It started with the smell.
A sharp, metallic tang in the morning air — like rust mixed with rot. I was heading out to water the flowers when I froze. In the middle of my flowerbed, something red and glistening twisted among the daisies. It looked like slick tentacles pushing through the soil, alive and pulsing.

The odor was thick and sour.
I backed away, pulled out my phone, and snapped a photo. Minutes later, I had an answer: Anthurus archeri, or devil’s fingers. Native to Australia and New Zealand, this fungus has spread worldwide, shocking gardeners. It grows inside a pale “witch’s egg,” then bursts open into crimson, finger-like arms coated in black slime. The smell mimics rotting flesh to lure flies, who carry its spores elsewhere.

I was horrified… and impressed.
Nature, using death’s disguise to survive. Later, I showed the photo to my neighbor, a retired biology teacher. “Harmless,” she said. “Just a traveler. Ugly as sin, but fascinating.” I still couldn’t touch it. That raw, fleshy red and corpse-like stench hit something primal. I avoided the patch for days. When I returned, the fungus had shriveled, leaving only disturbed earth behind.

Some things in nature don’t need tending.
Not every strange thing in a garden wants to be fixed. The flowers grew back. But I still glance at that spot, half-expecting those red arms to rise again.

And strangely, part of me hopes they do.
The devil’s fingers can have that soil. I’ll keep my awe — and my distance.