Click. “This is, uh, audio log number one of Dr. Raymond Hanh,” said a voice duller than the spine of a knife. “I am on a research trip to conduct various experiments and studies on fungi from SNU. After moving out into the forest, I understand why Kennett Square is considered the mushroom capital of the world. Fungi cover every square inch of land within my field of vision, and I’m sure I would see an ocean’s worth if it weren’t midnight.”

There is an extended silence of heavy breathing. Upon closer listening, through whistling winds, were coyotes causing dissonance in the melody. Deliberate steps rustled through the shrubbery, obscuring nature’s metal music — or is it an audience? Raymond holds his breath every few steps, with something hefty being dragged subtly behind him. 

“I have mapped out an area of where I will be conducting such research on mycelium, spores, and the like. A goal every biologist has is to discover something new. Something monumental that will shock the science world,” he said, a tinge of excitement slipping through his droning voice. Just a tinge. “In such a densely populated area of fungi, it’s possible it may house a phenomenon yet to be discovered. A new parasitic species? A unique mutation? Shrooms to be used for nefarious purposes?” 

It was said as a joke, but his voice held no humor. 

“For now, a night’s rest will be essential. I have been traveling for about 16 hours now, and I want to begin early tomorrow morning.” He paused for a moment, his steps faltering. “Although, a bit of stargazing wouldn’t hurt. Look, right there is Ursa Major, and there are Mizar and Alcor, and– ah, wait, you can’t see. Well, it is lovely tonight. Pitch black with specks of glimmering splashed paint. Nothing like the sky in Seoul.”

“I hope you can see them too,” he mumbled, before clearing his throat and beginning his trek once more. “I’m almost at the cabin, and my arms deserve a break. Who knew a month’s worth of clothes could weigh so much? Mother, you can’t keep convincing me like this.” Click.

***

Click. “This is audio log number four. Today is the day I travel to the location I’ve waited so long to visit. I have all my essential equipment with me,” he lightly smacked his bag, “and my adventuring spirit is, um, high? The call for adventure awaits me...? Yes, something like that. Is this what kids say? I’m not very good at this.” He groaned. Click.

Click. Before his voice appeared, a loud wheezing and dragging of limbs through leaves preceded it. He managed to croak out, “Why the hell did I decide to build the cabin so far away?”

“The scenery is so nice! It’s close to the main road!” he mocked, heightening his voice. “I didn’t need any of that. Why did I say yes? I’m such an idiot. That damned architect selling me all their mumbo jumbo... Wait, was this on the whole time?” Click.

Click. “Please disregard anything you heard up until the introduction to this log. I realize keeping this PG is a bit harder than expected,” he sheepishly said under his breath. “After two long and treacherous hours of walking through forests denser than a portobello mushroom, I have finally found what I was searching for,” he said, pausing for dramatic flair. “Fairy rings.”

“Now, don’t get it twisted, I don’t believe I will be transported to the ‘fae realm’ if I accidentally step into the circle. I don’t believe in such mythology at all. I’m a man of logic and science, and my only desire is to study this strange and sporadic occurrence. Collect data, run some tests, figure out how they naturally materialize into circles.” A deep silence flowed through the air, with the whispering of tree leaves far above dancing in the breeze.

“Although, stepping into the ring for science is not out of the question. I highly doubt anything of note will happen, but,” he scratched the back of his neck, “between you and me, recorder, my true intentions aren’t as pure as I would like them to be. Yes, I am out here in this overwhelmingly large forest alone to study all the fungi my grant money allows, and I intend to follow through on that. However, my true motive lies within the supernatural. I believe there is something more than just the common white button mushroom. A scientific anomaly lurking around somewhere.”

A creak from the force he gripped the recorder with slipped out, and crescent moon-shaped indents littered the durable plastic. “This... this could be my big break. A chance to prove to my professors that my speculations are correct. A chance to prove to my mother this wasn’t a waste. It is statistically impossible for there not to be something, and I intend to dissect the ever-loving God out of it. Seoul may not have been the best place to conduct such grueling research, but the USA is. I– wait, what is that?”

The recorder fell with a light thud, strands of grass threading into open slits, obscuring the audio quality into jumbled sounds and excited gasps. Swift footsteps sent tremors into the ground, causing crickets to chirp from impact. Speeding up the tape does not do much. The audio zipped through 30 or so minutes’ worth of pure white noise.

