Every Sunday, like clockwork, I traveled to my grandparents’ cozy countryside home. Their garden had always been my favourite place — a lush, colorful sanctuary where butterflies danced and my grandfather’s laughter seemed to echo through the leaves. 🌼 We would drink lemonade on the porch and listen to stories of his youth, while my grandmother prepared lunch inside. But that particular Sunday was different. Something unusual shimmered beneath the sunlight, catching my eye and pulling me away from our routine.
I walked toward the corner of the garden near the old wooden fence. The grass there had grown a bit wild, and the air carried a slightly earthy smell after the recent rain. I thought I saw a flower at first — a round shape peeking through the blades of grass. But the closer I moved, the stranger it looked. It wasn’t colorful like a flower. It was dull, coated in what seemed like dark soil or ash. For a moment, I hesitated. My heart lifted with curiosity tinged with a hint of unease. 🤔
I crouched down and gently brushed a bit of dirt off its surface. The texture was smooth on some parts but cracked on others as if something had been trapped inside trying to break free. A tiny hole at the top released a puff of fine dust when touched. The sensation made me jump back slightly — startled but fascinated.
“What on earth…?” I whispered to myself.
Not knowing what it was, I snapped a picture and sent it to my friends online, asking for guesses. The responses flooded quickly — from “looks like poop 😂” to “egg of some alien creature 🛸”. None of that helped. I stared at my screen, annoyed yet more intrigued than before.
My grandfather had been quietly observing me from the porch. When he noticed my puzzled expression, he smiled, grabbed his cane, and strolled toward me.
“You found one,” he said softly, as though recognizing an old friend.
“One… what exactly?” I asked, trying to mask the nervous flutter in my chest.
He squatted down beside me with surprising agility for his age and tapped the odd object lightly with his finger. “This is a Mycenastrum,” he said. “A very peculiar fungus.”
“A fungus?” I echoed, eyebrows rising.
“Yes,” he chuckled. “It’s harmless. When young, it’s completely white — a perfect little ball. You can even eat it then. But as it ages, the inside turns into a brown powder. Eventually, it bursts open to release its spores.”
He lifted it carefully, examining it like a precious artifact. “This one is getting old,” he added. “Close to its final act.”
I nodded, intrigued but slightly disappointed. I had hoped for something more… mysterious. Still, his calm explanation reassured me. 😊
But the day did not return to its usual warmth. Something lingered in the air, unsettling. I noticed more of these round fungi scattered near the fence — too many to have grown by accident. I pointed them out to my grandfather.
His cheerful expression dimmed just a bit. “They’re multiplying,” he murmured. “Faster than I expected.”
That sentence struck me strangely. “Is that… bad?” I asked.
He paused, then gave a careful smile. “Probably just the soil conditions. Nothing to worry about.”
Yet his eyes drifted to the forest behind the fence, and for a moment, I sensed worry beneath his confidence.
The following Sundays, I visited again — and each time, more of the mysterious fungi appeared. Some had already cracked open, the powder inside a darker shade that looked disturbingly like soot. Others pulsated faintly when the wind passed. I tried to tell myself I was imagining the movement, but I wasn’t the only one noticing changes. My grandmother became oddly anxious whenever I went near them. 🤨
“Let them be,” she would say, her voice almost trembling. “Don’t touch them anymore.”
I didn’t understand her fear, and neither did my grandfather… or so he pretended.
One afternoon, I arrived unexpectedly early. I found my grandfather near the fence digging quickly, sweat beading on his forehead. He looked up, startled, and covered something with his boot.
“What are you doing?” I asked, stepping closer.
He forced a weak laugh. “Just clearing space. The garden’s getting crowded.”
But curiosity pulled me closer. He tried to stop me, but I brushed his hand aside and bent down. In the dirt, I saw it — not just one fungus, but a cluster attached together by thick, vein-like roots that pulsed, tightening around something metallic.
A rusted tag.
I wiped it clean.
A name.
I froze.
My father’s name.
The father who had disappeared when I was four.
My breath caught. “Grandpa… what is this?”
He sank to the ground, shoulders collapsing. “I tried to protect you,” he whispered. “To protect all of us.”
He explained — trembling — that years ago, something fell from the sky into the forest. A glowing rock, alive inside. People touched it and changed — roots growing beneath their skin, voices whispering from the earth. My father had been one of them, drawn toward the fungus as if the earth itself claimed him. They buried what was left of him here… but he did not remain dead.
The fungi were feeding.
Growing.
Remembering.
I stumbled back, tears burning my eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me!?”
“Because,” he said, looking at the fungi as if they were listening, “they wake when someone recognizes the truth.”
A deep crack rippled across one of the larger bulbs. A dark vapor hissed into the air. The ground trembled beneath our feet. 🌋
From the cracks, a faint hum rose — like hundreds of whispers merging into one aching voice:
“Daughter…”
My grandfather pulled me away. “Run. Now!”
The fungi burst open one by one, spores swirling, roots twisting eagerly through the soil, reaching toward me like searching fingers.
My father was calling for me — and I didn’t know whether he wanted to hug me…
…or drag me underground.
We fled, the garden behind us collapsing into a heaving, breathing mound of earth. My grandmother slammed the door shut and locked it, hands shaking violently.
As the windows rattled, my grandfather whispered, almost to himself:
“They know she’s here now…”
And just before the power cut out, I saw a shape outside — tall, humanlike, but covered in cracking brown skin.
Waiting. 🌑🫣
