Mycophoria

By Tom G.H. Adams

Deep beneath the earth of a North Cumbrian wood lies the germinating mass of a fungus-like organism. How long it has occupied the fibrous soil of that place is uncertain, but Dr Jim Alburton estimates it is close to ten million years. Then again, this is not his sphere of expertise. He would normally consult Jane Milner and her partner. But both of them are dead — Jane being the victim of a rare, acute brain disease. Alburton found her on the floor of a laboratory, sticky orange fluid oozing from her ears. This was disturbing enough, however her partner’s face was mutilated beyond recognition, an apparent result of his girlfriend’s killing frenzy.
Alburton comes to know of the fungus because of Jane’s notebook, which describes its discovery but gives little scientific detail or where it is located. He can’t help thinking the discovery is bound up with her sudden death and that of her partner.
The police are moving too slow for Alburton’s liking and don’t accept there’s a connection between this incident and an increasing number of horrific deaths rapidly blooming in the area. A woman walking her dogs along a popular pathway is savagely attacked, a local student inexplicably murders the school nurse, a care-worker suffers a psychotic episode and attacks an elderly man in his home. The news bulletins deliver more reports by the hour.
As the number of incidents mounts, Alburton becomes convinced the county is quickly becoming the epicentre of a fungal disease epidemic that could spread nationwide. He concludes the fungus must be acting on its host’s nervous system, causing them to become depraved killing machines. Yet few believe him as he has little evidence for his theory. Now he faces the responsibility of tracking down the source of the disease, persuading the authorities and somehow preventing a cascade of bloody murders. With the newly christened phenomenon known as Mycophoria accelerating in its impact, there are only days or perhaps hours to accomplish this before the disease goes pandemic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom G.H. Adams
• Release date: Aug 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005316891

Tom G.H. Adams

Tom Adams is an imaginer drifting between lands of fantasy, horror and bizarro. When he strays back into the realm called reality he finds himself in Middleland; a geologically beautiful gamut of scenery in the north west of England. The forces that drive him shift their shapes with sharp needles of inspiration, but at present include the art of Zdzislaw Beksinski, the music and words of Ronnie James Dio and a frankenstein amalgam of word-scriptors such as Vonnegut, Tolkien, Clevenger, Leonard and Bradbury.

Book preview

1

Discovery

The boundary line could not have been starker. Like the previous day, Jane Milner placed one booted foot on thick, spongy sphagnum moss and the other on dry, dead leaf litter. Unlike before however, the line was marked by another phenomenon. A large russet dome, about two feet across, stood defiantly above the sod. She wasn’t an expert on fungi but was sure she hadn’t seen its like anywhere in Cumbria, let alone in this secluded woodland. She turned and faced into the wind, her eyes shedding tears from a westerly that blew between the alder and ash boughs that swayed like sinister sentinels. A line of similar fruiting bodies extended into the glade, some of them at least a yard in diameter, before being swallowed by the gloom.

She had encountered fairy rings on the lower slopes of the fell many times and knew they represented the outer circumference of a fungus’s radiating growth. If this was such a circle, then the hyphal system beneath the soil — the main body of the fungus — must be massive. In fact, she estimated it covered a circumference of about two-and-a-half miles.

She imagined walking round the resultant circle and marvelled at the apparent size. God, this could be a superorganism. She struck the side of the fungus to test its resilience. A yellowy-green cloud rose out of a vent in the surface only to be whipped away by the wind. She remembered the musty smell of the spores from yesterday and had wondered what the source was. Now she was in no doubt. What had begun as a few solitary outgrowths had become a fruiting phenomenon.

Adieu to you, she thought. The spores carried the possibility of a new colony of puffballs if they landed on suitable ground. Measurements had revealed spores travelling high in the upper reaches of the atmosphere to places as far as Eastern Europe — although, how exactly such facts were researched was beyond even her scientific brain.

She made a decision at that moment, a fateful one, to take the specimen back with her to the field centre. It might be rare, but there appeared to be thousands of the things.

