It shouldn’t glow.”
He took a small sample and placed it in a vial. “The spores are spreading. If we don’t remove the infected parts, the tree won’t survive.” We cut away the most damaged branches and burned them at the edge of the yard. The smell that rose from the smoke was sweet and sour, almost metallic.
Daniel promised to study the sample and left before sunset. I stood there, watching the tree’s wounded silhouette against the fading sky. For a moment, I thought it sighed. Maybe I was just tired.
Two days later, Daniel called. His voice was strained. “You need to listen carefully,” he said. “I examined the sample under a microscope. The spores aren’t just fungal—they contain chlorophyll traces, like plant cells, and something else… something responsive. When I touched the sample, it reacted to light.”
“Reacted how?” I asked, my heart hammering.
“It turned toward it,” he whispered. “As if it were looking at me.”
That night I went to check the tree again. The moon was full, casting silver light over the garden. The wounds where we’d cut the branches were still wet. Slowly, tiny orange buds had begun to form again, shimmering faintly. I stood frozen, realizing the fungus hadn’t died. It was regenerating.
Then I noticed something even stranger. The pattern of the new growth wasn’t random—it formed small circular clusters, connected by thin glowing lines. From a distance, they looked almost like letters. I took a step back, squinting. My breath caught. The shapes were forming a word.
It spelled **“ROOT.”**
A sudden gust of wind rustled the leaves, and for a brief second, I could swear the ground beneath me moved. The earth seemed to pulse, as if something enormous was breathing below. The old tree creaked, its trunk splitting slightly. From the crack, a faint orange light seeped out, spreading along the roots that snaked across the ground.
I stumbled backward, terrified, as the light spread further, connecting tree to tree, bush to bush, until the whole yard glowed in a soft amber web. The earth itself seemed alive, whispering in a language I couldn’t understand. 🌕
I ran inside and locked the door. From the window, I could still see the faint shimmer outside, pulsing like a heartbeat. I called Daniel again, but the line was dead. Only static.
By morning, the glow was gone. The yard looked peaceful, untouched. The only sign of what happened were faint burn marks in the grass—thin lines shaped exactly like the word I’d seen the night before.
That day, I packed a few things and left the house. I couldn’t stay there anymore. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still smell that sweet, rotten scent.
And at night, in complete silence, I hear it again—the faint sound of roots growing, whispering beneath the ground. 🌙🍂
