SILENTIUM

[Note: The following opening segment was recorded before the case analysis]

TOMMASO: Before I begin. The missing pages. The "Maleth" entry from Catherine Walsh's case.

I went to Father Benedetti's office this morning. He was waiting for me. Not working, not reading. Just sitting at his desk with his hands folded. Like he knew I was coming.

I asked about the missing pages. Why MY copy of the Lexicon has gaps.

He looked at me for a long time. Then he asked if I'd forgotten about it.

I didn't understand what he meant.

He leaned forward. His expression was concerned. Genuinely concerned. He said certain pages had been removed from my Lexicon deliberately. For my own protection.

I asked him why. He didn't answer directly. Just said I should focus on my translations. That understanding would come in time.

Then he mentioned something. Almost casually. He asked if I still heard it sometimes. The echo.

I don't know what he meant by that. But the way he said it, he said it like he knew something. Like he was reminding me of something I should remember but… I can't.

He said I shouldn't worry about it too much, Praefectus Visconti would explain what happened to my Lexicon in a few days.

Why should the Praefectus be involved? I left his office more confused than when I entered. I'm starting to feel like I've made a mistake. And asking him about this is an even bigger mistake.

The case. I need to focus on the case.

---

8th of December, 2024. Custodia Ultimae Vocis. Isolation Chamber Three. Father Tommaso Lanza analyzing Case TM-1983-127.

The human mouth contains roughly seven hundred species of bacteria. The gut, thousands more. We're not just one organism. We're ecosystems. Walking colonies of microscopic life that we pretend belongs to us.

Thomas Reed understood this.

Portland, Oregon. September 1983. Subject is Thomas Reed. Thomas was a park ranger at Forest Park. Forty-three years old. Unmarried. Lived alone in a small cabin at the edge of the reserve.

Colleagues described him as quiet. Competent. He knew the forest better than anyone. Could identify birds by their calls, trees by their bark, mushrooms by their spores. He'd been a ranger for eighteen years.

On September 3rd, he called in sick. First time in three years. His supervisor, Ashley Mills, noted it was unusual but not concerning. Everyone gets sick.

He didn't come back to work the next day. Or the day after that.

Ashley drove to his cabin on September 7th. The curtains were drawn. His truck was in the driveway. Mail piling up in the mailbox.

She knocked. Called his name.

From inside, faint, he told her to go away.

She asked if he was alright. If he needed anything.

He said he was fine. That he just needed to be alone.

She left. But she was worried. She called him that evening. He didn't answer. She called the next day. No answer.

On September 14th, she went back. This time with the police. Deputy Raymond Ramirez. Wait, I know this guy.

The door was unlocked.

Deputy Ramirez's report describes what they found:

The interior was dark. Curtains drawn. No lights on. Temperature inside estimated at twenty-four degrees Celsius. Humidity extremely high. Windows fogged. Moisture on walls.

The smell was overwhelming. They both described it as organic decay. Like a basement that's been flooded. Mills reported feeling nauseous immediately upon entry.

Thomas was located in the bedroom. Door closed but not locked.

When they opened it, the smell intensified significantly.

Thomas was lying in bed. Fully clothed. The room was dark. He didn't respond to their presence.

Ramirez approached to check vitals. The bedding appeared discolored. Stained. Dark patches spreading outward from where Thomas was lying. Like moisture seeping through fabric.

When Ramirez touched Thomas's shoulder, the skin felt wrong. Not the usual cold of a corpse. Damp. Like touching wet paper.

Thomas opened his eyes. Told them not to touch him. Begged them not to touch him. Otherwise they'd spread it.

Mills turned on the bedroom light.

Thomas Reed's skin was green.

Green like chlorophyll. Like leaves. But underneath the green, white patches. Fuzzy. Growing in the creases of his neck, behind his ears, in the folds of his elbows.

Mold.

His skin was covered in mold.

Ramirez's report continues. "When Mills turned on the light, Thomas reacted with extreme distress. Covered his face with his hands. Said the light hurt. That it was making him nervous."

Ramirez could see his hands clearly then. The skin was discolored green with white growth in the creases between fingers. When Thomas moved his hands, the white patches had texture. Fuzzy. Like felt.

Mills identified it immediately. She works with forest ecosystems. Mold. Fungal growth. On his skin.

Ramirez immediately called for medical assistance. Thomas was semi-coherent but confused. Kept saying they were inside him. That he could feel them eating. That they were using him to grow.

