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.
Now, when we showed up to Kimball Manor, I nearly lost my nerve–and my lunch. Mercifully for me and for Eunice, I held on tight as I could to both.
Kimball Manor is one of them big houses my mama always called “Victorian.” Whoever Victor was, they ought done kept better care of their property. This house was about one strong gust from fallin’ over. Aside from the normal chipped, fadin’ paint you see on other houses in these old run-down neighborhoods, the walls gaped with holes and wood-rot. Its front windows were smashed in, the handiwork of older kids passin’ time with double-dog dares and contests to see who had the strongest throwin’ arm. The roof over the wraparound front porch sagged in a wide smile. Made it look like the house was tryin’ to make the best of its own, sorry fate.
We marched across the overgrown front yard, pickin’ our feet up high to keep from gettin’ stuck by nettles. Eunice, sure-footed and focused, didn’t look back once. But every time I took a peek at that smilin’ roof, I shivered. The second-story dormer windows stared at me. Beggin’ us to turn back, or maybe do the crumblin’ house a kindness and put it out of its misery.
I thought about it. I really did. Thank the Lord above I did not have a mind to turn tail or destroy nothin’.
I sucked in a breath and mustered some courage. If Eunice could do it, why couldn’t I?
“Can you imagine livin’ in a place like this?” I asked.
“Back when it was all nice and rich-like, I mean.”
Eunice shrugged.
“Havin’ such a big house, with so much space. Probably lots o’ gold and silver inside, too. Maybe some o’ those Roman statues that rich people like in the garden.”
I glanced around the side of the mansion past a big, scraggly oak, the kind with moss hangin’ on its branches. An old carriage house sat back there, one of its doors missin’. In the fadin’ sunlight, I swear I saw the shimmer of a horse’s head, pokin’ out from inside. My head snapped right back to Eunice.
“I like it better now,” she said, almost growlin’. So she was tense. I wondered why–why she liked it better now and why she was tense–but had the good sense not to ask.
The porch steps creaked loud underneath our feet as we climbed. The front door was already open a crack. There wasn’t no wind that day, but the darned thing still groaned and swayed from some apparition pushin’ on it.
Somethin’ caught in my throat. Eunice must’ve noticed ‘cause she turned right ‘round and said, “We ain’t gotta do this, Henry Tattnall. You’s already spooked, I can tell.” She crept forward, her eyebrows raised, like she expected me to back down. “I’m givin’ you one more chance to admit you’re downright terrified of the Fungus Man.”
I studied her face, all careful-like. Her eyes were wide and her lips were clamped tight. She’d found her nerve, but underneath that confident face o’ hers, there was a battle goin’ on. Like she knew crossin’ this haunted doorway would change her life forever.
Well, I took that gambit. I couldn’t imagine Eunice would’ve been keepin’ secrets from me, no matter open or closed.
So I sucked in a deep breath and stepped right on past her to the front door. And I pushed it open.
Inside was even worse for wear than outside, if you could believe that. All them rumors were true about the parlor floor.
It had a hole in it, all right–a hole so big it took up the whole room! Hardly two floorboards left together, even ‘round the edges. Everythin’ in the room had fallen in–old chairs and cabinets, patterned rugs, end tables and crystal lamps, even an old grandfather clock, its pendulum all twisted.
Across the room was a grand staircase, covered in an inch of dirt and dust. I found myself havin’ an urge to try to cross the room to the stairs, to put off the “invitable” or whatever my mama called it.
But Eunice had another idea. She pushed past me and dropped right down in the hole, which was really no deeper than a swimmin’ pool. It was filled with rubble, and Eunice clambered over it easy. “Come on, scaredy cat,” she said. “This is what you wanted, ain’t it?”
I grumbled and followed her. Truth be told, I was curious, but also suspected I was in over my head.
At the other end o’ the pit was a tunnel dug deeper beneath the house. She crept down it, holdin’ her hands up to mind the pipes hangin’ from the cave ceiling. The silence and darkness swallowed us right up. Felt like I could hear my every breath and swallow and my own heart poundin’ in my ears. Meanwhile, Eunice was cool as a cucumber. She led the way through the meanderin’ tunnels like she’d been there thousands o’ times before.
