S14E13 - "Some Real Fun Guys" - Horror Hill

Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. access to our extensive archive of downloadable Tales of Terror. Thank you for listening, and enjoy the show. Disclaimer. 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. Velik's books. This tale is titled Morel Season, and it revolves around, you guessed it, mushrooms. Mushrooms can be a divisive food. I rarely meet someone that's ambivalent about them. Most seem to 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 reign, 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 ChillingTalesForDarkNights.com and click Patrons in the upper menu to sign up today. You'll get instant access to hundreds of ad-free stories, so what are you waiting for? 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 Ambrose Ibsen, I give you Morale Season. The Mushroom Merchant meandered up the side road, basket in hand. The man, Elliot, he was called, had been painted a crisper shade of brown since he'd last been sighted, which could only mean that his explorations of the region's wilds had deepened. Rough-cut and middle-aged, ropey as 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 peddled, and the young chef, watching him traipse northward with many tips of the hat to those he passed, had long believed him to be a former prizefighter. What have you brought me today? asked the chef, helmer of a modest restaurant called labrasserie. He looked the seedy mushroom slinger up and down, meeting the unsightly smile with one of his own. It's late in morale season, Elliot. I can't imagine the hunt has been particularly fruitful these last few days. A thick, ruddy finger found its way to the tip of Elliot's newsboy cap as he drew near. 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 wide eyes. There were chanterelles aplenty, 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 morels, 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 peddler 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. Nonsense. 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'd 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 choicest honey holes. Ah, so that you can send one of your sous chefs into the wild and cut me out of the equation. Elliot 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 consomme 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 in the interest of broadening their palates, that Nicholas spied the reedy mushroom cellar coming down the drag. 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 stolen out for a smoke break. Nicholas ashed 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. Come by Monday with more of those morels, if you can find them. Elliot's smile was no prettier than usual, but it was significantly more strained. 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 roomy 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 rolled up 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. I came to talk mushrooms, as a matter of fact, but not to sell you any. 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 his knotted fists from his pockets, he crossed his arms and took to pacing. You see, I've... I 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 the butt away. 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 in no laughing vein, though, and his flat, pugilist'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 drops fell, it was a new spot. You know, I like to explore. I pushed into a woodland about twenty minutes east of here. Well, Nicholas, I found something. Something I think that's rather special, but I don't quite know what 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. 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 chef shook his head. A mushroom? Something out of the ordinary? Elliot elaborated, his hands working in a frenzy of gesticulation. They're morels, or something very close to morels, all 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 morel, something poisonous, put forth the chef. No chance, the mushroom peddler shot back. I know a false morel when I see one. This is something else. I believe that I've happened upon a new variety of morel, Nicholas. are larger than any I've seen previously, and I think that they could be truly delicious. What's 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 in 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 grays still alight 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 we're 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. Nicholas was urged onto a hilly eastern expanse by his fidgeting passenger, and in the space of ten minutes they found themselves navigating a commotion of greenery, punctuated only by their narrow strip of road. 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 wearied 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 so 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 street-side growth, which gave way to numberless towering trees. The day's 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 treeline. Nicholas, having come this far, fell into step behind him. So what are we looking for, exactly? he asked, intruding upon the songs of evening birds. There's a spot a little ways in, explained the ruddy guide. He pawed at 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 foliage 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 fetters 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 or 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 sodden landscape was littered with them. They sprang up in odd clusters, in 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 cordyceps struggled skyward. Trees all around were wreathed in turkey-tail mushrooms of shocking hue. The blues and oranges left the strongest impressions in the gloom. But these, though treasures in their own right, were glossed over without a word by Elliot as he trudged on. He stepped over heaps of handsome white buttons large enough to feed a family, and made no remarks about the deposits of lion's manes whose long, white tendrils were truly worthy of the name. Instead, licking his lips repeatedly, he set his sights deeper in to some secluded recess, one which he anticipated with a subtle lightening 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 size and freshness. What's more, the proud colors the fungi bore, coupled with the hardiness of every stock and cap in sight, promised exceptional nutrient density and unparalleled flavor. His mouth watered as he kept up with Elliot, so preoccupied was he by the culinary possibilities. Those there would make an immaculate pasta filling, and these, roasted with garlic and oil, I could die a happy man. Ah, and what's this? The size of that shiitake 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 marshy declivity 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. It looked, in fact, almost as though one or both of the graves attested to 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 wait. 