When Ramirez tried to help him stand, to move him for better light, Thomas screamed in pure terror. He said if he moved too much, they'd release spores. They'd spread.

"Don't make me move, please. I beg you."

Mills opened the bedroom curtains. Natural light came in.

Thomas screamed again. Covered his face.

Ramirez saw something happening to his hands in the sunlight. The white fuzzy patches were retracting. Pulling back. But not off the skin. Into it. Into the pores. Disappearing inside him.

The paramedics arrived. Michael Torres and Jennifer Moore. Their account is in the medical file.

They tried to examine Thomas. Check vitals. Assess the infection.

Thomas begged them again not to touch him. That skin contact would transfer the spores. That they'd become hosts too.

Torres put on latex gloves. Tried to check Thomas's pulse.

The moment the glove touched his wrist, Thomas jerked away so violently he fell off the bed.

When he hit the floor, some kind of dust rose up. It didn't take long before realizing it wasn't simple dust: spores. A visible cloud of them. Millions of microscopic particles released into the air.

Everyone in the room stopped breathing. Just for a moment. Instinct.

But you have to breathe eventually.

Thomas started crying. Apologizing. He kept saying he was sorry. That he tried not to move. Tried not to spread them. But it was useless. It was too late.

They got him to the hospital. Oregon Health Sciences University. Isolation. Infectious disease protocols.

Dr. Patricia Reeves was the attending physician. Her notes are extensive. Disturbed. She documented everything because she didn't believe what she was seeing.

September 14th, seven PM. Dr. Reeves's notes:

Patient presents with extensive fungal growth on skin. Visible mycelium in skin folds, behind ears, between toes. Growth is white, fuzzy. Species identification pending.

Patient is lucid but distressed. Claims infection started eleven days ago. Says he was examining a fallen tree. Old growth. Covered in fungi. Thinks he inhaled spores while taking samples.

First symptoms: itching. Inside his mouth. He thought allergies. But the itching didn't stop. Got worse. Started in his throat. His sinuses. Deep itching he couldn't scratch.

Day three: white spots on his tongue. Tried over-the-counter antifungal drugs. It didn't help. The spots spread. To the roof of his mouth. Down his throat.

Day five: woke up and his pillow was covered in white powder. At first he thought the pillow was degrading. Then he realized the powder was coming from his ears. Spores. Growing inside his ear canals. Releasing while he slept.

Day seven: the fungus emerged on his skin. Small white patches in his armpits first. Then spreading everywhere. It grows faster in dark, moist areas. Slower on exposed skin. But it grows everywhere.

He isolated himself. Stayed in his cabin. Drew the curtains to create darkness because light hurt. Not his eyes: the fungus. When exposed to direct light, it retracts. Pulls back into his skin. And when it retracts, it hurts. He describes it as thousands of tiny roots pulling out of his flesh. Burning.

But more disturbing: he says he can feel them thinking.

Chemical signals. They're communicating inside his body. Coordinating. He says it's like being a house that's been infested and the termites are discussing how best to consume you. And you can hear every word. But you can't understand it.

The doctors tried everything for a while. Antifungal medications. Topical treatments. Systemic treatments. UV light therapy.

Nothing worked.

The fungus was resistant. Or adaptive. Every treatment would work for a few hours. The growth would slow, retreat slightly. Then it would return. Stronger. Like it had learned from the attack.

September 18th. Dr. Reeves took a skin biopsy from Thomas's forearm. Sent it to pathology.

The results were impossible.

The fungus wasn't just on the skin. It was in the skin. Mycelium had penetrated the dermis. Growing between cells. The hyphae, fungal threads, were woven through his tissue like yarn threaded through fabric.

But they weren't destroying the tissue. They were integrating with it. The pathologist showed Dr. Reeves the slides. Fungal cells and human cells touching. Connecting. Structures that looked almost like synapses between them.

Like the fungus was learning to interface with human cells.

When Dr. Reeves explained the findings to Thomas, he wasn't surprised. He said he knew. He could feel it. They weren't trying to kill him. They were trying to use him. To live with him. Inside him. They wanted to grow and he was the substrate. The medium. The food source that stays alive so they can keep eating forever.

Thomas was losing weight rapidly. Down eight kilograms in five days. Not from refusing food, he was eating normally. The fungus was consuming him. Taking nutrients from his blood. His tissue. Converting his biomass into more fungus.

He was being eaten alive from the inside out. Slowly. Efficiently. Deliberately.

