NYC 500 Word Fiction Competition 2024
Genre: Horror | Action: Memorising | Object: A mushroom
An unusual Christmas present delivers more than just ingredients for Omelette.

Mushrooms

Some stories are too fantastical to be true. Others are made up because no one remembers what happened.

Tom and Rebecca were excited for Christmas at their new place; a tidy little two-up, two-down, nestled among others just like it. The carpets were worn, the stairs creaked and the curtains were an apology to the seventies. But it was warm and dry – and, most importantly, theirs.

Christmas morning was fun. He gave her an iron with a cheeky grin. She gave him a clip round the ear - they both laughed. While there wasn’t much else from Santa, there was a mid-sized grey box that arrived by courier from Tom’s Uncle Alan.

“Grow your own mushrooms.” It said on the lid. “Just add water and leave in a warm dark place, away from the walls.”

So they sprinkled on some water and put it in the cupboard under the stairs. Neither of them read the warning on the box. Most people never do.

Christmas came and went. They drank in the New Year and all but forgot about the mushrooms, until Tom was making omelette one morning.

He dug out the box from the cupboard and harvested some of the best brown mushrooms they’d ever tasted. He didn’t notice the light grey streaks climbing the wall. Why would he?

And that would have been that, except that it wasn’t.

Usually it was Tom who would lose his keys. But Rebecca, who worked from home, was becoming more and more forgetful. At first, it was funny - the rice boiling dry on the stove, the towels dripping wet on the bathroom floor. But over time, it got worse. They tried all the usual tricks, like notes on the fridge and buzzes from her phone, but nothing made a big difference.

Before long she gave up her job and spent her days looking out the window or wandering around town. Then one day she went for a walk and didn’t come back.  

They found her watching some kids in a playground across town. She didn’t remember her name, or where she lived. She didn’t recognise Tom. 

Early onset dementia they called it. Better for her to stay somewhere safe, they said. And nobody knew any better, so it was what it was. 

Tom called in to visit every day. He’d bring flowers, or puzzles or photos from the past and Rebecca would smile and look out the window. Until, eventually, the visits stopped. 

They found Tom in a chair in front of the telly. His family told themselves he’d died of a broken heart. The doctor thought he’d simply forgotten to eat.

And after they said their goodbyes, their family emptied the house of a life just starting and tidied it up for someone new. They fixed up the carpet, changed the curtains and painted over the strange grey shadows on the walls.

By Spring it was ready for a new family to move in and make memories of their own.