Kev will be more than happy at the chance to identify it and analyse the spores, she thought.

The puffball came away easily in her hands as she tugged at it. She held it to her chest like a giant beach ball noticing that further spore wisps accompanied the operation. She needed to watch her step now as the yellow clouds of spores obscured her vision. It would be the easiest thing in the world to stumble knee-deep into a hidden rut or slip on one of the sinuous roots that extended from the gnarled, alga-powdered trees surrounding her.

Quickest way to a broken ankle or worse.

She placed the puffball on the floor and shouldered a pack of instruments onto her back. Her morning survey of small rodent traps was done, and she was looking forward to holing up in the warmth of the field lab for the rest of the day. An afternoon analysing the project’s data was precisely the kind of work she could cope with on this cold Autumn day.

A faint itching in her ear caused her to reach up and place a finger in the canal. Her rubbing did nothing to relieve the irritation but dislodged something like runny wax. When she withdrew it she let out a gasp. Smeared over her fingers was an orange, lumpy fluid. She wiped the gunge off on her waxed jacket and reached up to the ear again, hoping she had cleared away what seemed to be an unpleasant discharge. The presence of another orange clot sent her heart into a flutter.

Christ, this looks serious. Some sort of infection. Better get it checked out.

She snatched up the puffball in both hands and made off at a rapid jog. Her shock gave urgency to her legs as she sped down the wooded slope, determined to ring the local surgery as soon as possible. She had travelled only a few hundred yards when a hot flush rose to her cheeks accompanied by a wave of nausea. She leaned against the lichen-covered bark of an oak to catch her breath. The onset of these symptoms was beginning to cause a panic. She even wondered if the Landrover was reachable in her current state.

Get a grip, Jane. You can do this.

She swallowed, shook her head and was immediately invigorated. In fact, she experienced a wash of perverse pleasure. Eyes closed, she allowed herself to drink in the unexpected, even lascivious thoughts that now entered her mind. Visions of naked, alluring forms appeared in ghostly fashion, rubbing their oiled skin against hers.

What a time to get caught up in such a fantasy.

Within seconds, these imaginations turned to something much more depraved. She saw herself inflicting all kinds of cruel acts upon the people who had just shared intimacy with her. Here she was committing the act of dismembering a body. Not a corpse, but a live person, strapped down, innocent, writhing and begging for mercy as she lowered a surgical saw to remove their fingers and toes one by one.

She shook her head again as if trying to remove the thoughts by physical force, but the images kept assaulting her mind in a barrage. Why these bizarre hallucinations, for that was what she understood them to be, should attack with such ferocity and suddenness was beyond her comprehension.

She cried out in frustration, holding her hands to her head, but they continued. A different group of retreating victims were cut down in a swathe of gunfire delivered by her own hand. Others were tortured with knives and skewers thrust deep into their flesh. The final tableau was the one that sent her careening through the undergrowth, screaming until her throat was ragged. She was poised over a helpless man, bound with cable-ties, looking into his terrified face. Without hesitation she bit into his neck, twisting her head back and forward like an animal, tearing off pieces of skin and other tissue in a bloodthirsty frenzy. Blood smeared her teeth, its iron tang infusing her senses, increasing her euphoria still further. The screams of the victim only enhanced her pleasure, goading her on in bestial acts of savagery.

Her tumbling flight did little to dispel the onslaught, simply obscured her perception of the immediate environment. It was therefore inevitable she should find herself sprawled across the forest floor, victim of a thick briar extending across the sheep trail down which she ran. The hard dirt accomplished what her own efforts had failed to do. Upon raising her head, the mass of foxgloves and rose-bay willow herb came into focus. No more gory images, no screaming victims, no more the intense rush of orgiastic pleasure she had just experienced.

There followed a period of several minutes during which she panted lungfuls of air, not daring to hope that the episode had passed. After some time the nausea subsided, and she managed to rise to her knees, the only sign anything had happened being a dull thump in her head and a trail of orange discharge down her arm.

She hitched herself up against a bank of earth and breathed deeply. Oh God. Oh God. What’s wrong with me?

