This morning, when I stepped outside to water the flowers, a sharp metallic stench hit me so suddenly that I stopped in my tracks. My chest tightened as I scanned the flowerbed, searching for the source. Then I saw it—something red, slimy, and oddly alive writhing between the petals. It looked like a piece of flesh turned inside out, glistening in the sunlight.
The smell was unbearable, thick and rotten, like decay left in the heat for days. My heart hammered as I leaned closer and snapped a photo, hoping someone—or something online—could explain what I was looking at. Because whatever it was didn’t look natural.
A quick search delivered the answer: Anthurus archeri, commonly called devil’s fingers. It’s a fungus originally from Australia that has slowly spread across gardens around the world, terrifying anyone unlucky enough to stumble upon it.
The life cycle is unsettling. It starts enclosed in a pale, egg-like sac hidden in the dirt. Then, one day, the sac splits open and bright red, tentacle-like arms emerge, coated in a foul, black slime. That slime is designed to mimic the stench of rotting meat, attracting flies that mistake it for a carcass. The insects land, feed, and unknowingly carry away the spores—nature’s grim little trick for ensuring the fungus spreads.
No wonder people online often mistake it for an alien creature or the remains of something dead. I recognized the same shock and disbelief in their photos that I had felt moments earlier.
Standing there in my yard, I felt a shiver run up my spine. My peaceful flowerbed had become home to something that smelled like death and looked even worse. Fascinating, yes—but deeply unsettling.
Now, I avoid that corner entirely. Whatever nature is doing there, I’ve decided to let it run its course. The devil’s fingers can keep that patch of soil. I want no part of it.
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