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 morel mushrooms In keeping with the properties of all the aphorocene specimens The morels 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 dayglow came worming down from the canopy. Nicholas, whose training had been in Avignon, 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... they certainly do look like morels, he offered when his guide made no further comment. Yes, though I've never seen a morel with this coloration. Elliot 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 merest pondering of their flavor, Nicholas's appetite was violently stirred. They certainly look delicious. He turned this way and that, studied the heap from a different angle, and admired their unique fiery coloration. But it was then that he noticed something, something that saw him pause with a jerk. Elliot, watching his companion closely for some moments, nodded weakly. 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 morels was arranged in a most peculiar fashion. Arranged, it so happened, in what he now realized was a recognizable schema. The totality of the newly discovered morel patch grew in the shape of a human being. The cluster's anthropoid outline was, after a series of shocked refusals, impossible to ignore, including a head and trunk. Segments representative of arms and legs had sufficient space from the bulk, leaving them clearly delineated. This was not all, however, for Nicholas's careful study of the soil brought something else to light. The crumbling, chalky substrate to which the morels clung for sustenance. Bones, gasped the chef, gaining his feet in a hurry. Those are bones, aren't they? Elliot nodded slowly. It would appear that one of these graves was disturbed by the elements, the body unearthed over time. A storm, it seems, finally brought it out into the open. The storm only ended hours ago, snapped Nicholas. How could all of these mushrooms have sprung from it in so little time? Morales can spring up overnight, continued Elliot. 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. Combing the hardy morels aside, he singled out what appeared to be a brittle human skull, both sockets clotted with sturdy tangles of mycelium. Whatever these are, they're a true rarity indeed. Corpse-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 at the other stone slumping nearby. That one says Thomas Pierre Black. In either case, he continued, motioning to the faded dates on the stones. These guys have been dead since the turn of the last century. See? The first fellow passed on in 1901, his 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 morels 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 wet ground. The only question I have, Nicholas, is whether or not these are morels. What's your over-under? They're morels, replied the chef. I've never seen morels of this color, but they are morels. So we're in agreement, then? Morels or not, I'd never serve such a thing. This is disgusting. The others we saw elsewhere, the button mushrooms, the cordyceps, sure, but this is grotesque. 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 morels, giving its stalk a hard pinch and inspecting it closely. He sniffed at the thing, patted the rain from its nooks and crannies. Well, agree to disagree. If they are morels, 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, countered the mushroom peddler 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 morale 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. It'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? snapped Nicholas. Is it offensive? Don't tell me you're 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 orgiastic moans kept him from swallowing it wholesale. These grunts of apparent pleasure grew so numerous and loud within him that breath began to fail him, 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! it. Out of nowhere, the mushroom peddler 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 hungrily toward the remaining fungi. I need another taste. I... 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 donned a dreamy and earnest smile. So be it. I'd throw it all away, and more for another taste. Stunned 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 morels 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 rather would, said Elliot, reaching out and plucking another. This time he didn't even pause to knock the rain from 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 ecstasies, the mushroom peddler shook his head fervently. My head is clear, Nicholas. My stomach content. 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 bowled him over. Simply incredible. What's so great about them? I'd betray my own mother for the merest 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 savoriness about them, he began while licking his chops. It's sublime, greater than that of any other mushroom. The umami flavor, yes? Yes, that's right, but that isn't all, continued Elliot. On the back end, there's a subtle but intoxicating sweetness. It lingers on the tongue and transitions beautifully from the initial savoriness. I've never experienced anything quite like it. Not in a single foodstuff, at least. And the texture. There are some varieties I detest for their crunch or their rubberiness. Even raw. These almost melt in one's mouth. They're delicate, but not insubstantial. Am I making sense? From the mouthfeel down to the flavor, they're utterly perfect. This rave review more than piqued 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 morels, then? he asked. They aren't even in the same league. Those others, the hogs can have at them. The fresh, local morels that Elliot had been in the habit of bringing to Labrassery 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 lie to you chef Raw mushrooms are always a gamble But these Oh I feel more than good With the wickeder lots you often know it straight away With these Well I wouldn be surprised