See the Fungal Filth. The alien energies of the Zero Point slide and drip and crawl and spread. In places, they irradiate the local fungus, taking on yet unseen manifestations. A new strain, or at least new to this Age. The Filthy fungus thrives in places of upheaval or of rot. Its spores spread, first infecting trees, but then taking over local fauna and commanding them to further the spread.
—The Buzzing, The Secret World
Toxicum mold is an aggressively spreading species of deadly fungus that can infest the walls, ceilings or basements of any building. It grows primarily in dark, damp areas, at least initially, but as it spreads, it moves throughout the entire structure, hiding under wallpaper or wood. Breathing in the mold spores causes respiratory distress, infection and eventual death as the toxic spores slowly kill lung tissue. Any skin coming into contact with the living mold develops an itchy rash that quickly necrotizes. Though the poison of Toxicum makes the fungus threatening enough, the true threat of the mold is far more sinister.
"Have you ever given thought to mushrooms, Arnie? I used to think they were just there, something to saute with your steak or toss into a salad. I never realized they were intelligent." As Steve spoke, he rose from his chair and shambled forward, moving like an old man instead of a twenty-five-year-old athlete. Arnie gasped in shock as his friend shuffled into the pale light of the room. "I never imagined they could do something like this to a man..."
—Werewolf: The Apocalypse — Book of the Wyrm (second edition)
It might have easily been glass fibre lagging for some pipe or other, and I said as much.
"But it isn't," Garth contradicted me. "It's a root, a feeler, a tentacle. It's old man cancer himself — timber cancer — on the move and looking for a new victim. "Oh you won't see him moving," that strange look was back, "or at least you shouldn't, but he's at it anyway."
—Fruiting Bodies, by Brian Lumley
Don't run inside. You'll kick up the mold spores.
— Waitress at the Dur T cafe, Mother 3
Coughing is the only symptom in the milder cases, but as you walk further in, you begin to see hands and feet covered in mold, and then chests budding with little mushroom-cups and lichen, and even a young girl with a fringed, red-orange fungal flower blooming in place of an eye.
"It's the Fungus-Harvester's disease," the Dour-Faced Nurse tells you sadly, pulling you away, "It only gets worse in the heat and light, but what can we do?"
—The Fungal Infections Ward, Sunless Sea
Under the bark, in the wet spaces, grew a particular species of slime mold. In a normal forest it amounted to nothing more than a yellow smear, like the yolk of an egg misplaced and dripping from something dead. But, infused with the magic of the forest, the slime mold changed. It grew stronger. Hardier. More ambitious.
The mold burst out from the log and swallowed the flinders. Within days it swelled from a barely visible speck of a lemon’s rind into a messy, wet mass the size of a blanket. It pulsed with thoughtless hunger, stretching out, extending fibrous tendrils out into the roses. And it found them nutritious.
It is autumn now, in the glade. The slime mold is a cancer. The roses are all gone, and in their place a yellow trellis remains, dripping ichor as bright as the sun. The mold digests the stems and reaches out hair-thin feelers toward its next prey.
It is winter, and the mold is not dead. The fountain's unnatural warmth keeps it alive even as the rest of the forest sleeps. It crawls up the maples, an inch a day, and decides it likes the height.
It is spring, and the mold has overrun a quarter of the glade. It creeps up on the bare rock around the fountain. The cockatrices stare murder at it, but the slime has no eyes and refuses to turn to stone, despite their best efforts. A vague notion of danger begins to build in the elder hen’s mind, an uneasy hollowness in her gizzard. Soon the decision to abandon the fountain will fall on her wings.
At the height of summer, the slime is triumphant. Half the glade has fallen to it. The trees are yellow spires, dripping with yolk. Several have collapsed already, and others creak ominously in the wind. The mold loves the sound. It loves the promise of broken trees and exposed heartwood, delicious like the marrow of bones. It wonders what the cockatrices will taste like.
The mold burst out from the log and swallowed the flinders. Within days it swelled from a barely visible speck of a lemon’s rind into a messy, wet mass the size of a blanket. It pulsed with thoughtless hunger, stretching out, extending fibrous tendrils out into the roses. And it found them nutritious.
It is autumn now, in the glade. The slime mold is a cancer. The roses are all gone, and in their place a yellow trellis remains, dripping ichor as bright as the sun. The mold digests the stems and reaches out hair-thin feelers toward its next prey.
It is winter, and the mold is not dead. The fountain's unnatural warmth keeps it alive even as the rest of the forest sleeps. It crawls up the maples, an inch a day, and decides it likes the height.
It is spring, and the mold has overrun a quarter of the glade. It creeps up on the bare rock around the fountain. The cockatrices stare murder at it, but the slime has no eyes and refuses to turn to stone, despite their best efforts. A vague notion of danger begins to build in the elder hen’s mind, an uneasy hollowness in her gizzard. Soon the decision to abandon the fountain will fall on her wings.
At the height of summer, the slime is triumphant. Half the glade has fallen to it. The trees are yellow spires, dripping with yolk. Several have collapsed already, and others creak ominously in the wind. The mold loves the sound. It loves the promise of broken trees and exposed heartwood, delicious like the marrow of bones. It wonders what the cockatrices will taste like.
—Natural Histories, "The Fountain"
