S14E13 - "Some Real Fun Guys" - Horror Hill

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“Horror Hill is a horror anthology podcast bringing you scary stories from all corners of the internet and beyond.”

As such, certain stories include content that some listeners might find offensive.

Listener discretion is advised. [Music] Good evening listeners and welcome to Horror Hill. I'm your host and narrator, Eric Peabody. Tonight, I have a story for you from show regular Ambrose Ebsen, straight from his new collection at dusk, which by the way you can grab over at village books.

This tale is titled "Merrell Season" and it revolves around "You Guest at Mushrooms". Mushrooms can be a divisive food. I rarely meet someone that's ambivalent about them. Most seemed either love them or outright hate them.

Whether you're in camp A or camp B, I can guarantee that you've never felt as strongly about them as the characters in tonight's story do.

A local mushroom hunter and a small-time chef with dreams of making it big. Following an unexpected rain, they make a startling discovery and I suppose you could say that their problems stem from there. You're listening to the free edition of this program. If you'd like to help support Horror Hill and also remove these pesky ads, head to chillin' tails for darknights.com

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Also, if you're watching on YouTube, do us a favor and drop a like and subscribe, become part of our dark circle listeners. And now, from author Ambro Zibsen, I give you Morrell season. The mushroom merchant meandered up the side road, basket and hand. The man, Elliot, he was called, had been painted a crisper shade of brown since he'd last been cited, which could only mean that his explorations of the region's wilds had deepened. Rough cut and middle-aged, ropey is a stray dog. Elliot's sandy smile was an ugly thing to behold, a broad showcase of oddly spaced teeth and fat tongue.

The man's nose was as broad and flat as the mushrooms he sometimes paddled, and the young chef, watching him traips northward with many tips of the hat to those he passed, had long believed him to be a former price fighter. "What have you brought me today?" asked the chef. Homer of a modest restaurant called La Brasserie. He looked the CD mushroom slinger up and down, meeting the unsightly smile with one of his own. It's late in Morrell season, Elliot. I can't imagine the hunt has been particularly fruitful these last few days.

Then you are lacking in imagination, chef. Look here, a bounty. A basket draped in brown cloth was hefted forth with a grunt and set down on the pavement before the chef.

Half in disbelief, the cook dropped to one knee and pulled away the covering, revealing a mound of wild mushrooms, things of startling size, and an impossible to fake freshness. How in the world? He muttered, rifling through the hall with wild eyes. There were shantarels, a plenty, the odd lion's mane and chaga too. White buttons made up the largest portion, but appearing in their midst were not a few prime Morrells, and these were plucked up covetously for closer inspection.

“I can't understand it. The season's all but over, Elliot. Where did you find these?”

Trade secret, replied the petler with a shrug. "I have my sources, Nicholas. I have my sources."

I'll say you do. You've just been to the local supermarket, haven't you, and you're fixing to sell me refrigerated imports at a markup? Do these look like imports to you, chef? Asked Elliot. I bring you these delicacies from our native soil, the yield of my day's labor. Of course, if you aren't interested, one of the other Michelin hopefuls in town will surely bite. Not since. Nicholas went rifling through his chef's whites and revealed a billfold.

Peeling a few greenbacks from it, he stuffed the funds into the peddler's loamy palm and took possession of the basket.

“"I don't know how you do it, but one of these days you must tell me where you're finding these, Elliot. I have to know."”

"Oh," replied the man with another tip of the hat. "Are the owners giving you days off now, chef?" "Hardly," said Nicholas with a sigh. "But one of these evenings, perhaps after the dinner service, I'll have you over for a drink, and you can tell me all about your choices, honey holes." "Ah, so that you can send one of your sous chefs into the wild and cut me out of the equation." "Alley, it's stuffed the cash into his pocket, and pulled away with a chuckle and a wave." "Not on your life, chef?" "Now, you'd best get back to the kitchen, I fear the consumm is boiling over."

"The weekly ritual came to an abrupt end. The mushroom hawker went shuffling from the curb, tipping his hat at passerby as he went, and turned a corner."

“"Armed now with the freshest mushrooms, money could buy, the young chef threw open the back door of La Brasserie, and tossed the teeming basket onto the back counter."”

"He and his staff would now go about preparing them for the evening's guests. Guests he hoped would include Michelin inspectors."

The restaurant's unexpected closure on Saturday evening came down to sheer bad luck. A powerful storm that morning had knocked out the power in every building within a few miles of La Brasserie.

When the fridges ceased to hum and their contents began to spoil, Nicholas salvaged what he could and fixed an impromptu meal for the staff on the gas range. The place was thoroughly cleaned out during the daylight hours, and plans were made to reopen on Monday. It was in the later stages of arranging this temporary shutdown, while the tired cooks were considering an indulgent trip into the wine cellar and the interest of broadening their pallets. The Nicholas spied the reading mushroom cellar coming down the track. He carried nothing in his ruddy hands this day, and though he passed others on the street, he gave no tip of the cap.

Instead, he walked with his head low and fists in his pockets, grumbling to himself. He had come within a dozen yards of La Brasserie's back door, when he suddenly began scanning the restaurant's facade and locked eyes with the idling chef who'd stole an out for a smoke break. Nicholas asked his cigarette and met the mushroom peddler with a nod. "How goes it, Elliot? I didn't expect to see you here today." Anyway, we've had to shut down on account of the storm, no power for blocks around. But, come by Monday with more of those murals, if you can find him. Elliot's smile was no prettier than usual, but it was significantly more strange.

