Stage three brought mass hallucination and complete chaos.
When the spore concentration peaked, reality dissolved for every person inside my conservatory. The mild hallucinogen became a full-scale psychedelic nightmare, customized by each person’s deepest fears and anxieties.
At the VIP area, the groom’s CEO—a man known for his composure and authority—was lying flat on his back in the grass, making swimming motions with his arms. In his altered state, he believed he was floating in a warm California ocean, enjoying the most relaxing vacation of his life. He called out to nearby guests about the beautiful dolphins and perfect waves.
At the altar, Tiffany’s dream wedding became a horror show. The bridal bouquet in her hands transformed, in her perception, into a grinning skull that whispered her name. Her magnificent Vera Wang dress—the one she’d saved for two years to afford—writhed around her body like a living thing.
She screamed in terror, convinced that an enormous albino python was constricting her chest, cutting off her breathing. In front of 300,000 livestream viewers, she began tearing the dress off her body, shredding thousands of dollars’ worth of silk and lace while screaming about snakes that existed only in her mind.
Throughout the conservatory, other guests battled their own demons. Some saw the walls melting like wax. Others believed they were being chased by invisible predators. A group near the buffet table became convinced that the food was moving, that the elegant canapés were actually insects waiting to crawl into their mouths.
The panic was universal and absolute.
They rushed toward the exits, but my conservatory’s three-layer tempered glass—installed for security and climate control—proved impossible to break with bare hands. They were trapped in what had become a transparent prison, a fishbowl filled with toxic spores, panicking like animals caught in a cage.
The livestream audience watched in horror as 150 people descended into coordinated madness. Emergency services calls began flooding local dispatch as viewers realized they were witnessing a genuine disaster, not some elaborate wedding stunt.
The beautiful Victorian conservatory—my pride and joy—had become a glass tomb filled with screaming, hallucinating wedding guests who couldn’t escape the poison they’d unknowingly unleashed.
And somewhere in the mountains, completely unaware, I was about to receive the phone call that would destroy everything I’d ever worked for.
At exactly 12 p.m., just as the chaos inside my conservatory reached its horrifying peak, I finished my final activity at the Mountain Vista Eco Lodge and began my descent down the winding mountain road.
For three days, I’d been living in blissful ignorance—hiking nature trails, practicing meditation, reading my novel by the fireplace. The digital detox had worked exactly as advertised.
I felt refreshed, centered, and ready to tackle that progress report for the USDA.
As my car reached lower elevation and cell towers came back into range, my phone exploded back to life with the fury of suppressed notifications. The first thing I heard was the relentless chiming of emergency alerts from the garden app. Red warnings cascaded down my screen like digital blood: critical temperature spike, CO2 levels extreme, pressure system failure, contamination alert.
But it was the missed calls that made my hands shake: forty-seven calls from Amy, sixteen voicemails, text messages that grew increasingly frantic as the timestamps progressed.
I pulled over at a scenic overlook, my heart hammering as I played Amy’s messages in chronological order.
“Hey Veronica, it’s Amy. I know it’s Sunday morning, but something’s weird with the garden app. Can you call me back?”
That was 9:30 a.m., her voice calm but concerned.
“Veronica, please pick up. The readings are going crazy. Temperature’s spiking. CO2 is through the roof. I’m driving over there right now.”
10:15 a.m. Panic creeping in.
“Oh my god, Veronica, there are cars everywhere. There’s a party happening at your lab. A wedding. I can see people through the glass and the readings are—”
10:45 a.m., her voice breaking.
“You need to see this livestream. Your sister’s wedding is happening inside your lab, and people are… they’re acting insane. Please watch the stream and call me back immediately.”
11:30 a.m. Barely coherent.
With trembling fingers, I opened social media and searched for Tiffany’s account.
What I found was a hellscape broadcasting live from the place I dedicated my career to protecting.
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