by D.R. Forge

Locals called the mushrooms that grew on the sacred resting place of their goddess “The Flesh of The Lady.” Maya was curious.

“Beautiful, but the natives won’t go,” William warned Maya, winking. “Let me take you.”

And he did. To an unmarked, overgrown grave, thinking she wouldn’t know the difference. The jungle was full of mushroomed graves. Massacres.

Places William’s ancestors had renamed in bloodshed.

He leaned in close, besotted. Ravenous. Maya caressed William’s cheek.

And he screamed.

Mushrooms blossomed over the man’s head. Golden, pulsating—

Flesh-eating.

Maya watched William become bones.

Then she slipped her skin on again.

Awakened.

D.R. Forge

D.R. Forge writes horror in the city that never sleeps. Forge spends their days hunting for cryptids, and nights hanging out with their Sphynx cats, Hannibal and Will Graham. They are anchored by a loving spouse who provides the daily stoking they need to weave their chilling tales.

Website: drforgeauthor.com