Good evening, chef. He said sniffing the misty air. "Sorry to hear about the power outage. Can't imagine that's good for business." He cast his arumy eyes upon the other cooks in the vicinity. A few were still carrying bins of spoiled ingredients to the dumpsters, while some were leaning against the restaurant's brick facade with their sleeves are all dep, and cigarettes between their fingers. The wandering peddler seemed in want of privacy, for he dropped his tone considerably as he went on, and watched the others keenly, as if to ensure the narrowest possible audience for what followed.

Nicholas took a long drag, his brow arched. "How do you mean, Elliot?"

"You're always going on about it, where do you find these mushrooms?"

"Well, chef, I thought I'd come by today and give you a peek behind the curtain, so to speak." Elliot cleared his throat. Pulling has nodded fists from his pockets. He crossed his arms and took to pacing.

“"You see, I've found something today, something very special, I believe, and I'd like your professional opinion on it."”

The chef dashed his cigarette out against the heel of his shoe and flicked to the bottom way. And what might that be? weren't you telling me just last week that your honey holes are a trade secret? He grinned, trying to lighten the mood. I'd hate to cut into your profits. Elliot was a no laughing vein, though, and his flat, mutualist's nose wiggled as he drew in a deep breath through wide nostrils. I went out late this afternoon. He began. Just an hour or two after the last drop's fell. It was a new spot. You know, I'd like to explore.

My pushed into a woodland about 20 minutes east of here. "Well, Nicholas, I've found something, something I think that's rather special, but I don't quite know it to make of it."

Elliot sighed. "I've been in this business since I was a lad. My uncle taught me. You know how it is that I always deliver the goods?"

“"That's how, and it's been passed down over generations. And you, more than anyone, would agree that I know my stuff, yes?"”

Nicholas put up no resistance to the claim. "Your knowledge of fungi is sound, Elliot. You're good at what you do." So, imagine my surprise then, when I stumbled upon something I couldn't identify today. With a furrowed brow, the shaft shook his head. A mushroom? Something out of the ordinary? Elliot elaborated, his hands working in a frenzy of gesticulation. Their morals, or something very close to morals, are right. The colors are peculiar, though, not like anything I've ever seen.

I've been bringing you the usual browns, the occasional whites. These, though, are black and red, almost glittering. Could be a false morale, something poisonous, put forth the shaft. No chance, the mushroom paddler shot back. I know a false morale when I see one. This is something else.

“I believe that I've happened upon a new variety of morale, Nicholas, and our larger than any I've seen previously, and I think that they could be truly delicious.”

Once more, I found them growing in great abundance, but only in this particular locale. He lifted his cap and raked at his thinning hair before plopping it back down again. Such a thing you understand would be of great interest in the culinary world, a new variety of mushroom, something sumptuous and exotic, could really set a young chef apart, no? I see what you're doing, replied Nicholas. How much are you looking to charge me for the privilege? Not a dime, came the rejoinder. You're running a charity now.

I'm simply curious, Nicholas. I don't know precisely what I found, so I can't in good conscience charge you for it. You've been a solid customer of mine for some time, and so I came to you first.

If you would be so good as to join me on a walk to the spot in question, we could harvest some. Then, with your skill, you could cook them up for us, bring out the best of them. Once we've tasted them, we can decide what they're worth, if they have a place on a world-class menu. "It's generous of you," said the chef. He turned to the sky and found its hazy graze still a light with the glow of a waning sun. We might have an hour or two of light yet. Is that enough time, though? "Yes, yes, I reckon so," replied Elliot. "If you're free, that is." He glanced at the other staff still loitering by the back entrance. "On any other day, I would have had to decline. Today, though, you've caught me at a good time."

Removing his apron, Nicholas approached his sous chefs and passed on a few instructions to ensure a smooth closing. Then, fetching his keys and jacket from the back room, he rejoined Elliot on the street. "It'll be faster if we drive. Tell me whereabouts were headed," he said, seeking out his sedan along the main drag. Traffic proved very sparse on account of the day's ill weather, allowing the duo to make brisk progress down abandoned country roads and through rain-swept fields.

While riding the gentle inclines and drops, the two of them puffed at cigarettes, windows open.

“Neither, however, said anything, until the car came to a stop upon a grassy shoulder at Elliot's urging.”

The two men, mere acquaintances for some months, suddenly found themselves alone on a lonesome avenue, and the suspicions of both seemed mildly pricked by the sudden increase in their involvement. Elliot, taking many a nervous drag from his smoke, had traded his usual congeniality for something more tentative. He seemed most uncomfortable in the passenger seat, fidgeting like a man plagued by guilt or wearyed by the weight of deception. The chef, for his part, wondered just how trustworthy the mushroom slinger was, whether he had done a foolish thing in accompanying him to sew, remote a locale.

When the car was parked, Elliot hastily undid his seatbelt and stepped out. Nicholas followed, locking the doors and tugging on the waistband of his slacks. They had made it to a lush patch of streetside growth, which gave way to numberless towering trees. The day storm had done a number on these woods, downing a profusion of branches and leaving the ground itself not a little murky.

“Elliot, already dressed in mud-stained boots, thought nothing of these conditions, and went ambling from the road toward the tree line.”

Nicholas, having come this far, fell into step behind him. So, what are we looking for, exactly? Be asked, intruding upon the songs of evening birds. There's a spot a little ways in. Explain the ready guide. He potted his whiskered cheeks as he went stomping between the trees, his gaze narrow.

