Gina Easton

The February Editor's Pick Writer is

Gina Easton

Please feel free to email Gina at: gina.grottke@hotmail.co.uk


by Gina Easton

“Ugh!” Jane wrinkled her nose at the sight which greeted her as she peered into the fridge. She'd just bought those strawberries yesterday. And now look at them. She gazed in dismay at the fruit in the basket, the berries now sprouting greenish fur.

Mold! If there was one thing Jane hated, that revolted her to her core, it was moldy food. Mould itself was bad enough wherever it grew, but when it invaded food, especially her food, it was positively disgusting. The very idea of any sort of fungus was an affront to her peace of mind.

The berries had looked perfectly fine yesterday at the grocer’s, ruby gems of luscious flavor just waiting to be enjoyed. And now this. She’d refrigerated them right away so the mould growth obviously wasn’t her fault. Sighing as she dumped the strawberries, basket and all, into the garbage, she decided she’d have to let Mr. DeMarco know. He should be made aware that his so-called “fresh” organic produce wasn’t all that fresh.

No time like the present. Besides, she was really craving some fruit. If the strawberries weren’t up to snuff she could always try something else.

Jane walked the short distance to DeMarco’s Fresh Fruit and Vegetable store. It had been a fixture in the neighborhood for many years and the proprietor knew most of his customers by name. Mr. DeMarco (Just call me Frank) was a round, jovial man in his mid-fifties, proud of his thriving family business at which both his wife and teenage son worked.

Jane glanced at the array of tempting fruit and vegetables on display outside the store. Each row of fruit looked invitingly free of mold. The small bell above the door tinkled as she entered the cool interior of the store. Mr. DeMarco beamed at her from behind the counter.

“Jane. How nice to see you again. What a glorious day! One of the best we’ve had all summer.”

Jane smiled tightly as she replied, “Yes it is. Mr. DeMarco…I don’t want to complain but…the strawberries I bought yesterday were moldy.”

The proprietor’s smile wavered. “Moldy? But I check my stock carefully. I would never put moldy produce on the shelves.”

“No, no,” Jane hastened to explain. “The berries seemed fine when I bought them. But when I went to eat them today, mold was growing on them. And that's not all—it’s the second time this has happened. Last week the blueberries I purchased went bad the next day too.”

DeMarco frowned. “I...I don't know what to say, Jane. Did you refrigerate them? In this weather, you know, if you leave them out...”

Jane said a bit impatiently, “Of course I refrigerated them.”

“Why didn’t you bring them back for a refund?”

Jane shrugged. “Well—I thought it was just an aberration. I mean, I’ve been buying your produce for a long time, and always been satisfied with the quality.”

DeMarco looked perplexed. “That’s strange. I’ve not received any other complaints. You’re the only customer who’s reported finding mould.”

“I don’t know about anyone else. I can only tell you my experience.”

“I’m very sorry, Jane. Like I said, I check all the fruit and vegetables for any imperfections, bruises and, of course, mold. So I’m at a loss to explain what’s happened. I’ll check with the producers and see if they’ve had similar complaints from other vendors. In the meantime, please accept any fruit you like, free of charge.”

“Thank you, Mr. DeMarco. I hope the issue is resolved soon. You’ve always sold the best fruit and veggies around.”


Oh no. Not again. Jane couldn’t believe her eyes. She’d opened the fridge door to get some of the delicious cherries she’d enjoyed last evening after returning from DeMarco’s, a bushel of the fruit under her arm.

She’d eaten a bowlful and they were ripe and juicy, as tasty as cherries should be. But now…a fine layer of mold coated the remaining berries. Jane cursed in dismay. What was going on here? How could the cherries have gone bad overnight in the fridge?

She glared at the fridge. Could it be the culprit? Maybe it wasn’t regulating the temperature properly, thus allowing the fruit to spoil. She peered at the control panel. It was set at moderately cold and the temperature inside the fridge felt sufficiently cool. She turned the dial up anyway, just to make sure.

The fridge couldn’t be the problem, she decided, even though it did make strange noises at times. Which, now that she thought about it, seemed odd for a new fridge she’d had less than a month.

In fact...it was only since she bought this fridge that she’d encountered the problem of mold. But her old fridge had died suddenly and she’d had to scramble to find a replacement. The salesman at the warehouse assured her that the fridge was indeed “new” in that it had been returned, apparently still in its original packaging, by a previous customer. No, the customer hadn’t said why he returned it, and had, in fact, refused a replacement. The salesman shook his head and shrugged. This was a great model, he said, and at an even greater discount, if she purchased it that very day.