Rapid steps coming toward the recorder got louder with each passing second, before a harsh panting from Raymond appeared. He fumbled, picking up the recorder, amateurishly brushing his fingers over the microphone, causing the sound of muffled bees against your eardrums.

“There is an abundance of fairy circles here. A large variety of shapes, sizes, and species. Some are patterned by species, some shifting from smallest to tallest, others perfectly encircling trees. There was even a tiny ring made entirely of Marasmius, which are unbelievably rare, purple pinwheel mushrooms!” That tinge of excitement was back in full swing. “More importantly, I discovered a fairy ring the size of a car while examining the area. I didn’t get a good look, but the pure size of the fungi looming in the shadows is worth investigating. It’s deep within the forest, where barely any light seeps through the trees’ leaves. Just tiny spotlights here and there. That will be my starting point.” Click.

***

Click. “This is audio log number five. I am currently setting up a few lamps and cameras on the surrounding trees, a few fungi leeching off the trees, serving as convenient hooks. It’s a hassle to navigate due to my poor judgment. Not only do the trees practically encase the ring like an envelope, but I severely underestimated the size of these Armillarias. I would have guessed the size of my hand, but look at these!” he exasperatedly ranted, the audio moving closer and farther away from him. “The caps are the size of dinner plates, and they’re pushing two-thirds my height. The beautiful burnt yellow can be viewed so clearly. I can’t believe a five-inch mushroom can possibly grow to the height of a 30-year-old man.”

Heavy-duty boots trod mindfully against plush-yet-dense stems, and sighs of relief echoed around the thick casket of trees. “Right, that’s the last one. Now begins the collection process. As time-consuming as it may be, it’s relaxing, especially in what is basically an insulated room. Far quieter than the labs at SNU. Oh, and safety first, kids. Being unsafe is not cool,” he over-enunciated a few words.

The recorder is placed down on a soft surface. A moment of silence passed before an abundance of metal and glass equipment clunk onto the ground. Thankfully, nothing sounded broken. There’s a harsh snap of goggles and rubber gloves before Raymond explains a thorough step-by-step process on how to properly collect fungal samples, droning on and on. Not a lot of information was retained. Something about using a knife to cut off small pieces so it won’t affect the fungi, and then immediately disregarding that rule and cutting off a large chunk for “science purposes?”

“The honey smell is intoxicatingly sweet. Perhaps it’s just the size of them.” He takes a deep whiff. “A light salty scent as well. Most interestingly, when you squeeze them, a clear liquid pours out. Almost like water. This is begging to be tested on.”

He roughly grabbed the recorder, his voice booming through the device, “Something like this could be worthy enough to appear in a science magazine. Perhaps my name could even be displayed in a natural history museum alongside my newest fungi discoveries, just like I always said. You’ll see one day, Mother. If I ever have kids, they could conceivably see my discovery in their textbooks one day and be proud to have a cool dad.”

A deep sigh escaped his nose with a subtle whistle, “I shouldn’t get too excited. Dr. Heinrich could be right, and there isn’t anything here. This might be a waste of time and resources. I might not even have children. God, this is already taking up too much of my attention.” He dropped to the ground with a frustrated thud and scoured through his belongings — the recorder getting the brunt of it — tossing the wildly expensive equipment around. “Where did I — oh, there it is. In the middle of the fairy circle. Conveniently out of my reach. I suppose I knew I had to satisfy my curiosity one way or another. Did not expect it so soon.”

Raymond jumped to his feet, smoothing out his lab coat and shoving the recorder into his pocket. “It’s now or never — for science!” He took a confident step into the hulking fairy ring and swiped the apparatus off the ground. He bounced on his heels, the grass under his soles squishing. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t expect this. At least I have more space to–”

He spat out vulgar words that could taint a child’s innocence. It sounded like an eternity before any semblance of noise could be heard again. That noise being a thud and a nasty snap of a bone bouncing around the walls.

“I was right!” He hissed triumphantly. “Suck it, Dr. Heinrich! Always telling me my theories were “too fantasy” and “statistically impossible.” Look who’s impossible now! Haha... Am I bleeding?”