How'd you find it? Elliot shook his head. I was meandering, as one does, and happened upon that little shoulder back there. On foot?

“I was walking off a bender. I spent the night drinking and only started sobering up after the storm quit.”

Fair enough.

It's quiet out here, peaceful, and it occurred to me that I've never really searched in this area.

So, I set out. I stepped past the tree line, figuring that the shoulder back there would give me some kind of landmark to work with, and kept my eyes open. Three, four, five minutes on. I found it. What?

Several moments passed and Elliot's pace quickened before he finally replied with a pointed finger. That, he announced, motioning into the distance. The springy foilage and collected trunks all but chased out the sunlight.

As such, the pair had to cover several more yards before Nicholas was able to make out the shape of the first tottering headstone.

What? What's that? Elliot hands tucked into his pockets, gave a half shake of the head. It's an old graveyard, he said quietly. Long forgotten, long fallen into disrepair. And so, indeed it was, sitting low in the swampy earth and scarfed in feathers of moss, grime, and age, were several uneasy successions of grave markers. The monuments left skewed and crooked by age,

stretched deep into the wilderness ahead, and the inscriptions on most had been blurred by time. While the short path preceding this site had not wanted for dampness of earth or coolness of air, the terrain of the forgotten cemetery possessed a special moisture, as well as that spine tingling chilliness that is the product of shadow alone. A whiff for a glance left one without doubt. This was an ideal setting for fungi.

From the very first, as the duo began creeping through the morass and inserted themselves between sunken stones, mushrooms became apparent.

The sudden landscape was littered with them. They sprang up in odd clusters and varieties both clear-cut and rather dubious from any surface that would have them. And, sometimes, even from those which ordinarily would not. Dewy, crevasses and weathered headstones brought forth many lobed hen of the woods, and from the soupy lands themselves, rebellious corducepts struggled skyward. Trees all around were reathed in turkey tail mushrooms of shocking hue, the blues and oranges left the strongest impressions in the gloom.

But these, though treasures and their own right, were glossed over without a word by Elliot as he trudged on.

Instead, licking his lips repeatedly, he set his sights deeper in to some secluded recess,

“one which he anticipated with a subtle lightning of complexion.”

It isn't much further now, he promised. The chef could not but marvel at the mushrooms on offer as they went. Any one of the edible species might have commanded a high price, for all on offer were uniform in their unique sides and freshness. Once more, the proud colors the fungi bore, coupled with the hardiness of every stalk and cap inside, promised exceptional nutrient density and unparalleled flavor. His mouth watered as he kept up with Elliot, so preoccupied with E. by the culinary possibilities.

Those there would make an immaculate post-affilling, and these, roasted with garlic and oil, I could die a happy man.

On, what's this? The size of that chitake puts any hamburger to shame.

The stoop-shouldered peddler came to a halt so suddenly that Nicholas scarcely avoided crashing into him.

“Clearing his throat, he slowly descended onto one knee, and glanced at the chef over his shoulder, motioning to the ground.”

Just ahead, couched between two crooked grave markers, was a marshyed clivety of perhaps two feet in depth, where much rain had gathered. There was no standing water to be found there any longer. Instead, the thirsty land had drunk it up, turning the divot into an utter mire of black soil and drowned foliage. At looked, in fact, almost as though one or both of the graves attached to two by the aforementioned markers had been partially dug up.

It was here, in this bed of rain-churned soil, so very near to ancient bones, that the object of their search lay in a way. Here they are, uttered Elliot. Heedless of the grime, Nicholas joined Elliot on the ground and looked upon the sea of fungi before him. It was just as the man had reported.

“This shallow pit was filled to teeming with what appeared to be morale mushrooms.”

In keeping with the properties of all the A-foreseen specimens, the morale's in question were almost preternaturally robust. Black stalks terminated in the usual, closed umbrella-shaped tops, which were similarly black. Streaks of fiery crimson were laced throughout the caps, however, which, in the low light, seemed to glitter like red agate. This optical impression was perhaps furthered by the damp, for droplets of rain still clung to the porous mushroom tops,

and reflected what little day glow came warming down from the canopy. Nicholas, whose training had been an avonion, and who had sampled in his tenure,

most every edible mushroom common to cuisines, both eastern and western, had never seen their like,

and for several silent seconds he beheld them in awe. They certainly do look like morale, he offered when his guide made no further comment. Yes, though I've never seen a morale with this coloration. Elliott leaned forward a bit, running his hands over the dewy pile. The entire growth, some feet high as well as across, was left trembling from his touch.

What do you think? Are they safe? At the nearest pondering of their flavor, Nicholas's appetite was violently stirred. They certainly looked delicious. He turned this way in that, studied the heap from a different angle, and admired their unique fiery coloration. But it was then that he noticed something, something that seemed pause with a jerk.

Elliott, watching his companion closely for some moments, nodded weekly. You've noticed then. It had only come to him after taking in the mass of mushrooms as a whole, and from a few different vantage points. The entire patch of curious morale was arranged in a most peculiar fashion. Aranged, it so happened, and what he now realized was a recognizable schema.

The totality of the newly discovered morale patch grew in the shape of a human being. The clusters' anthropoid outline was, after a series of shocked refusals, impossible to ignore, including a head and trunk. Segment's representative of arms and legs had sufficient space from the bulk, leaving them clearly delineated.

