**Diary Entry**
Three days in, and the fingers began to twitch. The movement started at the very tipsthose plump, scarlet nubs, like the cap of a fly agaric, though without the white speckles. Soon, the grey lengths followed, and by midday, the whole appendages were writhing. No bones insidejust hollow, sinuous things, swaying eagerly in the flowerpot, grasping for its edges. Emily smirked to herself. Amusing, really, that shed chosen a pot shaped like a human head. Watching them wriggle, she almost fancied she could see the thing thinking.
The fingers stilled. A fly buzzed against the window, its wings flickering as it landed on the patterned curtains. Crawling downward, it tested the fabric with its proboscis before flitting to the glass. The fingers tensed, refusing to stir. The insect crept onto the crimson tip of onetasted itthen inched lower.
The reaction was instant. The red tip snapped down, crushing the fly mid-crawl. A soft crunch silenced the buzzing, and all seven fingers coiled into a tight fist, pressing into the potting soil. The fungus now resembled a grey brain threaded with scarlet veins.
“Food for thought,” Emily muttered, lifting a small cauldron from the hearth. The meat broth inside was already simmering away.
***
She ladled a bowlful, stirred it, inspected the texturesolid, and the scent wasnt half bad. Spooning a measure over the pot, she watched as the fingers trembled, greedily drinking in the broth through the veins between them. Emily stepped back, observing. The fingers convulsed, then burststarting at the tips. Grey stalks peeled back into crimson petals lined with tiny, grasping suckers. A fully bloomed scarlet flower now sat atop the clay head.
She chuckled under her breath, hefting the pot. One tendril stretched toward her hand. A sharp hiss from her, and it froze.
“Good,” she whispered, then carried it to the open cellar.
Something shifted in the dark below. She tossed the pot in. A muffled squeak, then a wet slap.
Emily returned to the hearth, lifting the cauldron again. The thick wool rag in her hands slipped slightly, the cast-irons heat seeping into her fingertips. Thick, murky liquid poured into the cellars depthsanswered by a chorus of eager, wet smacks.
Setting the cauldron aside, she lit a lantern. The cellar walls pulsed with grey fingers, each unfurling into crimson petals, drunk on the broth brewed from her grandmothers recipe.
Placing the lantern on the table, she dragged the bed back into place, iron legs scraping against the floorboards. She tested the mechanism, smoothed the quilt, and drew the curtain over the pit beneath.
A crisp white tablecloth unfurled across the table, steaming dishes arranged atop it. The floors gleamed; oil topped up in the lamps. Shedding her worn dress for a fresh pinafore, Emily pinched her cheeks for colour and peered out from the cottage.
A rider in gleaming mail approached from the crossroads. How splendidperhaps tonight, shed finally marry. And if the groom proved unsuitable? Well, the cellar was always hungry.
He reined in at the porch. Emily, a witch born and bred, greeted him with a grin wide enough to split her face.
