If you move through your backyard the way I usually did — half-awake, coffee in one hand, hose in the other — you probably know how easy it is to run on autopilot.
That’s exactly how my morning started. And exactly why it caught me off guard when something very out of place snapped me awake.
At the edge of one garden bed sat a glossy red mass I had never seen before. It looked unnatural. Almost sculpted. Like it didn’t belong to this world — or at least not to my yard.
What should have been a routine watering turned into a moment that stuck with me far longer than I expected.
The Instant Jump to Fear
I froze.
The hose nearly slipped from my hand as my brain did what brains are very good at doing — filling gaps with worst-case scenarios.
Poison.
An invasive species.
Some kind of infection spreading through the soil.
It’s remarkable how fast the imagination can construct a horror story out of nothing more than an unfamiliar shape and an alarming color.
The thing sat there, gleaming in the early light, its edges folding in on themselves like an organic puzzle. I half expected it to twitch. Or burst. Or do something.
Instead, it stayed perfectly still.
Curiosity Wins (Barely)
Despite the fear, curiosity pulled harder.
I stepped closer, each footfall feeling strangely loud in the quiet garden. I crouched down, careful not to touch it, studying the surface. It looked fleshy. Smooth. Almost rubbery.
Up close, it felt less like a threat and more like something paused mid-creation.
Still, there’s something uniquely unsettling about staring at something unknown in your own backyard — a place that’s supposed to be familiar and safe.
And like any modern human confronted with mystery, I reached for my phone.
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