Jane had figured it for a bargain too good to refuse, but now, looking at the ruined cherries, she wasn’t so sure. The fridge could be defective; if so she was stuck with it because there was no warranty and she couldn’t afford to buy another.

She grabbed the bushel of remaining cherries and placed it on the counter-top. She would return the fruit to DeMarco later today, show him first-hand the evidence that his produce was sub-standard. She grimaced in disgust at the cherries, wrapped in their blanket of green fungus. It looked like there was more mould than when she first took them out of the fridge only minutes ago, but that couldn't be. Her eyes must be playing tricks.

Jane shivered slightly. She couldn’t help it. Mould gave her the creeps. Fungus of any kind, if truth be told. Her stomach turned whenever she encountered it. That’s why she was admittedly a bit of a clean-freak. Her kitchen and bathroom fixtures were spotless as she waged a daily battle against mildew. Not one fungal spore was allowed to exist in her domain, and Jane was not about to let some rotten fruit get the better of her.

Towards the end of the afternoon, Jane decided she needed a break. Working from home was great, but hours in front of a computer screen were often more than her body could handle. It was actually her job as editor of an online science magazine which had contributed to her abhorrence of fungus. She’d learned a great deal about the disgusting organism, which was one of the most adaptable and pernicious of parasites. Abounding in nature it thrived in nearly any kind of environment.

It reproduced in spores which, depending on the specific fungus, if inhaled, ingested, or absorbed through the skin or bloodstream, could wreak terrible and permanent damage on its human host. An insidious predator, fungus was difficult for the human immune system to destroy completely. Sometimes, especially if it infiltrated the body's vital organs, it could cause fatal infections.

No wonder then, Jane reasoned, she held a healthy respect for (and fear of) this microscopic yet formidable enemy.

She pushed her chair away from the computer, yawning as she stood. Despite getting her usual amount of sleep, she noticed that she was more tired these days. She seemed to fatigue more easily and just didn’t feel her normal energetic self. She shrugged, trying to shake off the sluggish feeling in her muscles. Glancing at the clock on the wall she decided she should return the cherries and give Mr. DeMarco a piece of her mind…selling rancid produce was just not acceptable.

She entered the kitchen and stopped short, frowning. The counter-top was bare. But she’d taken the basket of fruit out of the fridge and placed it on the counter. She knew she had. She looked at the fridge and saw that its door was slightly ajar. Her frown deepened. What the hell was going on? She marched over to the fridge and pulled open the door.

The basket of cherries was there.

On the second shelf.

Where they’d been before she deposited them on the counter.

Jane stared in consternation. Not only were the cherries back in the fridge, but the coating of mould was like a blanket now, sickly green with black tinges. She sniffed, detecting a subtle odor of decay which seemed to emanate not only from the fruit but the fridge itself. She recoiled, stomach clenching in revulsion as she noted smudges of black mould on the wall of the fridge nearest the rotting fruit.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she muttered, backing away from the fridge. Black mold. The kind that wreaked disaster on immune systems and caused a number of horrible and potentially deadly syndromes. How did this species of fungus come to be in her kitchen? She was always so diligent in her efforts to maintain a clean environment in her home.

She quickly gathered her cleaning supplies, plastic apron and mask. It was imperative that she not inhale any spores. Donning her rubber gloves she gingerly lifted the basket of cherries from the fridge. Her gorge rose as she saw that the mould had seeped right through the bottom of the basket and now stained the fridge shelf with its slimy, fetid presence. She hastily carried the basket over to the garbage bin.

A nasty, pungent smell greeted her when she opened the bin. Jane gagged, cursing her oversight. The strawberries she threw away yesterday were festering in the garbage, the dark, dank space an ideal breeding-ground for the abominable fungal spores.

“Uggh! Ick! Oh yuck!” Jane cried, teeth clenched tightly behind her mask. She had to discard the putrid mess before her stomach heaved its contents all over her spotless kitchen floor. She grabbed another garbage liner and dumped the first one into it, then sealed it tightly. Carrying it to the back entry she opened the screen door and threw the bag out on the deck. She would deposit it into the outside disposal bin later. For now…she needed to tackle the fridge.


Jane sighed as she put away the cleaning supplies and removed her apron, mask and gloves. She’d scrubbed every last bit of revolting fungus from the wall and shelf of the fridge. Now it gleamed like new again.