September 23rd. Thomas stopped speaking. It was a deliberate choice. He was listening.

Dr. Reeves noted it: "Patient has become non-verbal. When asked questions, he holds up one finger. Waiting. He's concentrating. Listening to something.

When pressed, he wrote on a notepad: "<>"

September 27th. Thomas's college roommate, David Park, came to visit. Full protective gear. Mask, gown, gloves. The doctors were worried about spore transmission.

David's account is in the file. Written three days later, after Thomas died. His handwriting is shaky.

Tom was sitting up in bed. His skin was green. Covered in white fuzz. Like he'd been left in a damp basement for weeks. Like he was rotting but still alive somehow.

He smiled when he saw David. Tried to smile. His lips were cracked. White growth in the corners of his mouth.

David asked how he was feeling.

Thomas whispered that he understood now, so David naturally asked what he understood.

Thomas said he understood why they grow on dead things. Why they thrive in darkness and moisture. Why they break down what's complex and make it simple. It's not destruction, he said. It's transformation. Recycling. They're the cleanup crew. The reset button. They take what's finished and make it ready to start again.

David pointed out that these fungi weren't waiting for Thomas to be dead. They started eating him while he was alive.

Thomas laughed. It sounded wet. Like his lungs were full of water.

"That's what I'm saying", he whispered. "They don't see a difference. Dead or alive, we're all just substrate. Just organic matter waiting to be recycled. And they're patient. So patient. They'll wait inside you for decades if they have to. Growing slowly. Taking just enough to stay alive but not enough to kill you. Using you as a mobile breeding ground. And when you finally die naturally, they'll already be in position. Ready to finish the job".

He touched his chest. David could see white growth spreading across his hospital gown.

"They're in my lungs now. In my intestines. My liver. Spreading through my bloodstream. Finding dark, warm, moist places to colonize. They're turning me into a garden. And when I'm gone, they'll bloom."

David didn't know what to say. He held Thomas's hand. Through the glove he could feel how cold it was. And damp. Like touching a sponge.

Thomas pulled his hand away. Told him not to. The spores. David would take them home. They'd find a crack in his glove. A gap in his mask. They'd get in.

And then, then David would understand too.

That was the last thing Thomas said to him.

Three days later, David started coughing.

September 30th, 1983. Four seventeen AM.

Oregon Health Sciences University. Fourth floor. Isolation wing. Nurse Rebecca Santos was doing her rounds.

She'd been checking on Thomas every two hours. Hospital protocol for critical patients. He'd been stable. Declining, yes. Dying, yes. But stable in his decline.

When she opened the door to his room, she smelled it immediately. The report says overwhelming odor of decomposition and soil. Like a forest floor after rain.

Thomas was sitting up in bed. Eyes open. Staring at the wall.

Rebecca approached. Called his name. No response.

She got closer. Saw his skin in the dim light from the hallway. The fungal growth had exploded. Covered him completely. Head to toe. White fuzzy coating so thick he looked like he'd been dipped in mold. Like bread left in a plastic bag for too long.

She turned on the bedside lamp.

The fungus reacted immediately. The white growth across his face pulled back. Retracted into his pores. Revealing skin underneath that was green and wet. Glistening.

Thomas turned his head. Looked at her. His scleras were yellow. Liver failure. But also something else. His eyes were pitch black. Pupils too large. Dilated to the point where almost no iris showed.

Rebecca asked if he was in pain. If he needed some sort of medication.

He smiled. The white growth in the corners of his mouth spread when he smiled. Like his lips were cracking. Splitting.

"No pain", he said. His voice was different. Wet. Like speaking through water. "They've eaten the nerve endings. I can't feel anything anymore. They're being efficient. Taking what they need without causing unnecessary damage. They're good tenants."

Rebecca tried to take his pulse. His wrist was cold. When she pressed her fingers against his skin, it felt soft. Too soft. Like the tissue underneath was breaking down.

Thomas whispered that she should call Dr. Reeves. "Tell her it's almost time. They're almost ready."

Rebecca was confused.

"Yes, they're almost ready to fruit. That's the term. When fungi release spores, it's called fruiting. They've been growing inside me for weeks. Building mycelium. Establishing their network. And now they're ready to fruit. To send out the next generation. And I, I get to be the fruiting body."

Dr. Reeves arrived at 4:35 AM. She brought Dr. Howard Price from Infectious Diseases. They needed to document this. Whatever was happening had never been documented before.