if they had some salutary effect or another I feel invigorated. You 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 the tops of the mushrooms. Here is your Michelin star. Convinced by his partner, Nicholas knelt down once more. All right, 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, declared the mushroom hawker. It would cause a scandal if people found out that I was drawing mushrooms from such an unconventional place. Corpse-fed, you mean, 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 hat. to murder scenes to active manhunts, there really isn't anywhere I won't go. Coast to coast, I am all about old-fashioned boots-on-the-ground reporting. You have to show up in person to cover the news and get the secrets, and I have a way of getting people to talk. I cover stories others ignore with a relentless determination to get to the truth. Listen to Brian Enten Investigates every day, wherever you get your podcasts. Together, the pair carried off the whole mess of morels. Hauling them in 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. Headlights 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 morel of medium size. Hands shaking with excitement, he prepared to bring it to his lips, but the chef stopped him short, asking, Say, 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 they're really as good as you say. Uh, 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 morel 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 savoriness 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 a 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'd just put into his mouth had been a full-on sensory experience. He was filled to 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 at 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. They hadn't counted, but instinct told them that they gathered up somewhere between a hundred and a hundred and fifty mushrooms. The things seeped old rain from every crevice and filled the small room with an earthy scent. Dinner plans were drawn up at once. As the chef rummaged excitedly through his cabinets and spoke much of braises and complimentary herbs, Elliot 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 Elliot, who'd been perched uneasily on a kitchen stool for some minutes. He'd been swirling his wine glass mechanically, making pretensions towards aeration, but now wished 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 has 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. Elliot took to his feet and snatched a morel 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 as sugar, safe as table salt, chef, spat Elliot, helping himself to yet another. Perhaps, panted Nicholas, eyeing the mound longingly. We should send a few to a lab. A trained mycologist 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 stalks. 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, said 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 saw him sink against the edge of the counter as he gulped the morel down. His every tastebud quaked in awe of the native savoriness, nearly to the point of soreness, only to be soothed by the Dionysian sweetness that always followed. The specimen he'd availed himself of was the largest one he'd tried yet, a mushroom necessitating at least three or four bites. He had not made a very careful examination of the morale in 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-legged thing, black in color and beetle-like, buzzed fearfully in the mushroom. Such things were not unexpected. Freshly picked, unwashed produce almost always contained these hangers-on. Nicholas had never been great at dealing with bugs and would ordinarily have been too disgusted at the sight 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 save 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. Without giving the matter any further thought, he crammed the rest of the morel into his mouth and began to chew. The deluge of flavor recommenced. The thing's 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 chitinous legs, the taste of the beetle failed to lower his enjoyment one iota. Elliot, leaning against the counter as if for dear life, was beginning to push handfuls of the morels 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 cupped it back up in his hands and drank it down like a soup. Between bites, when breath allowed, both men hooted and hollered like nuns since the fall of Rome. Mere intemperance gave way to vaster gluttonies, and before long the two were on their knees, greedily knocking armfuls of the morels 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 in flavorful ecstasies, not so much as a crumb 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 splayed 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 readout told him he'd been asleep several hours. The world was on the verge of dawn. Elliot? He called out, blurry eyes combing the dark corners in search of the mushroom peddler. 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 morels, 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 tongue sported no irregularities. It was possible that the Morels 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 morels in the future. Until then, he would content 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. It was out of character. On his rare days 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, though this was very short-lived on account of the sudden soreness in the knees and ankles. He returned to his home an achy wreck, and applied ice to the joints in question until the pain ebbed. Even so, his appetite did not deign to reappear. By that evening, he hadn't eaten in more than eighteen 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 Elliot, he waved off alarm. As the sun set, he fixed himself a light meal of scrambled eggs made with creme fraiche and a side of scalloped potatoes, a comfortable favorite of his. sitting at the kitchen table with a bit of Rachmaninoff on the stereo he realized with horror that he could not bear to eat the meal that he had so carefully prepared and had eaten with 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 morales he'd eaten with Elliot the eggs and potatoes did not strike him as food. Yes that was the source of his troubles His heart and stomach were in agreement They wanted one thing and one thing only More of the black and red morales Nothing else would do. Throwing away his dinner, he made do with a bit of mineral water