The crumbling, chalky substrate to which the morale's clung for sustenance. Bones, gasped the chef, gaining his feet in a hurry. Those her bones aren't they? Elliott nodded slowly. It would appear that one of these graves was disturbed by the elements, the body unearthed over time.

A storm at seams finally brought it out into the open.

“A storm on the end of hours ago snapped Nicholas. How could all of these mushrooms have sprung from it in so little time?”

Morales can spring up overnight. Continued all yet. They don't need much time at all. It's interesting, though, the way they've taken to those bones. Look here. Still kneeling, he reached out and pointed to the nearest extremity, the Segment answering for a head. Coming the hearty Morales aside, he singled out what appeared to be a brittle human skull, both sockets clotted with sturdy tangles of mycelium. Whatever these are, there are true rarity indeed.

Carps fed. He dared a dark chuckle, but soon returned to silence. So, this is why you were acting so strangely earlier.

I don't know what to make of it. I've never seen such a thing, confessed Elliot.

It's disgusting. It's strange and upsetting, but it's also unique.

“Next you're going to tell me that you know the poor sod. Elliot shook his head and reached out to the nearest gravestone.”

He slapped it with his palm. Says here, Giovanni Lopresti. He pointed to the other stones, slumping nearby. That one says Thomas Pierre Black. In either case, he continued, motioning to the faded dates on the stones. He's guys have been dead since the turn of the last century.

See, the first fellow passed on in 1901 as partner a few years later in 1904. I've boasted of many things in my life, but I won't pretend that I was kicking around 120 years ago. And you? The chef peered nauseously at the murals, and took another glance at the bones beneath. No, I suppose these bones have been here a long, long while. They've been worn down over time.

Elliot eased himself back onto his haunches, and then sat down upon the white ground. The only question I have, Nicholas, is whether or not these are murals. What's your over under? They're murals, replied the chef.

I've never seen murals of this color, but they are murals.

So, we're in agreement then. murals are not, I'd never serve such a thing, this is disgusting. The others, we saw elsewhere, the button mushrooms, the cordus apps, sure, but this is growtask. They're feeding off of human remains, Elliot. It's foul, it's unethical. Elliot clicked his tongue and reached into the pit.

With a careful tug, he loosed one of the murals, giving it stock a hard pinch, and inspecting it closely. He sniffed at the thing, padded the rain from its nooks and crannies. Well, agreed to disagree. If they are murals, they're safe to eat, no. You aren't seriously going to try one, are you? Do you think Giovanni will mind?

Uncooked? That's unwise. Tell you what, counter the mushroom paddler with a grin.

“I'll taste test them and let you know what I think.”

If I wind up in a bad way, you can drive me to the hospital. But, Elliot, giving the thing a final once over, Elliot brought the murals to his mouth and bit off a portion of the cap. Conscious of the threat posed by poisonous or uncooked mushrooms, he was careful to eat only a small portion. That's the dose that makes the poison, Chef. He said while working it over in his mouth, thoughtfully. The words had no sooner left his mouth than he drew in a sharp breath, regarding the mushroom with wide eyes.

What's the matter? Snaps, Nicholas. Is it offensive? Don't tell me here about to drop dead. Elliot gave no reply whatsoever. Except, to suddenly stuff the remainder of the mushroom into his mouth. Caps, stock, and all were milled ravenously between his teeth, and only a profusion of organic moans kept him from swallowing at wholesale.

and when he finally swallowed the thing he did so with a gasp, pawing at his mouth, he stared up at the canopy, panting.

“Elliot, Elliot, nagged the chef, now with real concern. Elliot, out of nowhere, the mushroom paddler reached out and took Nicholas's hand in his, giving it a hard squeeze.”

When he turned to face the chef, it was with watery eyes. It's... it's delicious. He whispered. His tongue danced across his lips as if in search of one last morsel.

I've never tasted anything like it.

Nicholas drew his hand back. You're being a bit melodramatic. Certain varieties of mushroom can be delicious without preparation, but most species require cooking to bring out their finest qualities. I've never tasted anything like it, insisted Elliot. It's... it's incomparable. The flavor, the texture. He was still panting, and his eyes strove hunkerly toward the remaining fungi. I need another taste, I need a bit more.

No, that'll be quite enough. Spat the chef. You're a braver man than I, eating one of those raw. For all we know there's toxins circulating through your system right now, Elliot. Blood poisoning, liver failure. Does that sound like a joke to you? Elliot dawned a dreamy and earnest smile. So be it. I'd throw it all away and more for another taste. Stond at this admission, Nicholas paced around the heap of mushrooms with his hands in his pockets.

“Don't be stupid, Elliot. It's just a mushroom. How good could it possibly taste?”

The murals of France, their flavor brings a smile to my face, but at the end of the day a mushroom is a mushroom. Taste one for yourself and see. I'd rather not. I'd rather wood. Said Elliot, reaching out and plucking another. This time he didn't even pause to knock the rain from it, it didn't even inspect it for insects or bits of detritus. The whole thing was promptly inhaled, and groans of unbelievable delight came pouring out of him.

What if there's some hallucinogenic effect? I'm going to have to drag you back to the car at this rate. Through tearful ecstases, the mushroom peddler shook his head fervently.

My head is clear, Nicholas. My stomach contend. It's my taste that'll never be the same.

“He reclined a little on the damp ground, as though the immensity of the flavor had bold him over.”

