The Fungus

The Fungus

The fungus colony infected the old inn. It was in the beams and the walls. It was in the crawl spaces and floor boards. It permeated everything. The inn was possessed by it.

This fungus was different. It was self-aware. It could reach out and affect its environment. It took pretty things, and obsessed over them. It turned off nasty heat and flames, keeping everything nice and cool. It disliked humans and their kind. It hated their laughter and joy. It liked fear and scaring those sensitive to its presence. It talked to their minds and fed on the fear.

⸻

A musty old law office. Tim and Sandy sit side by side in stiff chairs, the late breeze rattling the ledgers on oak bookshelves. Across the desk, Attorney Graves, a thin man with graying hair and round spectacles, adjusts his glasses.

Graves (clearing throat):

“Thank you both for coming. As you know, your great-aunt Penelope Appleton passed away last November. She wished for the family’s ownership of The Old Orchard Inn, a property in Salem, to be passed on to someone who would care for its memory.”

He unfolds the document. The siblings lean in.

Graves:

“It states: ‘I give and bequeath the Old Orchard Inn, including all land, buildings, and appurtenances, unto my great-nephew Timothy Appleton and my great-niece Alexandra “Sandy” Appleton, to be co-owners in equal share… with the expectation that they shall maintain the premises and operate it as a public inn, preserving family heritage and charming travelers.’”

He looks up slowly.

Graves:

“Penelope was explicit. She hopes this brings the family together.”

Tim exhales, a tentative grin forming.

Tim (uncertainly):

“So—co-owners. We’re running it together?”

Sandy shifts uncomfortably. The weight of the old inn, the ivy-clad brick facade, presses into her consciousness.

Sandy (quietly):

“It’s… a big project. Stone walls, old wiring. I’ve heard rumors.”

Tim nods with cautious optimism.

Tim:

“But think—an inn in Salem. Quaint charm, historic value, tourist demand. It just needs elbow grease.”

Sandy clasps her hands.

Sandy:

“Tourists come for ghosts, Tim. I want this to be a happy family business… not a nightmare.”

Attorney Graves taps the will’s page.

Graves:

“Penelope specified you must jointly breathe life back into that inn. The house itself matters—she loved it, apple orchard and all. She leaves a small repair fund in trust, but full control is yours—together.”

Tim meets Sandy’s eyes.

Tim (softly):

“Together.”

Sandy swallows, fighting nervousness.

Sandy:

“Okay… together.”

⸻

SARAH (lawyer, handing keys):

“Welcome to your new brew—err, inn. It’s… well, it’s ready for your magic.”

TIM steps through the doorway, eyes lighting up.

SANDY trails behind, hands clenched around her purse.

⸻

First Impressions

The foyer smells faintly of orchard apples—no fruit in sight, yet the scent drifts through the air like a memory.

Rough-hewn beams cross overhead; heavy stone walls feel cool under touch. Light filters through old windows, dust motes dancing like spirits.

TIM (smiling):

“So… charming. Paint, new lights—I can make it sing.”

SANDY (softly):

“It’s… chilly. And that smell…” she swallows, uneasy.

⸻

They walk into the hallway. An insulation-grade thermostat reads 68°F—but the register gushes icy air.

SANDY rubs her arms.

TIM shrugs:

“Video footage must show just a draft.”

⸻

Tim sets a small vintage teacup on a mantel.

They exit to explore upstairs.

Later, they return. The cup’s gone.

In its place: a thin, dry vine of fungus clings to the mantel hearth—no drip, no rot, just… alive.

Tim frowns.

Sandy, eyes wide:

“That… wasn’t there.”

⸻

The hallway hushes. A faint murmur from behind walls floats through the cracked plaster:

“…remember… lost…”

They pause, breath held. No wind. No tech.

TIM (voice low):

“You heard that?”

SANDY (nodding):

“It’s… talking.”

⸻

In the basement, they uncover a trapdoor. Sandy kneels—inside, an old wedding band, tarnished but intact, lies nestled in soil and fungal ropes.