and tried to placate himself with other entertainments. A baseball game on TV, an action movie, a bout 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 morels, 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 gravesite. It was possible that more had turned up overnight, but he thought it mighty unlikely. But then it was not so unlikely. Morels 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 soreness in his joints had not abated. It was getting worse, as though the cartilage in each had grown sparse, leading to the friction of bone on bone. He struggled at 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 seeped through the treetops, 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 site perhaps he would find an eruption of the elusive morels a fresh bounty rivaling 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 paying 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 though a rug had been pulled out from under his feet, and throwing out his arms in 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. Blood and bone and connective tissue should have awaited him as he turned a wide eye to the arm in question, but instead, as he surveyed the injury, which had erupted very near the elbow, he found nothing of the sort. The skin had been pierced, yes, by a single splinter of white, bloodless bone. But there was not so much as a drop of gore to be found. Instead, where blood and muscle should have reared their heads, coarse filaments, black and red in color, spilled out in tangled 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. Aghast, the chef clutched at his wounded arm and gained his feet. Standing proved more difficult than ever before as his knees popped and whined for the effort. Were his leg bones, his other joints, also tangled in these mycelium-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 all right. 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 had 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 what appeared to be a shallow grave, lately disturbed. And in it, something writhing. Nicholas staggered toward the open grave, his sneakers squelching in the mud. The scene came gradually into focus. The rain softened borders of the site, the duo of crooked stones that framed it, the man-sized thing that flopped and groaned and whined within its shallow depths. The one in the grave was none other than Elliot, Hatless, jacketless Elliot 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 throes. Elliot, gasped the chef, rushing over as quickly as his feet could take him. Elliot, what's happened? The mushroom peddler 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 at his arm and drew nearer the grave elliot 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 elliot's blackened 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, morel, black and red, had sprung defiantly out of Elliot's broken ankle. Twitching threads peeked out of the bloodless, fleshy fissure as they drew sustenance from the bones and tissues within him. I... I had to have more, wheezed the mushroom peddler. And so I... I left... I left your place, Nicholas, and... and I returned here. He clutched at the old bones beneath him as he went on. There were no more morels, not even one. but that didn't stop me, Nicholas no I ate as much of this soil as I could bear in 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 morels we so enjoyed They're not gone, Nicholas. They're living within us now. Within us, Nicholas. I collapsed here after I hurt my foot. I don't feel well. The stiffness in my joints and the coolness. He gave a withered laugh. I feel half dead already. The morales, 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. We're doomed, Nicholas. We're 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 more taste Nicholas listened to the man as he wept in the pit no tears came from Elliot's eyes the water and nutrients essential to tears had already been committed to other processes by the ever pulsing threads of mycelium glancing at his wounded arm he thought he spied the cap of a morel forming deep within the damaged tissues he felt a great pressure behind his eyes as he stared as though morels 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, mourned Elliot in the grave. There's nothing to be done for us, Nicholas. No cure. It's too late. I haven't got the strength to stand, to walk. It's already in me, replied Nicholas My arm, my head, I'm... I'm full of them Would that I could taste them one last time sobbed the mushroom peddler Nicholas lowered himself to the ground and leaned into the open grave where Elliot twitched Nothing can be done, he said eyeing the morale that jutted from the man's broken ankle nothing at all so what good will it do to deprive oneself he licked his lips and scurried a little deeper in approaching elliot's foot what's one last taste between friends pinning elliot's leg down with his good arm the chef homed 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 Elliot's sharp scream as he feasted. The man's tissues were bloodless, flavorless, almost gummy in texture, having been robbed of all vitality. But Elliot's flesh could not detract from his enjoyment of the morel. Chewing through mushroom, sinew, and skin The young chef was overwhelmed by the profound savoriness 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 savored it ecstatically until tear ducts and taste buds alike had grown heavy with new morels. You've been listening to Morel Season by Ambrose Ibsen. Once upon a time, a young Ambrose Ibsen discovered a collection of ghost stories on his father's bookshelf. He was never the same again. Apart from horror fiction, he enjoys good coffee brewed strong. Tonight's story is from his collection, At Dusk. You can connect with him on his official website, ambroseibson.com. Just for the record, I love mushrooms. Unfortunately, they don't sit too well with me these days, and I've had to pare 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. After reading weekly horror stories to you fine people for four years now, that 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 Ibsen 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 Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. Tonight's episode was hosted, narrated, scored, and finalized by yours truly, Eric Peabody. Additional music by Nicky McSorley. Got a terrifying tale of your own that you'd like performed? 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