Both doctors wore full isolation gear. Respirators. Double gloves. Face shields.

Thomas was still sitting up. Still staring. His breathing had changed. Shallow. Rapid.

Dr. Price asked him to describe what he was feeling.

Thomas tilted his head. Like listening. Then said: "Pressure. Internal pressure. They're growing faster now. I can feel them pushing against my organs. Against my ribs. They're running out of space. They need to expand. To release. To spread."

Dr. Reeves asked if he wanted sedation. To make him comfortable.

"No. I want to be awake. I want to experience this. I want to know what it feels like to be transformed. To become something else. Something simpler. Something patient."

At 4:47 AM, Thomas's breathing stopped.

Not gradually. Immediately. One breath, then nothing.

Dr. Price checked for a pulse. Nothing. Pupils fixed and dilated. No response whatsoever.

Time of death: four forty-seven and twenty-three seconds.

Rebecca Santos noted it in the chart.

Then Thomas sat up straighter.

No pulse. No breathing. Clinically dead. But his body sat up straighter. His spine straightening. His head tilting back. His mouth opening.

Dr. Reeves's report describes it.

The patient was deceased. She was certain. No cardiac activity. No respiratory function. No neural activity. Dead.

But the body moved. The fungus was moving it. Using it like a puppet. The mycelium inside must have been so extensive, so integrated with the muscle tissue, that it could generate movement even after death.

The patient's mouth opened wider. The jaw dislocated with a wet pop. And from inside the throat, she could see white growth. Thick. Dense. Pushing upward. Emerging.

Fruiting bodies. Mushrooms. Growing up from the patient's lungs. Through his trachea. Out of his mouth. Small white mushrooms with delicate caps. Beautiful, yet obscene.

They grew fast. Time-lapse fast. Within seconds, there were dozens of them. Pushing out of the patient's mouth. Out of his nose. Out of his ears.

And then sudden stop.

A moment of silence, everyone was frozen in place. With the last handful of air still trapped in the dead lungs, the once human was used for the final time, because that husk still had a purpose.

Two words. Slow. Deliberate. Clear.

Then the body collapsed. Released spores in visible clouds. Millions of them. Filling the room. Coating every surface.

They evacuated immediately. Sealed the room. Called CDC. Hazmat protocols.

But it was too late. They'd been in that room for thirteen minutes. Breathing. Inhaling.

Three days later, Dr. Price started coughing. Four days later, so did Dr. Reeves. And five days later, Rebecca Santos noticed white patches on her tongue.

The room was sealed for six months. When the CDC finally opened it, they found the entire space carpeted in white fungal growth. Floor to ceiling. Every surface. The bed. The monitors. The walls. The windows.

Thomas Reed's body was at the center. Unrecognizable. Completely consumed. Transformed into a mass of mycelium and fruiting bodies. No longer human. Just substrate that had been used up and recycled.

They incinerated everything. The room. The equipment. The body. Burned it at twelve hundred degrees Celsius for six hours.

But the spores were already out there. Already finding new hosts. Already beginning the slow, patient process of colonization.

There's also audio. The hospital's security system recorded everything. Including those final moments. Including the words Thomas Reed's corpse spoke while mushrooms grew out of his mouth.

The CDC sent the file to the Custodia in 1989. Marked it as unexplained vocalization during terminal fungal infection.

I'm going to play it now.

"BETH-MALETH... VHOTEL..."

I understand the words. Completely. Like they've always been in my vocabulary and I just forgot them.

This keeps happening. I shouldn't understand the Tongue immediately. Translation requires cross-referencing. Context. Pattern analysis. I’m tired of repeating… this.

But I know what these words mean. And I don’t know why. I can’t possibly understand the logic behind the Tongue nor can I understand its meaning so quickly. It’s like starting to study ancient Greek and some months you start speaking like Plato.

I need my Lexicon.

---

Beth. Tier One. Seventeen documented cases. Translation: Life. Being. Physical body. A living being or life itself as we intend it.

Then we have this… cursed word, Maleth. Again, just like it happened with Catherine Walsh's case. Tier Three word, but- I mean. It's flow, let's just assume it's flow.

Vhotel. Tier Two. Probable translation is inevitable, unavoidable, bound to happen.

Beth-Maleth Vhotel.

Life-Flow Inevitable. Flow of Life is Unavoidable. Or… Death is bound to happen.

