Trembling With Fear 1-28-24

Growing Shroom, by Rinanda Hidayat

I woke up, my mouth sewn sealed, and my body hung upside down, wrapped up in ropes, like a human cocoon. A flicker of fire floated above me, too dim to see past the surrounding dark, but bright enough to see what was in front: a man, suffering the same fate, except his eyes were closed, still ignorant of the horror that awaited us.

The walls around us smelt of rotting wood, and through them I could hear the faint gawking of crows; perhaps they were warning us, perhaps they were celebrating. I tried swinging my body, but it moved not an inch; the rope had locked me tight, down to my very bones. All I could do was wait while drowning in absolute dread of what fresh hell I had stumbled upon.

The door answered me, it creaked open with a shriek, footsteps of slops and moist followed, getting louder and louder as it got closer, then out of the darkness, a figure appeared, hunched and robed. I couldn’t see their full face–only wrinkles of age and a smile–but it was enough to tell me what kind of monster I encountered: a witch.

The witch grabbed the man’s cheek and slapped it; he didn’t wake up. She slapped it again, and still his eyes remained closed. The witch cackled like a mad goose and whispered under her foul breath, “Finally.”

She then turned to me and grabbed my face, and I wriggled like a helpless worm; her hands were dead cold, yet I could feel each of her fingers pulsating as if they had a life of their own; it felt like being held by a beating heart. She clutched my face harder and harder; I could feel the rope getting tighter and my breath getting shorter and shorter, but then she released me and returned to the darkness.

Just as relief came to me, the witch returned carrying a wooden stake with its tip dipped in glistening red color. She grabbed the man’s neck and stabbed it, but the man stayed asleep, and there was not a drop of blood trickling from his neck.

The witch turned to me. I swung my head back and forth, hoping somehow it would knock her out, but I couldn’t even move. I tried to scream, but it echoed back to my own sewn mouth. This was it, I thought, this was the end of me, but then the witch snapped her finger, and I felt a drowsy spell hitting me, and before I knew it, I fell into a slumber.

***

I woke up sometimes, somewhere, still surrounded by darkness and the stench of rotting woods, still hanging upside down, still with a man in front of me; nothing has changed. I began to doubt whether the witch was even real. 

But as I stared at the man, my doubt was cleared; in the man’s neck was a red dot, a scar left by the wooden stake. I continued to gaze at the man and saw a strange shape growing on his left arm: a thin white body with a spotted rounded cap, a mushroom.

From the peerless dark, the witch emerged, still robed and hunched. She plucked the mushroom from the man’s arm and ate it; she then shrieked with absolute joy, jumping and twirling here and there, like an innocent little child. She turned and terror began to flood me, it’s my turn now, but yet again, I was spared; she snapped her fingers and returned to the dark.

***

I woke up and the witch was singing: a lullaby of childhood serenaded with screech and shrill, yet somehow it still felt innocent. It was the closest thing to peace I had. It helped that the witch was out of sight in the darkness, accompanying her song with the stirring of pots and the banging of ladles.

Just as I was about to get lost in the rhythm, the witch stopped and emerged from the dark carrying a small bowl. She once again approached the man, and that was when I saw the man’s left arm; it was riddled with red-spotted mushrooms, each with their own size, their own roundess, their own slithering stems of different thickness and length; it was like a living forest blossoming on a skin, and yet still not even a drop of blood, yet still the man lay asleep. I wondered whether he was ever alive.

The witch plucked some of the mushrooms, put them in her bowl, and returned to darkness, where she continued to sing and to brew, but after just a few seconds, she returned to snap her finger and send me to dream.

***

I woke up from a muffled scream; the man had woken up and half his body was covered in mushrooms. Surrounded by the dark, and the white spots of the mushroom shimmered like stars in a sea of red, its stems slithered inside the man’s body, crawling through his veins, pulsating with his blood. The mushrooms had shriveled up his skin, and it was leaking a strange transparent liquid that was neither sweat nor tears.

There were mushrooms growing out of the holes of his sewn mouth–somehow they had infected his inside–I dare not even imagine just how much pain he suffered. I was glad he had no voice to tell me.

But the worst part was his eyes; they begged me for help, but I couldn’t do anything; I couldn’t even look at them. He wriggled,  and swung back and forth, trying his best to get my attention, and all I did was pray for the witch to appear and snap me back to sleep. My prayer was answered.

***

The man had become a host. His body was engulfed by a thick cluster of mushrooms; they were so dense that they became a lump of entity, shaped like a white-spotted heart, throbbing now and then. His mouth that was once sealed was now torn agape, bursting with red caps, and slobbering with that strange liquid. His face was unrecognizable; there was no trace of man left, only a husk displaying nothing but torment, and yet he still blinked.

The witch appeared bearing a knife. She approached the man and cut him loose; he slopped to the ground and wriggled like a worm. The witch grabbed him and dragged him into the darkness; as he descended, he gave me a look, one of hate.

The witch returned and walked towards me. I once again squirmed in futility; my time had run out, I thought, it’s my turn now. The witch walked closer and closer; I could feel the endless darkness around me expanding into beyond infinite. I could feel my heart beat faster than my ear could hear, and before I knew it, the witch was in front; she readied her knife and cut me free.

I dropped to the ground, the ropes clutching my body came loose, I could move again! I could run! I could run! But before I did, I gave the witch a glance, asking her with no voice, “Why?”

And as if she could hear my thought, she answered: 

“I’m sick of mushrooms.”