But she was so tired. Looking at the time, she saw to her surprise that it was going on ten p.m. She’d been so preoccupied, obsessed even, with getting rid of the mold that she’d lost track of time. She even forgot to eat dinner. And now after looking at and smelling that fungus, she completely lost her appetite. Besides, she was so weary she might as well just go to bed.

Later in the night, Jane awoke to the sound of the fridge droning and gurgling loudly. Now what? she thought groggily. It sounds like it has indigestion. Hopefully it isn’t the motor.

Sighing in annoyance, she got out of bed and walked into the kitchen.

Stopped in her tracks.

The fridge door was wide open. Most of the contents were strewn around the kitchen floor. Bottles and jars shattered. A carton of eggs was smashed, yellow yolks oozing sticky puddles. Packages of cheese, various containers of left-overs…as though the fridge, in the throes of a mad frenzy, had suddenly disgorged its innards everywhere.

Jane gasped. A sob of disbelief escaped her.

The solitary light bulb inside the fridge glowed brightly, revealing the large, irregular patches of black fungus which covered the fridge’s walls and shelves. Long streaks, jagged cracks of mold, like a grotesque parody of Chistmas decorations, festooned most of the interior.

“No, no, no!” Jane exclaimed, shaking her head. This had to be a nightmare, right? It couldn’t be real. She was still asleep in bed, not standing before this monstrosity of a fridge, staring at the malignant growths festering inside it. It was the only rational explanation.

Jane pinched the skin on her forearm so hard she cried out in pain. But the scene before her didn’t waver. She didn’t suddenly wake up in bed. Then she actually was awake and this was really happening? Stifling another sob, Jane bit her lip and straightened her shoulders. Only one thing to do at this moment…

She trudged off to find her cleaning supplies.


First she was indignant. Then outright angry.

“Yes, of course it’s defective,” she shouted at the salesman on the phone. “That’s what I’ve been telling you. All my food is spoiling. Do you know how much food has gone to waste?” She listened as the man interrupted to say something.

“I know there’s no warranty. I don’t care about getting my money back. Why can’t you give me another fridge in exchange?"

The salesman replied.

“What do you mean that was the last one in stock? What am I supposed to do? I need a fridge!”

The salesman murmured something suitably soothing.

Jane exclaimed in exasperation, “You know what? I don't care. Just come pick it up.”       

Another brief response.

“Of course you have to pick it up. I’m returning it! Don’t you understand, you moron? I don’t want the fucking fridge! It’s possessed!”                      

A shocked silence greeted her outburst. After a moment, the man said something.

“Please,” Jane begged, her voice breaking. “Honestly, I’m at my wit’s end.” Listening. “I see. Well, thanks for nothing!” She slammed the phone down so hard her hand tingled from the impact “Asshole!” she yelled, jumping to her feet.

After spending most of the wee hours of the previous night scouring the fungus from the fridge and cleaning up the mess on the floor, she’d crept back to bed, exhausted. Then, once the supermarket was open she’d gone shopping, buying fresh groceries as test subjects. She’d come home, unpacked the groceries, made herself a cup of tea and attempted to return the cursed (and she meant that literally) refrigerator back to the warehouse.

A futile endeavor, as it turned out. Which meant that she was on her own when it came to dealing with this problem. Fleetingly, the thought occurred to her that she might be insane, trapped in a weird hallucinatory psychosis. But she really didn’t think so.

Time to go check on things. Jane had decided to conduct an experiment. The fridge had remained spotlessly clean today, no trace of fungus within its pristine interior. However, it had also been empty—until she recently re-stocked it with fresh grocery items. That had been what—five hours ago now? Time to see what the fridge had been up to.

She stealthily approached the fridge, girding herself to do battle. The door was closed. With a flourish born of false bravado, Jane flung open the door.

Her eyes registered the clean walls and shelves. She released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She reached for a jar of fresh pasta sauce and unscrewed the lid.

Her eyes widened in horrified dismay at the skim of green mold resting on the surface. Next she grabbed a container of milk, the sour smell assailing her nostrils as she removed the cap.  Emptying the contents down the sink, she gagged at the sight of greenish-brown chunks which clogged the opening of the drain. She reached for the casserole of beef stew she’d cooked a few hours ago. And lifted the foil wrap to discover a thick, crusty coating of mold.

Jane reeled as a wave of dizziness assaulted her. She was drained of energy, limbs trembling uselessly, unable to support her weight. Seized by a profound fatigue, she sank to the floor, her back propped against the counter, facing the gaping interior of the fridge. Her vision swam out of focus as her eyes closed.