Simply incredible. What's so great about them? I'd betray my own mother for the mirrors nibble. The flavors, Elliot. What has you so worked up? Though he lacked a culinary background, Elliot thoroughly detailed the flavor profile of this new discovery. There's a pure, unrestrained, savouriness about them. He began while looking as chops. It's sublime, greater than that of any other mushroom.

The umami flavor, yes? Yes, that's right, but that isn't all. Continue, Elliot. On the back end, there's a subtle but intoxicating sweetness. It lingers on the tongue and transitions beautifully from the initial savouriness.

I've never experienced anything quite like it, not in a single food stuff, at least.

And the texture. There are some varieties I'd attest for their crunch or their rubberiness. Even raw. These almost melt in one's mouth. They're delicate, but not in substantial. Am I making sense? From the mouthfield down to the flavor, they're utterly perfect. This rave review more than peaked the young chef's curiosity, so much so that he began to overlook the morbid bed in which they lay. They're better than your usual murals than he asked.

They aren't even in the same league. Those others, the hogs can have it them. The fresh local murals that Elliot had been in the habit of bringing to library had ranked among the best that Nicholas had ever tasted. To hear that these mysterious new fungi trumped them on every front, was an exciting enough prospect to blunt his judgment. And you say you don't feel ill. Not yet anyway, replied Elliot.

I won't lie to you, chef. Raw mushrooms are always a gamble, but these. Well, I feel more than good.

Well, I wouldn't be surprised if they had some salutary effect or another. I feel invigorated. He don't say.

I don't know what these are, Nicholas. I don't know if they're a new discovery, perhaps they are. Whatever the case, we must harvest them. We must take as many as we can carry.

“And on Monday, you must serve them. He motioned to the pit and lovingly stroked to the tops of the mushrooms.”

Here is your Michelin star. Convinced by his partner, Nicholas knelt down once more. Alright then, let's gather them. Take as many as you can.

Promise me, though, that you'll never tell anyone about where we found them, Elliot. I would never declare the mushroom hawker.

It would cause a scandal if people found out that I was drawing mushrooms from such an unconventional place. Corpse fed, humane, replied Elliot with a laugh. He began ripping up mushrooms and funneling them into his pockets. Oh, once people get a taste of these, I don't think they'll care where they came from.

“The only thing they'll be worried about is their next bite.”

Sure, but promise me, Elliot. Yes, yes, I promise. He lifted his cap as if preparing to stuff away a secret.

I'll keep it under my head.

Together, the pair carried off the whole mess of murals, hauling them and their upturned shirts, they hobbled back to the car where they poured them out into the trunk. The emptying of the pit required a few trips, and by the last, the sun was in full retreat and the woods were bathed in misty gloom. This dimming proved a small mercy for it prevented both men from getting a very clear look at the human remains from which their quarry had sprung.

“Filthy now. The duo took their seats in the sedan and made a hard turn back onto the road.”

Had lights engaged, they flew swiftly from the remote shoulder and planned to head straight for Nicholas's home. There, the chef intended to experiment with these, new mushrooms. While passing back into town, Elliot went clawing through his pocket and unearthed a single straggler, a black and red morale of medium size. The man's shaking with excitement, he prepared to bring it to his lips, but the chef stopped him short asking, "Let me have a taste, will you?" What? The greedy passenger looked as though he'd just been slapped across the face.

Just a taste. I want to see if there really is good as you say. But, it is rather unsafe, offered Elliot. Don't be that way, just give me a nibble will you? He held out his hand in anticipation. Elliot acquiesced with a noxious smile. Of course, I'd love to hear your thoughts. He placed the morale in Nicholas's palm and watched closely as the chef took a small bite of the cab. At once, the flavor proved almost overwhelming. Nicholas was overcome by a tidal wave of savouriness so profound that he half felt himself in a dream.

Tires screeched as he pulled onto the side of the road and slammed the brakes, bringing them to a stop. His bite initially curious and exploratory grew ravenous as his mouth became better acquainted with the stuff, and he chewed up the piece of mushroom cap with the vigor of a starved man at banquet. His ears and neck tingled with pleasure and his mouth watered like a fountain. And then, just as quickly, the promised sweetness came rushing in and left his tongue buzzing with the gentleness of raw honey.

It was no mere food that he had eaten. The thing he just put into his mouth had been a full-on sensory experience. He was filled with the brim with excitement and didn't even hear the delighted sounds issuing from the lips until Elliot's laughter broke in and made him once again aware of himself. See, they are good, aren't they? The chef struggled to regain his breath. His tongue ran circuits around the inside of his mouth chasing down the last hints of that super spectral flavor. Good isn't a strong enough word.

Divine, not of this world. Superb. When next he wheeled onto the road, he mashed the accelerator in a frenzy. The path to his home was blazed that speeds greater than the posted limits, and with no regard for traffic lights. With muddy hands, the pair stood in the kitchen, staring at their bounty heaped upon the countertop.

Dinner plans were drawn up at once. As the chef rummaged excitedly through his cabinets and spoke much of braces and complimentary herbs,

“Elliott hovered by the counter and adored the things. Nicholas popped a sensible vintage from his personal stores and poured two generous glasses while arranging bottles of oil and other ingredients by the stove.”

In time, though, as the wine went untouched and the other ingredients came to room temperature, it became clear that both men had become preoccupied by other designs. "You'll hate me for saying it," put forth Elliott, who'd been perched uneasily on a kitchen stool for some minutes. He'd been swirling as wine glass mechanically,

making pretensions towards erasian, but now wish to make it clear that he was reserving his palate for other greater pleasures.

