In the yard I found a slimy, reddish creature that emanated an unpleasant smell, I was horrified when I realized that it was

It started with the smell.
That sharp, metallic tang in the morning air that didn’t belong — like rust mixed with something rotting. I was heading out to water the flowers when I froze halfway across the yard.

There, in the middle of my flowerbed, something red and glistening twisted among the daisies. It looked like a handful of slick tentacles pushing up through the soil, alive and pulsing. For a moment, I honestly thought it was a dead animal — or worse, something half-alive.

The odor was thick, sour, and unmistakably wrong. My first instinct was to back away. Instead, I pulled out my phone, hands shaking, and took a photo. Maybe someone online could tell me what I was looking at.

Within minutes, I had my answer — and it somehow made the whole thing even creepier. The “creature” was a fungus called Anthurus archeri, better known as the devil’s fingers.

Native to Australia and New Zealand, it’s been spreading across Europe and beyond, shocking gardeners wherever it appears. Photos online looked exactly like what I’d found: crimson, fleshy limbs stretching from a pale, egg-shaped sac buried in the dirt. It looked like something out of a nightmare — and smelled like one too.

The more I read, the more unsettling it became. The fungus starts underground, sealed in what mycologists call a “witch’s egg.” Then, when it’s ready, it bursts open in a violent bloom — four to eight finger-like arms coated in sticky black slime.

That slime isn’t random decay. It’s bait. It mimics the smell of rotting flesh, tricking flies and carrion insects into thinking they’ve found a meal. When they land to feed, the fungus sticks its spores to them. The insects fly off, spreading new devil’s fingers to other unsuspecting patches of soil.

Standing there with my watering can, I couldn’t decide whether to be disgusted or impressed. The thing was horrifying — but it was also genius. Nature, using death’s disguise to ensure survival.

I crouched down for a closer look. The “fingers” were soft and spongy, their tips dark with that viscous, tar-like slime. The stench clung to my nostrils even after I backed away.

Later that day, I showed the photos to my neighbor, a retired biology teacher. She laughed when I described how I nearly called pest control. “It’s harmless,” she said. “Just a traveler from the other side of the world. Ugly as sin, but it won’t hurt you. Think of it as Halloween come early.”

Harmless or not, I couldn’t bring myself to touch it. Something about its raw, fleshy color and corpse-like smell triggered something primal — the part of the brain that says, Get away from that.

For days, I avoided that part of the yard. I could still smell it faintly when the wind shifted. When I finally checked again, it had shriveled into a black, brittle shape. The devil’s fingers had died back, leaving behind a patch of disturbed earth, like something had clawed its way out and vanished.

I left it alone. Some corners of nature, I’ve decided, don’t need tending. Not every strange thing in a garden wants to be fixed or removed. Some are better off left exactly where they are — reminders that beauty isn’t the only story nature tells.

The flowers returned to normal after a week. But every time I walk past that patch, I glance down, half expecting those red arms to reach up again. And part of me, despite the revulsion, kind of hopes they do. Because in a strange, unsettling way, that grotesque bloom was one of the most extraordinary things I’ve ever seen.

The devil’s fingers can keep that soil. I’ll keep my distance — and my awe.