She considered for a moment if she had dreamt it all. Perhaps she had blacked out, the illness that overwhelmed her having plunged her into delirium. She was desperate now to get home as quickly as possible.

Staggering to her feet, she looked down. The puffball had broken into a thousand fragments, much of it mashed into the front of her jacket. She almost laughed at the ridiculous prospect of holding on to the specimen at all and picked three or four pieces off her coat, dropping them into her pocket. It would be enough for Kev to make a start on identification, but he’d need a complete specimen eventually. She dismissed the thought from her mind. It wasn’t a priority for the moment. Getting back to the lab was.

Once she was on the move again, she began to feel remarkably better, the cool wind clearing her head. In fact the only sign of having suffered any affliction was the continued pouring of the russet gunge from her ear. The sight of the green Landrover emerging at the bottom of the hill filled her with relief, and it wasn’t long before she was hurtling down a forest track that led to the tumbledown dwelling she called both home and workplace.

The clouds gathered overhead in dense banks, casting a gloom over the afternoon. Rain would follow soon. Kev was in, thank God. She could see light coming from the basement that acted as their laboratory. He’d be writing his report for the Natural Environment Research Council, a task that was already a week overdue. A positive response to it was needed as they depended on the national body to ensure continued funding for their research. He wouldn’t take kindly to the news of her emergency, but it’s not like she had engineered it.

She entered through the back door and was greeted by their chocolate labrador, Smiffy. He took one sniff of her however and retreated to his basket with a whimper, his head turning away as if shunning a leper.

That bad is it? she said, Guess I’m in more trouble than I thought.

She made her way to the lower level and announced her presence. Kev was unusually sympathetic when she told him the story and dropped his work to attend to her.

This is serious, Mudge, we ought to get you to A and E straight away. Don’t bother taking your coat off. Get in the car and we’ll be there in half an hour.

I’d rather not, she said, I’m a bit embarrassed  with this discharge thing and I’d rather see the GP than wait in Drumcastle Infirmary for three hours or more. Besides, I don’t feel so bad at the moment. She’d omitted to mention the abhorrent imaginings she’d suffered. It was enough to recount the other symptoms without freaking Kev out with additional sordid details. I’ll clean up in the shower and see if I can stem the flow of this gunk. I think it’s slowing up anyway. It’ll only need a course of antibiotics to clear up. Tell you what, I know you’re busy with the NERC report, but can you have a look at these fragments?

She fished the remains of the puffball specimen from her pocket, nothing more than two pieces of the fruiting body with grey gills squashed flat on the undersides. I found a ton of them up in Netherwood. Never seen anything like it before. I think it could be significant. Interested?

She’d adopted her usual rapid-fire speech pattern. It irritated Kev, she knew, but it would reassure him she perhaps wasn’t quite as ill as he thought.

Sure thing, he said, but I still think —

Kev, I’m fine. This statement would irk him as well, but she was desperate to experience the stinging spray of the shower on her skin. The infection left a tangible filthiness extending from inside her body outwards.

After twenty minutes under the shower she still hadn’t shaken off the sense of contagion, and a swell of nausea was starting again. She breathed deeply, hoping the sensation would pass but bile rose in her throat like a flow of lava.

When it struck this time, its suddenness shocked her to the core. Despite the morning’s precursor, nothing could have prepared her for this onslaught. It was like her brain was afire; only it wasn’t agonising — more a conflagration of desire. The irresistible compulsion to kill, to murder, to mutilate. A diminishing part of her mind recoiled in horror at the onset of these urges. Accompanying them was a heightened libido. Not the warm, loving intimacy she’d shared with Kev, but a raging plume of depraved pleasure — self-gratifying and ultimately rapacious.

She staggered from the shower cubicle, oblivious to the torrents of water dripping to the floor. She needed release from her urgings and as she seized upon this truth, realised it would only be accomplished in one way. Glimpsing her face in the bathroom mirror convinced her there was a harpy leering back.

Oh God, the whimpering voice of reason croaked in her mind. I don’t want this.

