In the yard I found a slimy, reddish creature that emanated an unpleasant smell: I was horrified when I realized that it was

This morning started like any other. The sun was just peeking over the rooftops, the air was still cool, and the world felt quiet and calm. I went out into the yard with the same routine in mind—water the flowers, check if the cats had made a mess again, maybe enjoy a few minutes of peace before the day really began. But the moment I opened the gate, something stopped me cold.

The air hit me with a stench so strong it made my stomach twist. It wasn’t just bad—it was thick, rotten, almost metallic. The kind of smell that makes your body react before your brain catches up. My chest tightened, and there was this strange taste in my mouth, like iron. For a moment, I just stood there, squinting at the yard, trying to understand what I was smelling.

Then I saw something move near the flowerbed. At first, I thought it was one of the cats rolling in the dirt, but when I took a few steps closer, my legs froze. Something lay there—something red and slimy, glistening under the morning light. It looked like a mass of flesh, twisted and wet, as if some creature had been turned inside out and left to rot.

I actually took a step back. My heart was hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. Every thought that rushed through my head made less sense than the last. What if it was some animal? Or worse—something not from this world? The smell was unbearable, heavy like decay, and I could almost feel it sticking to my skin.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The thing pulsed slightly, as if alive—or maybe that was just my imagination. Its color was this awful mix of red and brown, slick with something that looked like blood and slime. It didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen before.

“What is that?” I muttered out loud. My voice sounded small and shaky. I pulled out my phone, holding it as far away as possible while I zoomed in and snapped a picture. The smell seemed to grow stronger the longer I stood there, so I hurried back toward the gate, gagging slightly.

Once inside, I immediately opened my phone, my hands still trembling. I went straight to the search bar and typed the first thing that came to mind: “red slimy, rotten smelling mushroom.”

It sounded ridiculous, but I didn’t know what else to call it. I waited as the page loaded, and when the results appeared, I felt a strange chill run through me. The first few pictures looked eerily similar to what I’d just seen outside. My stomach dropped as I clicked on one of them, and the name appeared on the screen: Anthurus archeri.

Also known as the devil’s fingers.

I blinked at the words, half expecting it to be some kind of prank. But the more I read, the worse it got. The description matched perfectly—the red, claw-like shape, the foul smell, the slimy coating. It wasn’t a creature or a dead animal. It was a fungus. A real one.

Apparently, it came from Australia and Tasmania but had somehow spread across the world. It starts out looking harmless, just a pale, egg-shaped lump in the soil. But then, as it matures, it bursts open and reveals long, red tentacles that reach outward like claws from another world. The smell, it turns out, isn’t an accident. The mushroom gives off the scent of rotting meat to attract flies, which then carry away its spores.

I stared at the picture on my phone, then at the yard outside the window. The resemblance was undeniable. That horrifying thing by the flowerbed was no monster—it was a mushroom pretending to be one.

But knowing that didn’t make me feel any better.

The more I read, the more disturbing it became. People had mistaken this mushroom for animal remains, or worse. Some had called the police, convinced they’d found evidence of something sinister. Others had thought it was some alien life form. I wasn’t alone in my panic. That, strangely, was comforting—but also made me realize how truly bizarre this thing was.

I scrolled through photos from other people who had found it. Some showed gardens covered in these red, finger-like growths, stretching out of the earth like the hands of the dead clawing their way out. Others showed single mushrooms rising from the ground, dripping with slime and surrounded by clouds of flies. Every image looked like something straight out of a nightmare.

I couldn’t stop staring. It was disgusting, but also fascinating in a way that made my skin crawl. Nature had created this on purpose—a living organism that looked like a demon’s hand and smelled like death. It was so wrong, yet perfectly real.

I went back outside later, just to be sure. I kept my distance, but I could see it clearly now. The red fingers had opened wider, reaching outward as if stretching toward the sunlight. The slime glistened in thick strands, and a few flies buzzed eagerly around it. The smell was worse now, sharper and sour. It was unbelievable how something so small could make the entire yard reek.

I thought about pulling it out, maybe burying it deep so I’d never have to see it again. But then I hesitated. Every article I’d read mentioned how rare and strange it was—how it wasn’t dangerous, just unsettling. Some people even called it beautiful in a twisted kind of way.

Beautiful wasn’t the word I’d use.

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to touch it. Something about it felt wrong, like it didn’t belong here. So I backed away, deciding to let it be. Let it finish whatever eerie cycle it was going through.

Over the next few days, I kept catching myself glancing toward the flowerbed whenever I stepped outside. The sight of it still made me uneasy. The red arms eventually started to curl and darken, shriveling slowly under the sun. The smell lingered for a while, faint but stubborn, until finally it began to fade.

By then, I had learned more than I ever wanted to know about this strange creature of the earth. The devil’s fingers mushroom—Anthurus archeri. A fungus that disguises itself as something monstrous, using disgust as a strategy to survive. It doesn’t just tolerate decay—it mimics it, thrives on it, invites it. Flies, drawn to what they think is rotting flesh, land on it eagerly, carrying away the mushroom’s spores to start the cycle all over again.

Nature, I realized, is far more creative—and far more disturbing—than we give it credit for.

Even now, I avoid that corner of the yard. I don’t water the flowers there anymore. Every time I pass by, I half expect to see those red claws stretching out again, glistening wet in the sunlight. Maybe one day they will. Maybe more spores are buried there, waiting.

I still remember that smell, though. It lingers in my mind, sharper than any image, like a ghost. The kind of smell that makes you think of death, of things better left untouched.

Sometimes, when I tell people about it, they laugh. They think I’m exaggerating. “A mushroom that looks like the devil’s hand?” they say. “Come on.”

I show them the pictures. They stop laughing.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How something so small can change the way you see your own backyard. A place that once felt peaceful now feels alive in a way that’s unsettling, as if there are hidden things beneath the soil that I’ll never fully understand.

I still love my garden, but there’s a certain caution now. When I bend down to pull weeds or plant new flowers, I find myself checking the soil first, just in case. The memory of that morning hasn’t faded, and I doubt it ever will.

Sometimes at night, when the air is still and the world outside is quiet, I imagine hearing the faint buzz of flies near the flowerbed. It’s probably nothing—just my mind replaying what it remembers. But I can’t help it. Once you’ve seen something like that, it sticks with you.

That morning started like any other. But ever since then, whenever I step into the yard, I do it carefully, as if the earth itself might surprise me again.

Because now I know what it’s capable of.

And somewhere out there, maybe not far beneath the surface, another pale egg might be waiting—ready to split open and stretch its red fingers toward the light once more.

So I let it be. Whatever grows there, grows there. The devil’s gift, untouched.