Nobody says nothin’ good about that Kimball Manor, wastin’ away on the corner of Hemlock and Old Chatsworth Road. Nobody says nothin’ bad about it either. Really, nobody says much at all about the old mansion, but somehow everybody knows about the Fungus Man that lives in the hole where the parlor floor caved in. It’s what the adults call an “open secret.”

Now, nobody in town knows this Fungus Man, and none but a few knows what kind of fungus make him up. Eunice always said the Fungus Man’s fungi weren’t like the mushrooms they sold in the grocery store, but the natural, dangerous kinds that make your throat close up and your skin blister and char. Eunice usually knows what she’s talkin’ ‘bout when it comes to earth sciences, so I was keen to believe her. But I also had a mind to see it for myself.

I told her so, one day walkin’ in the gully next to the overgrown rail line while we were headin’ back from school. That was the long way ‘round, but we took it to escape the boys who always said Eunice had a mouse face and pulled her hair. They said plenty other mean things about her too. Said she looked like a bloated pear, on account of her hips. Laughed at her fingernails, full o’ dirt, and her patchy clothes. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with makin’ good use o’ God’s blessings,” I always said. It would cheer her up some, but not a whole lot.

What would cheer her up was takin’ the forest path just before the fork in the tracks. She looked mighty cheerful in the dim light under the forest canopy. She’d stop to point out new buds on a cranefly orchid or hornbeam saplings, threadin’ the shoots through her fingers. Every so often she’d find a mushroom you could eat, pick it up, and scarf it down. Wouldn’t even wash the grime off or nothin’!

“Henry, look!” She was crouched down at the base of an old oak stump, brushin’ a round, ruffled cap with the tips of her fingers. “Hen o’ the woods. Good eatin’, these.”

“Looks like them ballerina tutus,” I said.

Eunice laughed, a loud raspy cackle. Then she tore off a piece and gulped it right down.

“Bet you’re always thinkin’ o’ ballerinas in their tutus, ain’tcha, Henry?”

I frowned. I was goin’ by Hank these days, and she knew it.

She was pushin’ my buttons. She always did after a run-in with those bully boys.

“Don’t you think I’d look good in one of them tutus, Henry?” she asked, knowin’ she wouldn’t, but knowin’ I’d agree.

“Duh,” I said, “but your tutu would be made o’ these here mushrooms.”

She tore off another piece and offered it to me. I turned my nose up at it, but she pressed, shakin’ the thing at me. And that there’s when I got to thinkin’ of the Fungus Man.

“Hey, you think there really is a man made o’ mushrooms who lives underneath that caved-in floor over in Kimball Manor?”

Eunice just stared at me, tearin’ piece after piece of that hen o’ the woods. I thought maybe she was mad, or fixin’ to set me straight or somethin’. She could, too. But I’d never mentioned the Fungus Man before. Like I said, no one ever really says nothin’ about him or the house, so how can anyone have a strong feelin’ about it?

Jesus would’ve been born, grown, died, and resurrected before Eunice did anythin’ but chew that wood-hen, unless I clicked my tongue and said, “Gimme some,” and held out my hand.

She smiled, a little bashful, and gave me a piece. I popped it in my mouth. It was soft and fluffy and tasted buttery, just like chicken.

Eunice piped up. “I heard that the man don’t just live in a hole in the ground,” she testified. “I heard there’s a big ol’ tunnel beneath that house, stretchin’ all the way down into Hell, down and down straight into Satan’s fiery torture pit.”

She crept toward me, her arms held up in front like a zombie.

“Just waitin’ for stupid boys like Henry Tattnall to fall into it and get gobbled up by the devil himself.”

I gulped. “So he’s a demon, then? The Fungus Man?”

“If he’s real,” she said, her voice quivering, “he might as well be. I’d steer clear if I’s you.”

She huffed and started walkin’ away, her arms pulled taut as a circus high-wire behind her. My head was tellin’ me she was just messin’, but my heart wanted to prove her wrong. Show her I wasn’t scared o’ no tunnel or devil or Fungus Man. And if she was really messin’, why would she herself be so scared?

So I said, “You’re too chicken to find out for yourself, ain’t ya, Eunice Bailey?”

She whipped ‘round again. “Ain’t scared. Just got no interest in dyin’.”

“Well, I’ll protect you if you promise to come with.”

“Scrawny boy like you? Protect me?”

Now, it’s true that I’m on the scrawny side. Just haven’t filled out yet. All the Tattnall boys do, eventually. So it did seem funny that scrawny little Hank Tattnall could ever protect Eunice Bailey, who was just as tall and nearly twice my size.

We’d climbed trees and arm-wrestled and all that plenty o’ times, and she always won. But she was only strong when she could find her nerve, and she sure couldn’t find it when those bully boys had a mind to beat down her confidence. And who could blame her? They set upon their target like huntin’ dogs. Not lettin’ up until they was satisfied with the kill.

So I stood back, hands on my hips, lookin’ at the forest refuge around us and called, “Done it before, ain’t I?” Takin’ credit for walkin’ her home the long way, not being scared of the forest like them bullies.

Boy, she really got mad then. Her face turned red as a hot stove and she said, “I’ll show you, Henry Tattnall. You wanna face the worst fear you ever known? Well, be my guest.”

And she stomped off toward old Kimball Manor on the corner of Hemlock and Old Chatsworth Road. I shoulda known right then that Eunice Bailey knew more than I did–about that house, about the Fungus Man, but also just about everything.