There is another, less horrific thud. The rest of the tape is silent other than the sounds of thick droplets splashing against the ground and labored breathing; speeding the tape up all the way to the end revealed the powerful, yet peaceful sounds of whales. The recorder shook due to its pure force. A clear, low hum came close to the microphone. The tape ends. Click.

***

Click. “Hello,” a scratchy voice wheezed, “This is log six. After falling through the circle, I woke up here. Didn’t expect to break my leg four days into my research, but I can’t say I’m not above that. I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep, what day it is, or whether I’m hallucinating, but where I am feels so real. Though, I suppose that’s what someone hallucinating would say.” Raymond’s chuckle quickly turned into a painful cough.

“The, uh, surprisingly cushiony bed made entirely of dead leaves under me is... warm. Toasty and soft. Like sleeping in a bed back at home.” He shifted, pulling the recorder close enough to hear his rapid heartbeat. “This room that I’m in — more like a cell than anything — looks entirely made of dirt. Similar to how humans in early India and Africa would construct huts from mud, manure, and clay. The light source, cleverly, is a bundle of phosphorescent mushrooms growing upside down.”

“My only hope is that I was taken in by a secret colony of people. If I really did travel to the fae realm, I’m going to have to do some deep internal evaluation ...or go to a therapist.” A sudden rumble interrupted his words. The same symphony of whale noises filled the room as crumbling rocks fell around him.

“Holy shiiii-take mushrooms,” he whispered, “you are not humans.”

A rumble responded.

“Giant mushroom people,” a mix of fear and fascination was present in his tone. “Did you take me in?”

Another rumble in response.

“I’m going to take that as a yes.”

There is shifting once again, his heartbeat faster than a woodpecker. Weighted steps grew closer, the light jingling of something hollow following along.

“Who are– Oh, is this for me?” He asked, taking a suspicious sniff. “Thank you, but what is this soupy concoction? The swirling yellow doesn’t look quite appetizing, and are those little brown spheres of... Ah, for my leg? This must be medicine, then.” He hesitantly took a sip before swallowing the whole thing in one gulp. “It’s sweet. I feel better already.”

A series of pleased tremors shook his entire body. Presumably, these mushroom people retreat out of the room, leaving Raymond the opportunity to pick the recorder back up.

“Giant mushroom people, medicines, architecture,” he muttered under his breath. “Wait until the world sees this.” Click.

***

Click. “This is audio log number nine. The mushroom people, whom I dub Myconids, have visited me every few hours to give me a bowl of medicine. Going off taste alone, it’s overwhelmingly of honey and aloe vera, and it fuels my body with energy; a rush I have never

experienced. Is this what pure adrenaline feels like?” He smiled through his words, dragging his fingers across the ridges of the speaker. “The Myconids are lovely. They’re a very passive and extremely compassionate village of humanoids. They resemble honey mushrooms, which does clear up a few things. The sickly sweet honey smell, the beige skin, the pacifist behavior. People tend to mistake decomposers as hostile.”

“My theory is that the false ground surrounded by giant Armillaria is an entrance. The trees keep them protected and undisturbed. Perhaps they value privacy, explaining the windowless and doorless rooms. Inconvenient to have to destroy and rebuild the doorway, but I’m in no place to ask why. I was the one that stumbled upon them, which must have upset them — hard to say since they have no faces. Just large, stumpy limbs and a seven-foot-tall figure. Imagine if the Michelin man wore a huge sun hat. No, that’s a stupid explanation,” he grumbled.

“I still have much to discover about the Myconids. When I get back on my feet, I will invest endless amounts of money and time into studying them. They may not be ready to enter the human world, but I’m ready to enter theirs and gently nudge them out.” Click.

***

Click. “This is audio log number 10. The medicine I’ve been given by the elder Myconid is truly like magic. I can feel the medicinal properties coursing through my veins. The bleeding even stopped leaking through my bandage,” he hummed, “Well, not a bandage. A ripped piece of my lab coat. The elder Myconid seemed satisfied with it.”

“The browning underneath their cap must be full of wisdom. The various animal bones around their neck must tell a story, and their deep hum causes your brain to bounce around your skull. Something like this could be a miracle worker in the medical world. I wonder if they’ll ever tell me the ingredients?” Click.

***

Click. “This is audio log number 12. The Myconids are setting something up.” He said, a hint of paranoia slipping past his teeth. In the background are overlapping tremors reflecting off each other and things being dragged around. The room is shockingly good at insulating any sounds.