Must we cook them? For fear that the chef might complain, he hurriedly continued, "It's just that they're so delicious as they are. The texture may not hold up against high temperatures and... Nicholas, having been on a similar mental track, nodded. It's a good question. What could I add to them? How can I improve upon what nature is done?"

“He toyed with the skillet in his hand and then set it upon the stove with a sigh. Incorporating them in a salad, perhaps, would be the best way.”

A salad, yes, fresh and raw, they'll be the star of the show. Provided, of course, that they're safe.

"Oh, but they are, chef. They are!" Elliott took to his feet and snatched a morale off the counter Cavalierly. We'd both be dead by now if these were poisonous, I'm sure. Unable to override his desire, he stuffed the thing into his mouth and went weak in the knees. "Yes, oh, yes, they're safe. And they mustn't be cooked, chef. They mustn't be."

“Nicholas, availing himself of another morale, made a great show of inspecting it. He worked his fingertip across the cap, searching beneath its frills for signs of filth or disease.”

He, too, scarfed down his mushroom and the surge of flavor that ensued was enough to make his heart race. They do seem quite safe, don't they? "Safe this sugar, safe as table-salt chef?" Spad Elliott, helping himself, too, yet another. "Perhaps, panted Nicholas, eyeing the mound longingly. We should send a few to a lab, a trained psychologist will be able to test them and tell us precisely what they are. Then we'd know if it was a new species."

"What a waste!" cried the ruddy glutton, cheeks packed with succulent stocks. "No, no. Let us enjoy ourselves, chef. Let us enjoy our discovery. We will hold back a certain amount for the dinner service on Monday, yes?" "And the rest, replied the chef. We can keep for ourselves. That's right. It's only sensible that a cook should have strong acquaintance with his ingredients, set Nicholas. I've tasted but a few. There may be other dimensions to these mushrooms. He snatched up another, larger this time, and bit into its damp flesh as though it were a banana.

Waves of pleasure signs sink against the edge of the counter as he gulped the morale down. His every taste bud quaked an awe of the native saveriness, nearly to the point of sarness, only to be suathed by the Dionysian sweetness that always followed. The specimen he developed himself of was the largest one he tried yet, a mushroom necessitating at least three or four bites. He had not made a very careful examination of the morale and question until the moment when he reared back in preparation for his second bite.

And it was then that he noticed in one of the dark crannies of the cap, an insect was stirring. Some many lagged thing, black and color and beetle-like buzzed fearfully in the mushroom. Such things were not unexpected, freshly picked, unwashed produce, almost always contained these hangars on. Nicholas had never been great at dealing with bugs and would ordinarily have been too disgusted at the side of the thing to continue snacking. Somehow, though, his disgust was absent. In fact, as he watched the little beetle strain and scurry within the cap, he felt nothing saved, a desire to proceed. He could not bring himself to evict the thing nor to rinse the mushroom off. He could not bring himself to do anything that might possibly delay his enjoyment any longer.

The things intoxicating texture was briefly interrupted by the graininess of some twitching addition, but whatever it was that came seeping from that ruptured thorax, or whatever the bitterness of its kindness lags, the taste of the beetle failed to lower his enjoyment one ayoda.

“Elliott, leaning against the counter as if for dear life, was beginning to push handfuls of the murals into his mouth. He sucked them down faster than he could chew them.”

And when the slurry of half-masticated mushrooms and thick spittle came running down his chin and neck, he studiously cut it back up in his hands and drank it down like a soup.

Between bites, when breath allowed, both men hooded and hollered like nuns since the fall of Rome. Mirror and temperance gave way to vaster gluttonies, and before long, the two were on their knees, greedily knocking armfuls of the murals onto the linoleum that they might squat down and devour them like dogs.

“Thus went the pile of mysterious mushrooms. When all was said and done, and both men had lost consciousness in the kitchen, reeling and flavorful ecstases.”

Not so much as a crum remained. Each of them took turns licking down the countertops, ensuring that not even a drop of the mushroom-flavored water would go to waste.

Sleep came while they stroked at their bulging bellies, weeping and sprayed on the floor. When Nicholas awoke, he was alone. Scraping his sweat-slick bulk off the floor, he went hobbling toward the stove. The clock read out told him he'd been asleep several hours. The world was on the verge of dawn.

“Alliet, he called out, blurry eyes combing the dark corners in search of the mushroom-pettler. He was nowhere to be found, however. Probably slipped out before I woke up, he thought to himself.”

The chef had awakened in quite a state. His sleep had been a feverish one. After binging on the mysterious murals, he and Elliot both had essentially collapsed, and beyond that point, Nicholas could only remember being plagued by a terrible inner heat.

His dreams, if the fragmented, unhappy visions he'd suffered, could even be called dreams, had been chaotic.

He went limping through the house and appraised himself in the bathroom mirror after taking several handfuls of water to the face and neck. Nothing much seemed wrong, though he looked like a man who'd spent an uncomfortable night sleeping on the kitchen floor. His complexion proved normal, and his eyes and tongues sported no irregularities. It was possible that the murals had carried with them a slight hallucinogenic effect, at least when eaten in great quantities, but they hadn't left him with any notable problems.

The delicious mushrooms, then, were safe. They were also gone. Unable to control their appetites, Elliot and Nicholas had gorged on the things, leaving none for him to serve his customers on Monday evening. It was regrettable, but as he paced through the house and regained his bearings, he laughed a little and put it out of his mind. He'd had many strange and interesting culinary experiences all over the world, experiences that he could not hope to reproduce. This, he felt, had simply been another.

