The Hollowroot Ring: A Dark Fantasy Mushroom Foraging Story

Inspired by the dark intersection of mushroom foraging and forest folklore, this short story dives into the heart of fear and fungus. Scroll to the end for the writing prompt used.

The forest deepened after the third ridge.

Jonah had been walking since dawn, weaving through birch and poplar, following no trail but the tilt of the land and the tug in his gut. Maps didn’t cover Hollowroot. Old logging routes once touched its edges, but no one had marked its center. People called it cursed. He called it quiet.

The woods here were richer than he expected. Damp loam. Thick leaf cover. Fat, pale chanterelles clustered around fallen logs. Enough to fill his pack twice, but he hadn’t come for chanterelles.

He was looking for something else.

A friend of a friend had sent him a note. No signature. Just a pencil sketch of a mushroom he’d never seen and the words: You’ll know when you’re standing in the ring. Take only one.

Jonah hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

By mid-afternoon, the forest began to change. The trees grew close and crooked. Thin vines dangled from the upper branches like threads left behind by something careful. The ground turned soft underfoot, and with each step, the air grew heavier.

That’s when he smelled it.

Not decay. Not rot. Something clean and sharp, like wet stone and fresh bark. It came from just ahead, behind a curtain of ivy where the ferns grew taller than his waist.

He parted them and stepped through.

A perfect circle lay before him. Ten paces wide. The forest floor inside was bare—no leaves, no needles, no twigs. At the exact center, growing from a ring of moss, stood a cluster of mushrooms.

They were unlike anything he’d ever seen.

The caps were smooth and almost translucent, the color of river stones, with a faint glow just under the surface. Not enough to light the ground, but enough to draw the eye. Each stem was thick and solid, emerging from the earth without any signs of disruption.

Jonah crouched at the edge of the circle.

The glow pulsed once, then again. Soft and slow, like breathing.

He pulled out his foraging knife.

One mushroom, the note had said. Take only one.

He stepped into the ring.

The hum began the moment his boot touched the moss. Faint at first, like the deep buzz of distant bees. The ground seemed to shift beneath him, not in motion but in tension. Something old. Not asleep, but waiting.

He reached for the nearest mushroom, wrapped his hand around the stem, and twisted gently.

The hum stopped.

Jonah straightened, holding the mushroom in both hands. It felt warm. He stepped backward, out of the ring, and the moment his foot left the moss, the silence cracked.

The trees groaned.

A gust of wind tore through the clearing, though the air had been still a moment ago. Ivy whipped in one direction. The tall ferns flattened. He ducked, shielding his face, and when he looked up again, the circle was gone.

Not disturbed—gone. The moss, the clearing, the glow, all swallowed by trees that hadn’t been there seconds earlier.

Jonah staggered back. The mushroom in his hand had cooled. He looked down at it, then up at the canopy.

A branch snapped behind him.

He turned, knife ready.

Nothing moved.

But the forest had changed.

The path he had followed was gone. No ferns. No birch bark. Just a narrow slope leading into a hollow he didn’t recognize. The trees here were thicker and older, their bark dark and wrinkled. No sound came from the woods now. No birds. No insects.

Only breath.

He didn’t hear it. He felt it—slow and steady, not his own.

Jonah turned back and began walking, trying to retrace his steps. The light dimmed, though the sun had not set. Every step seemed longer than the last. Every tree looked older than it should.

He stopped.

The mushroom was still in his hand.

He opened his bag and wrapped it in canvas, slipping it between folded cloth. He didn’t know why, but hiding it felt like the right thing to do.

Then he saw it again.

Another ring.

This one smaller. Five feet across. No glow. But at its center stood a figure.

It wasn’t a person.

It had the shape of one. Broad shoulders. Narrow arms. But where a face should have been, there was only bark. Pale threads hung from its hands like roots torn from the ground. It did not move.

Jonah backed away.

The forest bent with him. Trees leaned forward. Roots shifted beneath the soil. He turned and ran.

No trail followed him, but somehow he reached the ridgeline again.

The pack was heavier now. The weight of the mushroom pulled at his shoulders like a stone. When he reached his truck, he sat for a long time before turning the key.

The forest didn’t chase him.

It watched.

That night, Jonah placed the mushroom on his workbench.

Its glow had returned—faint and steady.

He thought of the note.

Take only one.

He hadn’t seen any others.

But the ring hadn’t vanished.

It had moved.

Writing Prompt: “While foraging in the ancient forest known as Hollowroot, a solitary wanderer uncovers a species of mushroom no one has ever documented—glowing faintly, growing in a perfect ring. Harvesting them unleashes something beneath the soil that remembers every footstep, and it is no longer content to remain underground.”