Maybe she had, I thought.
The tunnels were cold and damp, but my face still got plenty hot. Nerves, most like, but I’d also started thinkin’ that Eunice could be playin’ me like a fiddle. There she was, movin’ all comfortable-like through the tunnels. She coulda known exactly what we were gettin’ into, everythin’ about the Fungus Man and his lair, but coulda pretended like she didn’t.
Now, every one of us has lied one time or another, but it felt awful right then and there, in such a dangerous situation, to think my best friend had been tellin’ tall tales.
So I made to set the record straight. “Eunice Bailey, how come you lied and said you ain’t know about all this?”
“Psh,” she said. “Whatcha mean I lied? I ain’t lied about nothin’.”
“You did too lie,” I said, raisin’ my voice. My mama would scold me for that. “You made like you ain’t known nothin’ about Kimball Manor and these here tunnels. Makin’ like you ‘heard about’ the Fungus Man and demons and all that, makin’ like you’d never seen ‘em. But you had seen ‘em. Hadn’t you?”
“You’re off your rocker, Henry Tattnall.”
“I ain’t off nothin’,” I said, and I reached for her shoulder, fixin’ to spin her around and show her the hurt I was feelin’ about her lyin’ to me.
But just when I did, a mighty roar echoed through the cave.
We both froze in our tracks, right there in the middle of a small chamber connectin’ three different tunnels–the one we came from and two others.
We waited. Five seconds, then ten, then twenty. And just when I was about to say we should get goin’, there was another sound. A bunch o’ sounds, really, all together, in a big cloud.
Pops and snaps, like pullin’ up old roots from a garden bed.
Around us, the cave shivered and groaned, throwin’ piles of dirt at our feet. Then there was one big snap, and everything stopped.
We weren’t alone in the cave no more.
I could feel him right next to me. The Fungus Man. I didn’t dare look, but I didn’t have to. He loomed over me. He stood tall, taller than any man I’d ever seen, even my papa. And he stank to High Heaven, like the carcass of some dead animal.
I stood there, petrified, even as he leaned down close to me, his hot breath on my neck and my ear. Maybe he was sniffin’ me or somethin’. To this day, I don’t know. What I do know is that when he got close, I could hear his body. It moved. Writhed, like worms in a dead log. All of his fungi, they were movin’, growin’. In that moment, I feared he would latch onto me, suck me into his body and take over mine until I was covered in mushrooms and fungus too.
I stood there, tremblin’, my mind blank, afraid of everythin’–the man, my own shadow and my own body.
But then I heard Eunice sayin’ somethin’. Only later did I realize what it was.
“It’s okay,” she said, pleadin’. “It’s okay. It’s me.”
She stepped forward, puttin’ herself between me and the Fungus Man. All calm, no nerves. A far cry from my shakin’, whimperin’ self.
The Man huffed and leaned back, then let out another mighty roar. The ground shook and threw us both to the cave floor. Pain hit my legs and I heard Eunice cry out. Then there were more noises, both the slitherin’ worm sounds and the snappin’ twigs sounds. The cave shook and shook and I could hear the Fungus Man groanin’ as he grew taller and taller, gatherin’ his strength to strike.
“Let’s get outta here while we can,” yelled Eunice. And she ran down the tunnel ahead of us on the right, draggin’ my sorry self behind her, lost for breath and with legs as good as noodles.
Now, I already said once that Eunice Bailey knew more than I did about most things. She could memorize scripture in no time at all. Her grades in math and science blew mine clean out the water. She always seemed to remember everybody’s name, or how to get from A to B in town.
That last one proved pretty handy right then in the Fungus Man’s cave. It was like she knew every twist and turn in those caverns. Even without a flashlight, she could sense the way to go.
I, of course, was completely blind and scared to bits and my knee hurt like hell. Behind us–just inches–the Fungus Man’s groans and roars chased us, makin’ his rage known to us and all o’ Hell’s other demons in the process. But we were faster than him in his new, taller body. I followed Eunice as she turned this way and that, leadin’ us to safety.