“I tried asking, but they just gave me a look. They don’t even have eyes. What could it mean? A celebration? A ritual? I’m not about to be sacrificed, am I? It would be foolish of me not to say goodbye to my mother before I died.” 

A silence louder than a thunderstorm carried on for a few heavy seconds. Only the scratching of nails against dried leaves was audible.

“God, no, that’s idiotic. If they wanted me dead, I would be dead. Why go out of their way to be nice to me? One of the mushroomlings even visited me yesterday to show me how to weave a doll from grass,” he crushed the leaf grinding it into small pieces. “I’m sure whatever they’re doing, it’s none of my business.” Click.

Click. “Turns out it was very much my business.”

The crackling of fire and symphonized pulsating played throughout the tape. Hollow clattering, rattling, and rhythmic stomps accompanied the music.

“I can’t understand the story they’re telling, why they keep throwing flowers at me, nor can I read the tree bark they handed me. Their language is of etched swirls and circles, like the rings of a tree. I–” He is interrupted by being pulled away. The singing got louder, more excited, before a heavy thunk stopped them.

The music started up again as he crawled his way to the recorder. “It’s now very obvious they’re telling stories through body language and sounds, but I have never been artistically inclined. That includes dancing.” He coughed.

The music died down a notch. The hollow clattering slowly approached Raymond, a low hum directed at him.

“I think they want to take me somewhere.”

Strained steps next to bulky ones moved further from the excitement and into a long, echoing corridor.

“Oh, wow,” his hand smoothed over the rough dirt walls, “These are paintings. They tell your story, don’t they?”

They replied with a short tremor.

“Incredible,” he murmured, taking a staggered step back. “I see. This is the story of the first human down here. The little red figure in the middle is, well, us, isn’t it? The rest of the bulbous ones are you.”

Raymond took the time to meticulously describe every part of the paintings. It first began with a human woman falling down the fairy circle, just as he did. She landed upon a small group of mushrooms at the bottom of the pit, glowing a honey yellow. Instead of eating the mushrooms, she imbued magic into them. It looked more like green slime than anything, but he digressed. The mushrooms sprouted arms and legs. She was praised for giving them life. A crown on top of her head with glowing lights and sparkles surrounding her. The paintings ended there.

“Is that what the celebration is for? Me?” He asked in disbelief.

The elder Myconid hummed.

“For every human that falls, a celebration is due. What a fascinating ritual.” Click.

***

Click. “This is audio log number 13,” he said, taking the final sips of the concoction. “I believe it’s been a week since I’ve been taking the medicine. It’s been making me queasy as of late; every bone in my body has begun to ache. The Myconids say, or imply, that this is normal. In all fairness, I have never broken a bone before. Never even sprained an ankle. My mother never let me go out much, so I’ve never experienced the healing process.”

“The days grow longer and shorter simultaneously. Light and dark begin to swirl together. I believe the phosphorescent fungi grew brighter, but so did the shadows in the corners.” Raymond lets out a weak cough. “I’m disappointed to say I haven’t made much progress. Those paintings have really caught my eye. Perhaps I should study those or attempt to decipher their language.”

“This broken leg isn’t doing me much good,” he patted his leg. “I can’t blame them for trying their best. They don’t heal the same way humans do.” 

The thunder of falling dirt boomed through the room.

“Oh, hello. Is it time for my medication already?” Click.

***

Click. “This is audio log number 13. Recently, I have been finding it difficult to walk straight. My legs buckle and twist at random intervals. The Myconids have been helping me walk from place to place. Incredibly strong for something made of chitin and spores. Their village is built like a cave system, with twists and turns that lead to the same place. Some to dead ends. They advise me not to wander too far.”

“I asked them to take me to the paintings again. Interesting how they can understand English or any human language in general. Fungi tend to “speak” through electrical signals through their hyphae. It’s like if I sent Morse code through the strumming of a single string we both held. Did the first human teach them English, or was it gradually learned through consistent human interaction?” His words slurred near the end.

It was silent for a moment; light breaths and a faint heartbeat flowed through the speaker. Raymond roughly slumped down the wall, jolting awake right before he hit the ground.

“Oh, God, did I just fall asleep standing up? Being down here is not helping my internal clock.” Click.