YES YOU DO! A new, strident, alien voice drowned out the other. IT’S YOUR RIGHT. LET NOTHING STAND IN YOUR WAY.

This new entity inhabiting her thoughts was compelling beyond measure. She was forced to obey, as much a slave as a willing participant, and it was this conflict that tore her apart. In complete abandon she stumbled across the landing, half fell down the stairs and made her way to the kitchen.

Are you OK? came Kev’s voice from below.

She looked around as if seeking someone to appeal to, someone to restrain her from what she was about to do. But it was no use. The one inhabiting her mind had complete control now.

Her eyes came to rest on the knife block on the counter.

THAT’LL DO, said the voice, FOR NOW.

She withdrew the largest carving knife, holding it in an overhand grip. It felt good in her hand, transforming her into an instrument of pain, of suffering. The knife was an extension of her desire.

At that moment, all reason fled her possessed mind as she surrendered to her compunctions. Tittering like a mad woman, even the orange discharge flowing over her breasts and abdomen like a lava flow of rottenness seemed an object of mirth. The titter rose in volume to a cackle as she heard Kev rushing up the stairs.

What’s happening, I — Kev halted at the top.

Jane tried to form words, but all that fell from her mouth was a guttural, snarling noise.

Kev saw the knife and backed one step away, almost falling back down into the basement. Why are you … what? He found it difficult to make sense of the situation. Jane watched as he narrowed his eyes and nodded, a gesture of condescension once bothersome, now inflated out of all proportion.

I’ve always hated it when you do that, she said, her speech slurred and unrecognisable even to herself let alone Kevin.

You … you’re definitely not well, Mudge. Now put down the knife and we’ll get you to the hospital.

She couldn’t bear it any longer. The drive to sate her thirst for blood was too great. Without warning she sprang forward, her momentum carrying both her and Kev down the stairs. The battering and bruising of the descent was nothing to her. All other sensations were subsumed to the lust, to the hunger that now ate her up. Kev ended up underneath as they struck the cold stone floor of the lab. His eyes were closed, pooling blood evidence of a serious head wound. The sight of his blood threw her into a new frenzy. She clawed at his face, scratching deep furrows into his skin. When this wasn’t enough she opened one eyelid, poked a finger into the soft orb and gouged it out with a strength born of fury. She let out a bellow of maniacal laughter and repeated her action on the other eye, the only disappointment being he wasn’t still conscious to utter cries of horror and torment.

It wasn’t until his face resembled the meat on a butcher’s block that she noticed the knife sticking out of her belly. A dull ache was spreading from the site of the wound, blood pumping from a severed artery within. This too was a source of amusement.

She laughed one final time as her vision clouded over and her body slumped forward.

2

Jim Alburton

Damn! Jim Alburton cursed as the mobile number he’d been ringing cut to voicemail. It had been several hours since his first call and he’d stopped leaving messages for Jane Milner. There wasn’t any viable reason for his frustration, simply that it offended his sense of order and regimentation. This wasn’t like her.

He looked at the painting on the kitchen wall and adjusted the angle so it sat square to the line of the ceiling. It portrayed a view of the Pennines painted by a local artist recently deceased. He passed her memorial stone every day on his morning walk along the Spine — a glacial ridge on the Eastern side of town. Yet another facet of his ordered world.

He looked at the phone again. The time had just gone 6:10 pm. The meeting with his colleague was scheduled for ten o’clock the following morning, only they hadn’t agreed a location. He’d assumed the local coffee shop would suffice. The meeting promised to be informal and Hadrian’s Walk, though small in size, wasn’t often crowded and had tables upon which you could spread maps and documents. She, however, had intimated there might be specimens they needed to view, and possibly some microscope sections. This made her lab more appropriate. But rather than argue about it, (he’d had to pull off the road to take the call) they’d agreed to finalise the meet-up the following morning.

