Morel Obligation to the Appalachians

Deep in the heart of Appalachia, where the mountains fold like wrinkled skin and the mist clings to hollows like a desperate lover, lived the Bennett family. For seven generations, they'd been the reluctant guardians of the Wild Morels—not just any mushrooms, mind you, but fungi of such profound mystical importance that outsiders would surely dismiss it as backwoods superstition.

The Bennett's lived in a ramshackle cabin that leaned precariously against the mountain as if whispering secrets to the bedrock. The family consisted of Nanny Mae, a wizened crone whose face resembled a dried apple doll left too long in the sun; her son Jacob, who'd lost three fingers to a sawmill and his sanity to moonshine; and Jacob's three children—Elijah, Sarah, and little Toby, who hadn't spoken a word since witnessing what the Wild Morels did to a poacher two springs past.

Each year as winter's grip loosened on the mountains, the Bennetts would venture into the secret hollows where the morels grew. Not the common morels that tourists and weekend foragers sought, but the Wild Morels—black as coal with caps that seemed to shimmer with constellations when viewed under the full moon.

"Remember children," Nanny Mae would rasp, "the morels ain't just food. They're the mountain's eyes. They watch. They remember. And Lord help those who try to take more than their share."

The truth of Nan's words was etched into the Bennett family history, written in blood and disappearances. There was Uncle Alvin, who'd tried to sell spores to a mycologist from the university. They found him three days later, his mouth stuffed with dirt and tiny morels already sprouting from his eye sockets.

Then there was Cousin Wilma, who'd taken a whole sackful to trade for medicine when her baby had the fever. Both she and the child returned changed, their skin developing a faint honeycomb pattern that darkened in the spring.

The Bennetts didn't just protect the morels from outsiders; they protected outsiders from the morels.

One fateful April, a fancy SUV with Maryland plates crawled up the rutted dirt road to Hooker Hollow. Out stepped a man and woman dressed in what city folks thought was appropriate "hiking attire"—clothes so brightly colored they might as well have hung a sign saying "We don't belong here."

"We're with the Mycological Society of America," the woman announced proudly to Jacob, who was whittling on the porch. "We've heard rumors about a unique strain of Morchella growing in these parts."

Jacob spat a stream of tobacco juice that landed with remarkable precision on the woman's spotless hiking boot. "Ain't nothing here but regular mushrooms, ma'am. Best try Tennessee."

But the researchers were persistent. They flashed grant money. They showed credentials. They mentioned connections to pharmaceutical companies interested in "novel compounds."

That night, as the outsiders set up camp near the creek, the Bennetts gathered around their kitchen table.

"They'll find the hollow," Elijah said. "Those types always do."

"Then we'll have to guide them," Nan decided. "Show them what they're asking for."

The next morning, Sarah Bennett appeared at the researchers' campsite, offering to show them "where the funny mushrooms grow." The scientists followed eagerly, recording GPS coordinates and taking soil samples as they ventured deeper into the misty woods.

Sarah led them to a small clearing where ordinary morels pushed up through the leaf litter. The scientists' disappointment was palpable.

"There's supposed to be a unique variety here," the man insisted. "Black caps, unusual patterns. Potentially containing compounds not found in documented species."

Sarah twirled a strand of hair around her finger and looked at the darkening sky. "Those only come out at night. During the full moon. And only if they choose you."

The scientists exchanged glances, clearly believing they were dealing with backwoods superstition. But they were too close to their prize to turn back now.

"We'll wait," the woman decided.

As darkness fell and the moon rose fat and yellow over the ridge, Sarah slipped away, allegedly to "fetch proper viewing equipment." The scientists waited in the clearing, their headlamps casting weak pools of light against the encroaching darkness.

Around midnight, they noticed the first strange morel pushing through the soil—black as midnight with a cap that seemed to ripple like water. Then another. And another. Soon the clearing was filled with them, their caps turned upward like eager faces.

When Sarah returned with her family, they found the scientists on their knees, frantically harvesting specimens, their sample bags bulging.

"Didn't nobody tell you?" Nanny Mae asked, her voice cutting through the night. "You don't take from the Wild Morels. They take from you."

The scientists looked up, their faces already showing faint honeycomb patterns, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and ecstasy.

"We tried to warn you," Jacob sighed, pulling little Toby close. "Now you belong to the hollow."

The Bennetts left the scientists there, their forms gradually hunching, their skin darkening and hardening into something not quite human anymore. By morning, two perfect specimens of human-shaped growths stood in the clearing, their bodies carpeted in tiny black morels that glistened with dew.

"More scarecrows for the garden," Elijah muttered as they harvested a careful, sustainable amount of morels for their table.

Months later, another research team would come looking for their missing colleagues. And the cycle would begin again, as it had for generations.

For in the deep hollows of Appalachia, the Wild Morels always have their due. And the Bennetts would continue their grim duty—not just protecting the morels from people, but protecting people from a fate darker than death: becoming part of the endless cycle of decay and growth that feeds the mountains and keeps their secrets buried deep.

Little Toby still doesn't speak, but sometimes at night, they catch him whispering to the small black morels that have begun to grow between the floorboards of the cabin. And if you listen very carefully, the morels seem to whisper back.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​