Eventually, the Fungus Man’s groans grew softer and we slowed our pace. Only a little, though. We were still wanderin’ like blind bats in this cave, and I was desperate to get outta there. My knee ached bad, and my muscles were as dense as molasses. I was beggin’ to see the daylight.
Eunice could tell I was strugglin’. She put one of my arms around her neck, and together we marched further along the path.
“Happy now?” she said. Could never resist a chance to taunt old Hank Tattnall, could she?
After a few more minutes, a silver glow appeared ahead of us. I got a surge of energy and I rushed forward, clamberin’ up the few stones and out of the cave. We ended up in a clearing in the middle of the forest. Our forest, mine and Eunice’s.
I sighed so heavy I thought my lungs would jump clean out my body. I was exhausted, my knee was bloody, and my jeans were torn in three places, but we made it. I fell back in the grass, laughin’ and laughin’, gazin’ up at the treetops. I felt Eunice thump down on the ground beside me.
“Can’t believe we made it out alive,” I said. “All thanks to me, right, Eunice?”
She didn’t answer. Unlike her not to shoot somethin’ clever back, or at least click her tongue in disagreement.
Maybe now wasn’t the best time for taunts. Changin’ my tune, I said, “How’d you know which way to go in them tunnels? That was awesome. You were better than Magellan when he went ‘round the world.”
Still no answer.
It occurred to me right then that she might be right angry with me. Angry with me for darin’ her to go inside Kimball Manor, for not listenin’ to her when she warned against sneakin’ a peek at the Fungus Man.
I got a sour taste in my mouth. It was awfully bully-like of me, wasn’t it? To gawk at this man like he was nothin’ more than a sideshow attraction. My insides grumbled with shame. I got to thinkin’ I should admit it was a bad idea all around.
So I made to roll over. To face her and say I was sorry for puttin’ us in danger.
I turned, the grass rustlin’ underneath me, and Eunice yelled, loud and wounded, “DON’T.”
But it was too late. She was lyin’ on her side, turned away from me. Her clothes were ripped from when we fell, just like mine. But in between the rips in her jeans and shirt, somethin’ was pokin’ out. Somethin’ ruffled and colored with brown and white and baby pink stripes.
O’ course, I recognized it instantly, even if it made no doggone sense. Around her hips, stuffed into her jeans, was a skirt made from hen o’ the woods mushrooms. Just then, I remembered what she said in the tunnels, when the Fungus Man made to grab at us. “It’s me.”
Now, it didn’t matter if she was wearin’ the thing, or she was the thing like the Fungus Man was. I suspected she was the thing, but no way did I wanna embarrass her by doin’ or sayin’ nothin’ unkind. So I said, “Eunice Bailey, you really wearin’ a tutu underneath them jeans?”
She shuddered, and I heard her sniffle and sob.
I confess, I didn’t know what to do. I’d never known Eunice to cry at all. Even when the bullies got to her, she’d just grit her teeth and shut up like a clam. The only thing that ever got her talkin’ again was talkin’ about nonsense.
So that’s what I did.
“Y’know,” I started sayin’, “you said I’m always thinkin’ about skinny ballerina girls in tutus like them’s you see on TV at Christmastime, but I don’t get what all the fuss is about. I really don’t. My momma always says the only girl for a Tattnall boy is one who can put us in our damn place, and I don’t think any of those ballerina girls got what it takes. I mean, you seen my brother Jim’s wife, Daisy, right? Not exactly Daisy-like, is she?”
Eunice sniffled. I heard her laugh a little bit, even over the sounds of the forest around us. So I kept goin’.
“And then there’s William, who didn’t even want no woman to begin with. You remember Marcus, don’t ya, Eunice?”
She rolled over so she faced me. Her eyes glistened in the fadin’ light. She shook her head no. And it dawned on me that I barely remembered Marcus. Only met him the one time when I was in third grade. Bald, dark-skinned, muscular and taller than anyone I’d ever met. He towered over me, but had the kindest smile you could imagine. He and William hadn’t been back from the city since then.
“Well,” I said, shovin’ down the memory, “he’d break me over his knee with one snap, that’s for sure.”