***

Click. “This is audio log number 13. I don’t know how I missed this before, but there are other paintings that have been covered by dirt over the years. I have been spending the day unearthing them to hopefully uncover the full history.”

He glided his hands across the walls, making quick work.

“Damn my arms,” he cursed, “stiffening at the worst possible times. First my legs, and now this? Ridiculous. It’s like my body is actively working against me.”

Slower but equally as desperately, he pushed away as much dirt as his body could physically handle. With a few grunts and pained breathing, he finally halted.

“What the hell?” He whispered. “They move. The paintings, they move.” He shuffled backward until his back hit the other wall. “They scream and dance and sing.”

“The human that fell, she wasn’t praised. At least not for long. The crown, the white stars, and the holy light, it’s sickly sweet. Like medicine. Spores.” His voice grew in fear, the realization dawned on him like a car crash.

“It’s hot. Burning. Her blood dries; she’s decomposing. Black mold spreads throughout her body. She was… she was eaten by them. It gives them energy. Her screams are so loud.” He stuttered through the sentence, “Armillaria are parasitic. Saprophytic. Will eat anything dying... am... am I dying?”

“No, that can’t be right,” he muttered, a deer in headlights, “No. They’re peaceful. They’re helpful. My mind is playing tricks on me. Hey, hey! Stop it! Don’t get any closer, you stupid cave paintings! I– God, why can’t I move? Stop! NO, PLEASE!” Click.

***

Click. A long coughing fit preceded the introduction.

“This is audio log number 13, I think. My memory gets foggier every day. When I woke up, my clothes were covered in dirt and paint. What was I doing yesterday?” His voice squeaked with every word.

The familiar rumbling appeared once more, followed by heavy steps and hollow bones.

“Ah, thank you,” he trailed off, “What exactly is this again? Oh, yes, medication. Looks a tad redder than usual. Chunkier too.”

He received no response. The Myconid simply left.

“This must be a new ingredient. Squishy, pink. Crevices that look like entangled worms. Disturbingly familiar.” He weakly clinked the wooden bowl, nails scratching absentmindedly. The bowl bounced off the dirt ground, the liquid splattering across the recorder. He held no reaction. Just silence for a very, very long time.

***

“This is audio log number 13. I think my condition is getting worse,” his voice suddenly picked up again, unaffected by the event that just took place, “Walking, speaking, simply moving my fingers hurt. I can barely press the record button. I don’t think my leg has healed much, but my bones physically stop me from bending forward.”

There is a strained wheeze. “Looks like my body shows mercy today. I haven’t checked up on my leg in a while. Let’s see if it healed at all.”

The sound of fabric unraveling and uncomfortable shifting is soon replaced by a confused noise. “No bleeding, which is good, but my bone is still sticking out. Sharp, fresh, but decaying. The skin around the pierced flesh is moldy, black, and spreading like wildfire. It’s covered my entire leg at this point. Is this what that smell is?”

Raymond binded the wound back up.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have left you, Mama. You were right, this was a waste of time. I can’t do research, I can’t prove my professor wrong, let alone change the science world. I can barely move anymore. Barely speak or eat. Is this what’s going to happen to you when you turn old? God, I’m so sorry I left. I didn’t even say goodbye to you.” He sobbed through his words.

He breathed in deeply, but started sniffing around, “Is… that human brain on my shirt?” Click.

***

Click. The tape is barely audible, a few words slipped out here and there. Words like pain, medicine, can’t move, and Mama. A chorus of hums and tremors shook down the walls of the room, all marching simultaneously, creating the illusion of an enormous humanoid mushroom creature. They surrounded him, inching closer and closer to the recorder.

The humming ceased. It turned to distorted croaks and haunting whispers.

The dreadful sound of Raymond’s weakening breath, wheezing, and coughing, is overwhelming. He grew sicker by the second. Decrepit. Exhausted. Skin cracking, blood spilling, a muttered farewell. Click.

You turn off the recorder and chuck it back into the box full of fungi samples, research papers, and dozens of tape recordings. You shove the box off your lap and into the open suitcase of untouched clothes. You scrunch up the autopsy report on your coffee table, the words “PRION DISEASE” circled in red marker, and throw it into the pile. Tenderly, you pick up the torn lab coat next to you, holding it close to your chest, careless about the dried blood and dirt that littered the once snow-white fabric.

“Oh, my dear son.”