Perhaps he and Elliot would be able to rummage up more of the black and red murals in the future. Until then, he would contend himself by serving his usual fare. Sunday morning came and went, and by afternoon, the young chef found himself faced with a strange problem. Habit had seen him prepare a pot of coffee and a light breakfast, but both went cold before he could summon up his appetite. The spread simply held no allure, and though he told himself it was important to eat, he never once brought a mug or fork to his lips.

He was out of character. On his rare day's off, he quite liked to treat himself to sumptuous meals and snacks. I must have really packed it in last night. He told himself while clearing the mess away. Thinking that the binge of the night previous had left him stuffed or somehow impacted his digestion, he changed clothes and went for a light jog around the neighborhood.

Even so, his appetite did not aim to reappear. By that evening, he hadn't eaten in more than 18 hours, where usually such a fast would have been met with lightheadedness and frustration.

“Nicholas was instead calm and composed and not at all hungry. He thought it most strange, though in light of the huge bolus of calories he consumed with allure, he waved off a alarm.”

As the sun said, he fixed himself a light meal of scrambled eggs made with creme fresh and a side of scalloped potatoes, a comfortable favorite of his. Sitting at the kitchen table with a bit of rockman and off on the stereo, he realized with horror that he could not bear to eat the meal that he had so carefully prepared and at Eden was such relish in the past. He approached the eggs and potatoes a number of times, but in bringing forkfuls to his lips was filled to bursting with disgust.

The food had not merely lost its appeal, compared to the incredible murals he'd eaten with allure, the eggs and potatoes did not strike him as food.

“Yes, that was the source of his troubles, his heart and stomach were an agreement. They wanted one thing and one thing only, more of the black and red murals. Nothing else would do.”

Throwing away his dinner, he made due with a bit of mineral water and tried to playkate himself with other entertainments, a baseball game on TV, an action movie, about of scrolling on social media. But none of those could hold him for very long. The more he tried to distance himself from the delectable murals, the more he fixated on them. Nothing can be done, they're all gone. He and Elliot had collected every one of the mushrooms from the graveside. It was possible that more had turned up overnight, but he thought it might be unlikely.

But then, it was not. So unlikely.

“Morals can spring up overnight, can't they? At least, that's what Elliot claimed, he uttered to himself. Perhaps there are more waiting for me there.”

And this time, venturing alone into the woods, he would be able to harvest them all for himself. Stepping out of the car and onto the damp shoulder. Nicholas was surprised to find the sornus and his joints had not abated. It was getting worse, as though the cartilage and each had grown sparse, leading to the friction of bone on bone. He struggled to the tree line, wincing and stretching, and tried to remember the exact route he'd taken the evening previous. There was a bit of sun left in the sky, and by this glow which seaped through the tree tops, he quickly found himself in the presence of several ancient headstones.

Once more, he was greeted by mounds of robust mushrooms, but these he passed without a second glance as he searched for the open grave.

The turkey tails, the white buttons, these meant nothing to him. Somewhere, in this wilderness, just a little further ahead, he kept telling himself. He would find the sight. Perhaps he would find an eruption of the elusive Morals, a fresh bounty writhling that of the day before. Maybe he would find only a smattering. In either case, he intended to claim what he could and get his fill. Gone were fantasies of serving the mushrooms to pay in customers, weighed against the flavor of these new fungi, his Michelin ambitions were null.

Though less wet than the previous day, the terrain remained somewhat slick and muddy, leading to ill footing and a few trip ups as he stepped between the ancient graves. He went clopping from one muddy trench to another, his sneakers unfit for the task, and was almost stripped of his footwear on a number of occasions by the sucking mire. It was for this reason that he lost his balance and fell. And, in falling, earned a startling injury. Nicholas tumbled to his right as there were rugged and pulled out from under his feet, and throwing out his arms and search of support he found a stubborn old tombstone. This, his right forearm met with a sickening crack before he went rolling onto the ground with a moan.

Searing pain, coursed through him as he felt the skin of his arm parted by splintered bone. He knew before he could even sit upright and glance at the injury that the fracture had come bursting through the surface.

But there was not so much as a drop of gorge to be found. Instead, where blood and muscle should have reared their heads, course filaments, black and red in color, spilled out entangled threads.

“These thin cords evidently wrapped tightly around the bones of his forearm, pulsed subtly as he beheld them in terror, pulsed like veins or arteries. But they were not veins or arteries, at least not in the human sense.”

Struggling onto his knees, Nicholas teased the exposed cordage with his fingers. It felt vaguely rubbery, tough, like wire, but undoubtedly organic. The threads wound around his bones felt like roots. A gasped, the chef clutched at his wounded arm and gained his feet. Standing proved more difficult than ever before, as his knees popped and wind for the effort. Where his leg bones, his other joints, also tangled and these, my cellion-like threads? No, he told himself, "You're hallucinating. You must have hit your head on the way down. You're fine. You're going to be alright. You just need to get to a doctor."

Take a deep breath and relax. Suddenly unsure of his bearings, Nicholas shuffled a little from the tombstone that it split his arm and went looking for the unconventional path he'd cut through the wilderness.

Instead, a stone's throw to his left. He discovered would appear to be a shallow grave, lightly disturbed, and in it, something writhing.

