"Great. We'll be there this Wednesday," you remember the flood repair company telling you... five weeks ago. They never showed up.

In those five weeks, the mold problem had gotten noticeably worse. It had been a rainy month, and with the rain came streaks of black growing on the basement walls. The growth was alarming - going from dark corners in the ceiling to covering the entire wall - and now - covering the floor too, all in what seemed to be days. Or maybe hours? Hard to say- you've been all over the place lately.

And at first, maybe, that was concerning. So was the lack of sleep; the coughing, the ringing in your ears. The throwing up. The endless worrying about the growing damage; how bad it was. How gross it was. The ceaseless impulse to go down there just to see how bad it had gotten, and the urge to do so naked.

There was something so arousing about the idea of being naked down there; your body juxtaposed against moldy filth. The idea made you gag and blush at once.

Did you always have a kink for filth?

"This is so fucked. Those guys need to get here soon," you think to yourself, standing naked in the basement, your hands covered in dark spores. "Is it Thursday yet?"

The stairs groan beneath your bare foot as you descend into the dark. Guided only by the light of your phone, you peer into the abyss- and an abyss it is.

The walls, covered now in thick, fuzzy black absorb the phone's light, and a dark living carpet lines the floor. Alien growths rise from the ground; fungal spires rising as high as your knees. Slime drips from the blackened ceiling, trailing down obscene, vine-like ropes that nearly reach the floor.

The air is thick, pregnant with spores, and dizziness soon sets in, the world spinning as you take your first step onto the floor. The carpet is spongy and warm somehow, and strangely comfortable- almost inviting.

Your eyes slit toward a light on the floor at the base of the staircase - your phone. The light grows dim as the mold creeps over the screen, until the thing is covered, buried in the black.

Behind you winds an awkward path cut through the fungal forest; a meandering line of broken stalks and unbalanced mis - steps that have left your feet coated in a black ooze; a drunk walking through oil. Did you really walk this far?

The vine convulses as it finishes its dark work, and it slides from your throat as the black, spore-carrying liquid settles in your stomach. A thick rope bridge of slime and spit forms between your mouth and the strangely phallic tip; a bridge that droops and breaks away, falling to your bare chest. Already, your stomach begins to digest the substance, introducing the infection into your blood. For a moment - and just a moment - reality sets in. What the fuck...?

Your head listing lazily to the side, slime dripping from your mouth, the world is alight with pretty colors as you take your place on the floor. Ooze covers your knees as you dig in your knees, and you spread your legs wide, forming the angles of an obscene triangle.

A vine lowers from the ceiling and finds both wrists, binding them together. Its embrace is wet and warm as the vine ascends again toward the roof, elevating your limp arms toward the ceiling and keeping your lazy, kneeling form erect on the basement floor.

Infecting your intestines and the alveoli in your lungs, the flashing lights intensify casting sparks of color as the fungus takes root in your brain; a growing lattice of black between neurons. Your hands high above your head now, your bare chest shudders with every cough and wheeze.Fungus creeps over your legs, black vein - like webs growing on your skin; veins that rise up your thighs, to your waist and lower abdomen. And beneath you, beneath the tendons of your spread - wide legs, beneath your exposed and presented womanhood, a stalk forms.

It grows, rising steadily, with an unsettling speed, sprouting tendrils that wind around your hips and upper thighs; a vile support structure to keep the stalk in place. A bulb forms on the tip, one flower rising to meet another.

And soon, it is there, its strange warmth securely against your skin, growing until it cradles your slit in itself. There is a sudden, almost violent flash of color in your mind as the bulb blooms.

The bulb opens, releasing a writhing mass of tiny tendrils that intrude inside of you, anchoring themselves to the ribbed walls of your womanhood, and the infection grows deeper as it spreads within. Pink covered in black.

At your cervix now, the growth performs a profane dilation, and somewhere deep in your brain, pain registers as those flashing lights explode. A whimper is choked by infected lungs, and your body attempts to escape the pain in an instinctual and ill-fated jolt. But, your arms bound above your head, your legs anchored to the floor, there is no escape as fungal veins latch on to your uterus, black filamental threads going somehow further, reaching deep, through your Fallopian tubes and arriving at last in your ovaries. And then, all that makes you a woman is overcome by black, fungal webs- webs that begin to weep.

The liquid exudes a strange warmth as it is released and soon is oozing from inside of you, dripping to the floor and running down your legs like thick black paint; a virile deluge of liquid infection. The faint sense of pain continues as the fungus spreads on a microscopic level; as your body loses a cellular war.

Alien reproductive cells swarm within the black ooze, a sea of genetic material delivered directly to your eggs. Fungal gametes assault protective shells meant to keep the incompatible, the unworthy, out; white walls besieged by black needles. And soon, the walls fall, one after another, as the needles pierce through, combining with the potential life within.

Let's talk about what happens next. And about how vile the thing you give birth to is...