SANDY (steady voice):

“It’s taking things… memories.”

Tim huffs.

“Let’s document it—maybe it’s mold contamination.”

As they rise, a recorder left on a crate flickers on by itself. Tim checks playback: static—and a whispered plea, just on the edge of understanding:

“…help… remember…”

⸻

Late that night, Tim checks the motion and temperature sensor he’d installed in the basement hallway. The display shows:

• A 20°F drop in under five minutes.

• A single audio clip captured—muffled, almost… pleading.

He freezes the playback:

“…remember… we’re lost…”

He frowns. Then the sensor’s battery dies on its own.

Upstairs, Sandy cranes her head as a delicate, unmistakable sniff of apples drifts through the second-floor corridor:

“Apples? In winter?” she whispers.

⸻

In the guest room down the hall, the thermostat reads 70°F, yet the vent exhales frigid air. As the siblings stand there, a rasping voice echoes from the grille:

“…we remember…”

There’s no wind. No draft. Just unbroken, cold dread.

⸻

They descend together—Tim flicking on a flashlight. The basement is lined with unfinished stone and exposed joists. The walls are damp, and a pale vein-like fungus creeps around the old pipes and new wiring.

At the end of the hallway, across a blanket of loose insulation, a tarnished wedding band glistens—wet with fungal residue, nestled in a bed of tangled mycelium.

Sandy (softly):

“It took something… meaningful.”

Tim, silent, shines his light back along the wall—revealing even more tendrils crawling toward the fuse box.

⸻

They watch in stunned stillness as the fungal filaments pulse faintly, as if syncing with their own body heat or the nervous hum of the wiring.

⸻

Suddenly, the recorder at the base of the stairs crackles on:

“…help…”

It’s barely audible, but unmistakable. Then—silence.

Tim (voice low):

“This isn’t mold. It’s… alive.”

Sandy (whisper):

“We should leave.”

But before they move, the basement light floods out—every bulb flickers—and for a breathless moment, they’re alone in pure darkness.

⸻

Late Night, Basement Hallway

Tim crouches before a tangle of new wiring and stone—LED sensor in hand, attached to a kit he’s cobbled together: microphone, temperature probe, and homemade electrodes pressed gently into the damp fungal tendrils creeping over the wall.

He flips a switch. A faint beep. The interface begins to log data.

TIM (to himself):

“Come on… talk to me.”

He leaves the recorder running and ascends the stairs, leaving the basement door ajar.

⸻

A few minutes later, he returns. The interface displays rising anomaly:

• Temperature sensor drops nearly 15°F in seconds.

• Audio: a low-frequency electron hum beneath the rush of silence.

• Electrical spikes—small pulses between 0.03 to 2 mV, sometimes clustered in trains—a pattern reminiscent of “word”-like sequences in fungal networks .

Tim scrolls through the waveform, eyes widening as he sees slow and fast pulses—24-second clusters, 8-minute oscillations, even some hour-long waves ().

TIM (softly):

“It’s… talking. It’s actually talking.”

⸻

Tim remembers a study: researchers attached electrodes to various fungi and detected spiking patterns like language. One study even proposed a “lexicon” of about 50 fungal words. Others confirmed fungi can transmit electrical signals across networks in response to stimuli like moisture or weight .

Tim’s pulse quickens—this is biology listening back.

⸻

He taps on his phone. The recording app interprets the spike pulses:

• Spike train A: repeated 24-second bursts → “light/depth?”

• Spike train B: slow, 8-minute pulses → “moisture/activity?”

• Spike train C: 60-minute waves → “memory recall?”

The basement hum intensifies. The thin fungal skin glows faintly, reacting to the surveillance like a living entity.

⸻

Tim notices a new artifact—an aged teacup—placed by the fungus and pinned under a tendril cluster. He picks it up. A shiver freezes him.

He glances back at the recorder. The display blinks rapidly—then cuts off suddenly.

TIM (voice trembling):

“It doesn’t want to be listened to.”