Nicholas staggered toward the open grave, his sneakers squalching in the mud. The scene came gradually and a focus. The rain softened borders of the site, the duo of crooked stones that framed it. The man-sized thing that flopped and ground and wind with an echelod depths. The one in the grave was none other than Elliott. Hatless, jacketless Elliott was floundering in the declivity face down. His face and arms were black with soil, and his legs kicked feebly as if he was trying to bend his knees and rise.

It soon became apparent that he could not, and that these were the stirrings of a creature in its death throws.

“Elliott, gasped the chef, rushing over as quickly as his feet could take him. Elliott, what's happened?”

The mushroom-pedeler jerked at the sound of Nicholas's voice, and with a monumental effort turned his head to try and meet him. The gesture came with a series of cries and moans, as though the slightest pivot of the head could not be executed without unbelievable pain. Nicholas, he sighed, his black lips parting, and his tongue thudding noisily within his dry mouth. So, you've come, too.

“The chef clutched a desire and drew nearer to the grave. Elliott, what's happened to you? What's surveying the prone man?”

Nicholas happened upon something that had earlier eluded him. A terrible injury previously hidden by the hem of Elliott's black and slacks. The man's ankle was split open, and his foot had been bent hideously inward in a devastating breakage. The injury itself, though, was not half as terrible as the thing which had come creeping out of the ruptured foot. A small, morale, black and red, had sprung defiantly out of Elliott's broken ankle, twitching threads peaked out of the bloodless, flashy fisher, has they drew sustenance from the bones and tissues within him.

I had to have more, we used the mushroom padler, and so I, I left, and left your place, Nicholas, and I returned here. He clutched at the old bones beneath him as he went on.

and the hopes of finding just one more scrap. I sucked on these weathered bones, ripped the roots off them with my teeth,

“but found only bitterness. The morale was so enjoyed there.”

They're not gone, Nicholas. They're living within us now, within us, Nicholas. I collapsed here, after I hurt my foot, I, I don't feel well, and the stiffness in my joints and a coolness, he gave a withered laugh. I feel, I've dead already. The morale's, they're spread throughout my body, and they're sucking everything out of me, and soon, all too soon.

I'll be sleeping in this grave, just like the poor sap we first found here.

Well, doomed, Nicholas, where doomed. We should not have eaten the things. We shouldn't have disturbed the dead, and yet, and yet I still long for a taste. How cruel it is to meet one's end this way, to pass from this life without one, or taste. Nicholas listened to the man as he wept in the pit.

“No tears came from Eliot's eyes. The water and nutrients essential to tears had already been committed to other processes by the ever pulsing threads of my celium.”

Glancing at his wounded arm, he thought he spied the cap of a morale forming deep within the damaged tissues. He felt a great pressure behind his eyes as he stared, as though morale's might spring out of his brain and send his eyeballs tumbling out of their sockets. His mouth was dry, and conscious now of what was happening to him. He felt woozy. We should not have eaten them. Morned Eliot in the grave. There's nothing to be done for us, Nicholas. No care. It's too late. I haven't got the strength to stand to walk.

It's already in me, replied Nicholas. My arm, my hand, I'm, I'm full of them. With that I could taste them one last time. Sobbed the mushroom paddler. Nicholas lowered himself to the ground and leaned into the open grave where Eliot twitched. Nothing can be done. He said, "I-ing the morale that jotted from the man's broken ankle."

“Nothing at all. So, what good will it do to deprive oneself?”

He looked as lips and scurried a little deeper in approaching Eliot's foot. What's one last taste between friends? Pinning Eliot's leg down with his good arm, the chef honed in on the morale and tore it away with sharp teeth. His bite brought with it more than the mushroom. He took with him no little flesh and was greeted by Eliot's sharp scream, as he feasted. The man's tissues were bloodless, flavorless,

almost gummy in texture, having been robbed of all vitality. But Eliot's flesh could not detract from his enjoyment of the morale. Chowing through mushroom, sinew and skin,

the young chef was overwhelmed by the profound savouriness in whose wake the gentle sweetness always came.

The sweetness did arrive, and it never ended. He died with the perfect sweetness on his tongue, having savered it ecstatically, until tear ducts and taste buds alike had grown heavy with new morale. You've been listening to morale season by Ambrose Ypsen.

He was never the same again.

“Apart from horror fiction, he enjoys good coffee, brood strong.”

Tonight's story is from his collection, At Dusk. You can connect with him on his official website, Ambrose Ypsen.com. Just for the record, I love mushrooms. Unfortunately, they don't sit too well with me these days, and I've had to pair back recently. But if I ever find myself hankering for more than I should eat, I now have a nice handy visual

to stop me in my tracks, seeing a wriggling, skittering beetle inside of a mushroom, and taking a big crunchy bite. The reading weekly horror stories to you find people for four years now, that's still somehow got a full body shiver out of me.

“It really capped off the experience you might say.”

And no, I will never apologize for my flagrant use of puns.

I may be many things listeners, but I'm no quitter. Thanks to Ambrose Ypsen for tonight's tale, and thank you all for joining me. I'll be back next week with a sci-fi epic spanning the centuries, and until then, stay spooky.

You've been listening to the horror Hill podcast, a production of chilling entertainment and the creative team at Chillin Tales for Dark Nights.

Tonight's episode was hosted, narrated, scored, and finalized by yours truly, Eric Keybody,

additional music by Nikki Mixorley. Got a terrifying tale of your own that you'd like performed, email it to us at submissions at simplyscarypodcast.com to have your work considered for future production. Note that any writing utilizing artificial intelligence is ineligible.

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