“Truly, Henry Tattnall,” she said, with a snort. “Anyone could. Hell, I could break you over my knee.”
When I tell you my face got so red! I sat up lightning-fast, about to talk back to her about how I just hadn’t filled out yet and one day it’d all be different. But Eunice laughed again, in earnest this time, and none of that talk mattered. I found myself in a fit of chuckles.
When we laughed together, it was like a balloon had popped.
All the knots in my stomach untangled. Lord, I was exhausted. I plopped back down in the tall grass, my arms restin’ on my knees. Eunice rolled up beside me, propped up on one elbow. She was bein’ oddly shy, spinnin’ a blade o’ grass between her fingers. It seemed like there was somethin’ she wanted to say but was afraid of my reaction.
Well, I’ve never been one to let quiet last, but this time I ain’t know what to say neither. We sat there as the sun went down, listenin’ to the crickets call out in their rockin’ rhythms, listenin’ to all manner of creatures scamper around in the forest behind us.
“Now you’ve seen it, I guess I should tell you,” she said, finally. “I know what’s in store for me. I can’t stop it. My mycelia will keep growin’. I’ll get stronger, but I’ll also become less…” She snapped off a grass blade. “Well, I’ll become more like him. Get new senses but lose old ones. My sense of taste, my voice…”
She trailed off, stared through the trees at the dyin’ light.
“Henry,” she mumbled. “What do you want your life to be?”
“What do you mean?”
She snapped off another blade and spun it in her fingers. I watched her twirlin’ it, rubbin’ her fingers back and forth, savorin’ the motion of it, the flexibility of her fingers. I imagined them covered in little spores and veins of mold like those that covered the Fungus Man.
“Maybe I picture a life full o’ mushrooms.”
She hit me. Hard. “Be serious, you idiot.”
“Alright! Alright,” I protested. I supposed I’d best try to offer a different picture. I sighed, lettin’ an image come to me. But none came except for those bullies, tormentin’ Eunice at school. And my momma, scowlin’ fierce at my brother William and then at Marcus.
I still didn’t have a full picture–not countin’ those bad ones–but I did have a good goshdarned idea.
So I said, “Me, I don’t know what I want. But I sure as hell ain’t gonna go the way of everyone else in this puny town.”
“What way is that?”
I looked her plain in the face with the most sincere look I ever gave another God-fearin’ soul. I did that so she knew I wasn’t lookin’ at her mushroom skirt. So she knew I was lookin’ at her and her only.
“The way of turnin’ my back on the folks that matter.”
I took her hand and nodded. Things would change. I would change and she would change. But this here was as sure as the mushroom tutu growin’ around her waist.
Now, the sun was gone and the last streaks o’ daylight were fadin’ fast. But other lights sprung up from the ground. All around us, little tiny things started glowin’ an alien green color. There were ribbons of ‘em, loopin’ around fallen tree limbs and pine stumps, makin’ the grass look radioactive.
Eunice squealed in delight. “Ooh, Henry! Look at all the lil’ paddle bats!”
She rolled over and grabbed one of the tree limbs, bringin’ it closer. “Now these are fascinatin’ little creatures. You’d never notice ‘em in the daytime, but at night they show their true colors.” She gasped. “You think maybe I’ll grow some of these?”
At the time, I smiled, thinkin’ she was off her rocker. She’d probably just look ugly like the Fungus Man. But he didn’t have no hen o’ the woods on him, neither. Maybe it could happen.
So I said, “No doubt you will.”
We followed the trails of paddle bats around the woods that night until the moon hung high in the sky and foxhounds started bayin’ and it occurred to me that this here, this was the picture I was lookin’ for but couldn’t envision. People always talk about a glowin’ future, but I didn’t ever take it so literal. I was glad to have found one, glowin’ bright green.
Nicholas Jay is a conservation-minded urban planner living in Atlanta, Georgia. His fiction has appeared in The Dread Machine, Hyphenpunk, Tree and Stone, among others. He enjoys his time most with either pen, violin, or map in hand — sometimes all three at once. Find him on Twitter at @kn1ckkn4cks.