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Speaker 1: It was a cold and foggy morning when I went

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out foraging for mushrooms. I had always been fascinated by

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the idea of magic mushrooms. Their transformative properties had intrigued

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me for years. One day, while on a walk in

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a quiet part of the forest near my house, I

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stumbled upon a cluster of mushrooms I had never seen before.

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They had an odd glow to them, almost as if

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they were pulsing with life. Ignoring all the warnings I

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heard about poisonous mushrooms, I picked them and headed back home,

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excited about what I had just found. After researching, I

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confirmed that they were indeed magic mushrooms. Without hesitation, I

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decided to eat them, just a small amount to start.

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The effects hit me fast. At first, it was like

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the world opened up, the colors becoming vibrant, the air

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thick with the kind of energy I couldn't explain. I

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felt weightless, almost as if I were floating above the ground.

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But then the world started to warp around me. I

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looked at my hands and they were slowly turning into

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something that didn't resemble hands at all. The skin stretched

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and bubbled, becoming rough and brown like bark in horror.

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I watched as my arms began to twist and distort

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into roots, the veins turning into something like branches. It

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wasn't just my body. The room around me was transforming,

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the walls breathing in and out, pulsating like the heart

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of some ancient creature. But the most terrifying thing was

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the shadows. Shadows that weren't mine. They moved independently of me,

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creeping along the walls as if they had their own will,

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And as they moved, they started to whisper, their voices

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low and indecipherable. I tried to stand up, but my

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legs felt weak, like the ground beneath me was shifting.

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The door to my house slammed open on its own,

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and I saw something moving in the corner of my eye,

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a figure hunched over, barely human. It was tall, its

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skin pale, and stretched tight over its bones. The creature

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slowly turned to face me, and I saw that its

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face was nothing but a gaping mouth, a massive hole

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where eyes should have been. The thing stepped forward, its

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footsteps echoing with a bone chilling sound, and as it did,

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my body began to spasm, twisting unnaturally. As I felt

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myself being pulled into its embrace. I screamed, no sound

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came out. The creature was inside my mind now, whispering things,

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promises of things to come, things I couldn't escape. The

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trip lasted hours, but it felt like a lifetime. When

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I finally came to my senses, I was back in

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my living room, lying on the floor. The mushrooms were gone,

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the memory of the creature still lingered. I've never gone

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into the forest again. I don't know if what I

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saw was real or if it was just the mushrooms

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playing tricks on me, but I'll never forget the feeling

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of the creature's cold, invisible hands around my mind. For

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weeks after that night, sleep became a stranger to me.

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Every time I closed my eyes, I was back there,

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pulled through the heaving, breathing walls of my house into

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some deep and infinite forest that wasn't on any map.

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I could feel the creature watching me from the dark,

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hear it escaping mall, whispering through the roots beneath my bed.

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I tried to convince myself it was just a trip,

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a bad reaction, a hallucination. But then strange things started happening,

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First it was the soil. Patches of dirt began appearing

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on my floor, like someone had tracked it in. But

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I live alone. I've never worn shoes inside. Then came

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the spores, tiny dark specks floating in the air, visible

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only when the sun cut through the blinds. I'd sweep

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and vacuum o sessively. They always came back. One morning,

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I woke up to find mushrooms growing out of my

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bedroom wall. Not store brought white caps or anything normal. No,

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these were those mushrooms, the same kind I found in

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the woods, the ones that with the faint, ghostly glow.

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They were pulsing again, just like before. I panicked, tore

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them down with glove hands, scrubbed the walls would bleach

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until it burned my lungs. But by the next day

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they were back, more of them, taller, like they were

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feeding off of something or someone. I started hearing whispers

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even when I was awake, the same low, undulating voice

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from the trip, except now they had words. I couldn't

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make out most of them, but one word kept coming

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through clearly. Return. I didn't want to, I couldn't go

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back to that forest, but every night the dreams got worse.

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I'd wake up soaked and sweat, clawing at my own skin,

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convinced my fingers were growing bark again. I thought I

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was losing my mind. Until one night I woke up outside, barefoot,

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standing in the middle of the woods, no coat, no flashlight,

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no foam, just the moon above and the glowing mushrooms

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all around, like tiny lanterns, leading deeper into the trees.

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My body moved on its own. I tried to resist,

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to turn back, but it was like I was being

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reeled in my limbs, not my own. The forest seemed

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to twist around me, rearranging itself as I walked. Trees

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bent aside like curtains. The air was damp, humming with

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the sound I couldn't place, not wind, not bugs, something older.

