I forced myself to stay, toes gripping the damp earth as if it might open up beneath me. The thing in the soil looked like a wrong answer to a question I’d never asked—vivid, obscene, and utterly out of place among the petunias. My mind scrambled for categories and came up empty, leaving only a raw animal unease that made every rustle sound like a warning.
That fear followed me inside as I grabbed my phone, hands shaking while I framed the shot. But reading changed everything. The monstrous shape became a stinkhorn fungus; the stench, a clever signal meant for flies, not me. When I went back outside, the garden felt different, but not hostile—just deeper, older, full of quiet intentions I’d never noticed. What began as a morning horror became a small, grounding revelation: sometimes the monsters are only mysteries we haven’t named yet.