Thomas Reed died with fungus growing through his entire body. But he didn't die when the fungus wanted him to. He died despite the fungus.

That's what I keep thinking about. The fungus kept him alive for weeks. Consuming him slowly. Taking nutrients but not killing. Like it was managing him. Maintaining him. Keeping the host functional for as long as possible.

The fungus didn't want Thomas to die. It wanted him to live. As substrate. As food. As a mobile colony it could inhabit indefinitely.

Death was failure. Death meant the fungus had to fruit, had to spread, had to find new hosts. Death was inefficient.

The fungus kept Thomas alive for as long as it could. And when it couldn't keep him alive anymore, when death finally came, something else emerged. Not the fungus. Something that uses death as a threshold. Something that manifests at the boundary between life and death.

The Tongue.

When he finally died, when his organs failed despite the fungus's best efforts, the words spoken sounded almost like… a mocking. Through his corpse. Using his dead throat.

It named itself. Named what it does.

Even if the fungus tried to keep Thomas alive, it was inevitable. And he spoke too, despite everything. A step closer.

What if the fungus isn't just decomposition. What if it's opposition. What if there are things in this world that want us alive. That need us alive. Because death means we become something else. Something they can't control.

Catherine Walsh's water wanted her alive until the right moment. Then just as it almost reached its apex moment, she died.

Thomas Reed's fungus wanted him alive indefinitely. Never dying. Never speaking. Trapped in living decay.

Different strategies. Different entities. But the same pattern. They're all trying to manage death. To control the threshold. To prevent, or maybe enable, whatever speaks through dying mouths.

Ah, right. There's also a follow-up file. From the CDC. November 1983.

Dr. Patricia Reeves. Dr. Howard Price and Nurse Rebecca Santos. All three developed fungal infections within one week of Thomas's death. All three were treated. All three recovered.

But six months later, Dr. Price noticed something. A smell. Coming from his apartment. Earthy. Organic.

He traced it to the bathroom. Under the sink. The pipes were covered in white growth. The same fungus.

He had it removed. Cleaned professionally. The growth came back within a week. Same spot.

He moved apartments. The growth followed him. Not on his body. In his environment. In dark, damp places. Under sinks. In closets. Behind refrigerators.

Dr. Reeves had the same problem. Rebecca Santos too. Everywhere they went, the fungus followed. Not infecting them. Just existing near them. Growing in their spaces. Patient. Waiting.

The file ends with a note from Deputy Ramirez, dated December 1984:

"I've stopped trying to remove it. The fungus. It keeps coming back. And I've noticed something. When I'm stressed, when I'm sick, when my immune system is compromised, the growth accelerates. Spreads faster. Gets thicker.

It's monitoring me. Waiting for me to become weak. Waiting for my defenses to drop. And when I die, whenever that is, however that happens, it will be ready. Already in position. Already established. Ready to claim my body the instant my heart stops.

But here's what terrifies me. I don't think it wants me to speak. I think it wants to keep me from speaking. Like it's afraid of what might come out of my mouth if I'm allowed to die naturally. Cleanly. Without it inside me.

So it waits. And when death comes, it will be there. Filling my throat. My lungs. Preventing whatever wants to emerge.

I am being haunted by decomposition. By the promise of silence. And there's nothing I can do about it."

Raymond Ramirez died in 1991. Heart attack. Age forty-three. When they found his body three days later, the apartment was carpeted in white fungal growth. The entire space. Every surface.

The fungus had worked fast.

And according to the report, Ramirez never spoke. Not in his final moments. Not at all. His mouth was full of mycelium. Growing up from his lungs. Filling his throat.

The fungus had kept its promise.

I know for sure this must be a case of homonymy given that "Raymond Ramirez" is a very common combination of first and last name, but this additional note left a bad taste in my mouth. Maybe I should ask Father Morrison for his parishioner contacts. I feel the need to talk to him.

Anyway. Case TM-1983-127 complete. Thomas Reed, age forty-three, died September 30th, 1983, at Oregon Health Sciences University.

Beth-Maleth Vhotel.

Translation: Inevitable Death. The unavoidable flow of life.

The Tongue needs death. Needs the threshold. And that fungus, whatever it is, doesn't want us to cross that threshold.

Or maybe it just, I don't know, it wants to be first. To claim the body before something else can. Is it preventing us from reaching God? Or for God to reach down to us?

It's trying to slow it down, isn't it. This long, long birth.

Two words added to the Lexicon.

---

Translation Summary

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