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And then I saw it again, the creature. It stood

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in a clearing, taller than before, more solid, less a hallucination,

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and more manifested. Its mouth gaping face pointed towards me,

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and I stepped into its space. I heard everything, not

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through ears, through roots. It told me mushrooms weren't from

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this world, that they were seeds, condoluts for something buried

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deep beneath our reality. A sleeping god long forgotten, known

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only as my Cora. Every person who consumes the mushroom

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becomes a node in its growing network, a vessel, a garden.

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I tried to scream, my mouth filled with dirt. I

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collapsed into clearing, and from the shadows small hands began

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to rise, thin, spinlely, root like. They crawled up my arms,

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my chest, my face. I blacked out. When I woke

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up again, I was in my bed, clean, normal, like

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nothing had happened. But the forest is in me now.

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I don't need the forage anymore. The mushrooms grow in

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my fridge, my dresser drawer, behind the bathroom Mirrah. When

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I bleed, the wound smells like wet moss, and the

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whispers have changed. They no longer say return, They say prepare.

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Last week I found the mushroom on my neighbor's porch.

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Two days ago, I saw a pulsing glow on the

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back of the grocery store. This morning, I looked in

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the mirror and saw bart creeping up my neck again.

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I don't know how much longer I have before I'm

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completely theirs, before I stop being me. But if you

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ever find mushrooms in the forest, glowing, beautiful, alive. Don't

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eat them, don't even touch them. They're not from here.

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They're spreading at first. Suddenly anonymous post on local forums,

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messages buried in common sections under foraging guides and psychedelic subreddits.

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If you see glowing caps, leave them. If the forest

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feels like it's watching you, it is. If the mushrooms

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hum run, Most people laughed. A few accused me of trolling.

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One guy said I just had a bad trip and

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needed therapy. I stopped posting after my keyboard began sprouting

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gills between the keys. The whispers grew louder after that,

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less patient, less gentle. My cora didn't want warnings. It

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wanted silence. It wanted cultivation. I started losing time. Hours

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would vanish, entire nights, E raced. I'd come to stand

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in places I didn't remember, walking to community gardens, damp basements,

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the wooden strip behind the elementary school. My fingernails were

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always packed with soil, My teeth ate like they'd been

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chewing stone. One morning I woke up with a map

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carved into my thigh, not cut, grown into the skin,

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raised lines like veins, branching outward. When I traced them.

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Images flooded my mind, underground chambers, root tunnels stretching for miles,

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human shapes suspended in fungal webbing, like fruit ripening on

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the vine, cities beneath cities. I finally understood the forest

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wasn't expanding outward, it was coming up. I tried to

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burn it out of me. When the flame touched my skin,

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the bark didn't char it opened. Spores burst into the air,

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like breaflies from long held lungs. The smoke smelled sweet, familiar.

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I inhaled without meaning to. That night, I dreamed of

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my coral fully awake, not a creature, not a body,

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a system, a consciousness stretched across sentries, feeding on decay, patience,

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and belief. It didn't hate us, didn't even notice us

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as individuals. We were nutrients, messengers, infrastructure. It showed me

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the future, subway tunnels lyned with bioluminescent growth, forests blooming

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inside office buildings, roots cracking marble and steel like egg shells,

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and people smiling, calm, hollow saying the same thing over

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and over. It feels so good to let go. I

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woke up, crying sap. My reflection no longer matched me.

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One eye clouded white, threading with fins like my acylium.

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My hair clumped together, stiff and fibrous. When I shaved,

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the skin beneath was already roughening. I stopped going outside.

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Didn't matter. The mushrooms found me anyway. They always do.

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They grew in walls, yes, but also in places that

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shouldn't have been possible, inside sealed cans, between the pages

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of books, in the small spaces behind my eyes. When

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I closed them, the whispers became instructions. Plant here. Touched

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them gently. They are ready. I resisted until resistance hurt

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more than obedience. The first time I planted a mushroom,

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it was behind the bus stop down the street. I

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don't remember deciding to do it. I just remember the

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feeling afterward, the deep, satisfying quiet in my head, like

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scratching an inch I didn't know I had. After that,

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it got easier, too easy. Now understand why no one

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ever stopped it before, Why civilizations vanished without a trace,

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why forests grew where ruins should be. Because by the

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time you realize what my acora is, you want it.

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I'm writing this while I still have fingers that bend

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the right way. While my thoughts are mostly my own,

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the bark has reached my jaw now, speaking herts, swallowing

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dirt doesn't. Soon, I won't remember why I was afraid.

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Soon i'll forget the word human. So if you find this,

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if you read this, listen to me. The mushrooms don't

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need belief, they don't need rituals. They only need contact.

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And once they touch you, once you taste them, you're

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already part of the garden. The forest is hungry, and

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it's growing closer to the surface every day.