It’s not like her, he said again and determined to take the drive to her lab. Apart from a growing sense of concern for her well-being, he wanted to establish the parameters of his brief. Jane had brought him in as a consultant on her and Kev’s project. They needed his expertise as an entomologist and geneticist to complete their survey of woodland fauna under threat in Cumbrian woodlands, and he was keen to begin work. This delay, albeit only a few hours, upset his schedule.

He took the keys from the line of hooks over the kitchen counter, reached for his coat in the hall and stepped towards the front door. Then, he remembered something. He trotted back through the house, up the stairs and into the main bedroom. The window was firmly shut, a fact he’d been ninety percent sure of. But he liked to work within ninety-five percent confidence limits, so this final check seemed justified.

Having satisfied himself, he exited the terraced cottage, locking the door and testing it with a sharp tug. Crime rates were exceptionally low in Valley, the odd incident of local affray and garden shed burglaries being the rare exception. But you couldn’t be too careful, he always told himself.

As he drove his VW Passat down a steep cobbled side-road leading from the house, the drizzling rain turned to heavier drops and he switched the wipers on at low speed. The automatic headlights of his vehicle had already kicked in, and with the clocks having gone back he knew his drive to Jane’s house would be more ordeal than pleasure. Traffic drove almost nose to tail on Main Street, and he cursed again at the delay to his journey as he waited for a delivery lorry to negotiate the parked cars pulled half-on to the pavement.

You’re getting overwrought again, he thought, don’t sweat the small stuff.

Easy to say. He felt his teeth grind again — an involuntary and helpless response. Once out of town the traffic became more sporadic, and the weather grew worse. By the time he pulled up outside Jane’s cottage the rain was sleeting down in sheets.

So? You’ll get wet. Your body’s over seventy percent water anyway.

Alburton may have been a scientist but although he wouldn’t admit it, he paid a lot of attention to his feelings. No, not feelings, more vibes. A bit of a hippy word, but it had served him well through the years, balanced by his appreciation of empirical truth. If something felt good, it often was good. But the atmosphere around Jane’s house did not fill him with warmth.

First of all the outside light was switched off, and only one light burned in the laboratory basement. Secondly, he could hear Smiffy whining and barking as if in panic — most unlike him. He was an affable hound, not given easily to perturbation. He’d be more likely to lick the hand of a stranger than tear it off.

Alburton pressed the doorbell, then knocked hard on the door itself for good measure. He didn’t want to wait out in the rain longer than necessary. After a couple of minutes of repeated knocking he tried the handle. It was unlocked.

He hesitated before entering, conscious he hadn’t been invited. Then another squall of rain convinced him to risk accusation of intrusion over the inclement weather.

Smiffy stepped over to him cautiously, his claws clacking on the cheap lino. He sniffed Alburton’s outstretched hand then licked it with affection. The hound appeared as a dull shape in the darkened kitchen, the sole light coming from the lab downstairs.

Hey Smiffy, he said, Good boy. Are the owners home?

Smiffy whimpered, wagged his tail harder and looked over his shoulder.

Alburton noticed the open door at the top of the basement staircase. Something was wrong.

Hello, anyone home? No answer — and further calls didn’t elicit a response. Maybe they were in the garden? Fetching a scuttle of coal or some other evening chore, perhaps.

He stepped towards the staircase, calling as he went. Smiffy stayed put. Peeking down the stairs, he decided to proceed. He wasn’t a stranger after all. However he did sense his awkwardness increasing. Moreover, the disturbance in his mind created a crescendoing turmoil. As he approached the bend in the stairs, he glimpsed a bare foot, obviously attached to a recumbent body as it wasn’t moving.

Oh fuck, he thought. Someone’s had an accident. He took the last few steps two at a time, steeling himself for what was to come.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him.

As he took in the scene, he leaned against the wall for support. He was stood over the prostrate body of Kevin Humbleton. His partner, Jane, naked as the day she was born covered his unconscious form. A congealing lake of blood had spread across the sandstone-flagged floor and, most horrifically of all, Humbleton had no eyes.

3

Strobe memory

I remember … I remember picking blackberries with mother under a sweltering summer sun. The crimson juice running between my fingers from the over-ripe fruit.

I remember