Jane’s eyes snapped open. It took a few seconds to adjust as the kitchen was in shadows. How long had she been...asleep? Why was she half-sprawled on the kitchen floor? Her head felt fuzzy, her thoughts sluggish. It was evening, judging from the darkness outside the kitchen window. The sole light in the room came from the fridge, whose door was still agape.

Jane straightened up from her slumped position and gazed at the scene before her. For some moments she was unable to register what had transpired. Containers of food once again scattered everywhere, mostly empty of their contents. She looked down at the beef casserole on the floor beside her. It was half-eaten, a thick layer of fungus oozing through the chunks of meat and vegetables. Where was the other half of the casserole? Inexplicably gone.

As was most of the jar of pasta sauce, tell-tale lumps of black-green mold nestled amongst the tomatoes and mushrooms. A carton of vanilla yogurt, seal newly broken, the dairy product demolished, just a few swirls of green and black at the bottom.

Jane burped loudly. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Looked at her hand, at the smeared remnants of stew, pasta sauce and yogourt.

She gagged as revulsion filled her. Just as the awful, horrible truth hit her like a punch in the gut. She had ingested this rancid, tainted food. In some altered state, a fugue, a trance, whatever, she had eaten the fungus-infested food.

She gasped as a memory jolted her. Sitting on the kitchen floor, casserole container in both hands, tipping it to her mouth. Avidly devouring the slimy, gelatinous reeking stew. Followed by the pasta sauce. Fingers digging into the spongy, pungent mixture, cramming the putrid mess into her greedy mouth…

Bile, burning and acrid, rose in her throat. Staggering to her feet she stumbled towards the sink. Head bent, waves of nausea crested in her gut as she waited for the sickness to hit. Normally she hated to vomit; it disgusted her almost as much as mold. Now she welcomed it. But despite the roiling greasiness in her stomach nothing happened. Steeling herself against the unpleasantness of the task Jane lowered her head and stuck her fingers down her throat.

No matter how much she wanted it, willed it, all she could manage was a few paltry retches, stomach dry-heaving and clenching painfully.

Panic started to bubble inside her. She had to get rid of the repulsive fungus she’d unwittingly ingested. How many millions of spores were now multiplying in her digestive tract, biding their time before absorption into her bloodstream? Once there, it was game over. The fungus would destroy her, organ by organ. She could almost feel the deadly spores burrowing into the tiny alveoli in her lungs, eating away at the lobes of her brain...

Crying in distress, Jane ran into the bathroom. Flipping on the light switch, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Wild eyes red-rimmed, lids encrusted with green gunk. A thin stream of greenish-brown fluid the consistency of pus emanated from both nostrils. She opened her mouth wide. A black fuzzy layer coated her tongue and the inside of her cheeks.

In mounting terror, Jane screamed and careened back into the kitchen. For the first time she noticed that the back door was open and a trail of garbage led from the deck into the kitchen.  Throwing up her hands in abject fear she saw the streaks from the torn garbage bin which stained the floor like so much blood. Strawberry juice like bright arterial blood. Cherry juice like darker venous blood.

Oh, God, no. Surely she hadn’t scavenged through the garbage as well? Shoveling rotten berries down her throat, too? She couldn’t bear the thought. Have to stop the fungus. Have to stop it.

She couldn’t let any more of the noxious spores be absorbed from her digestive system. It might already be too late.

She ran to the gleaming set of kitchen knives, grabbing the longest and sharpest one in the block. She felt her eyes being drawn to the fridge, her body and mind growing cold. She was mesmerized by the spotless interior. The fridge taunted her with its pristine quality, so different from her own filthy, defiled body. Didn’t she want to be all purified and cleansed on the inside, too? No more loathsome fungus.

Only one way to accomplish that.

Sobbing desperately, mad with fear, she plunged the knife into her abdomen, savagely lacerating the layers of dermis, sawing through thick fat and sinewy muscle .Blood spurted copiously as she continued to hack down to her intestinal wall.

Finally able to glimpse the shiny coils of intestines, she severed the mesenteric artery, watching the bright geyser of blood erupt.

And at last, a glimpse of the glistening viscera throbbing with the presence of millions of fungal spores. Both hands slick with blood and gore, she struggled to maintain her grip on the knife.

As Jane sank to the floor, consciousness quickly ebbing, the final thing she saw was the cold mocking light from the fridge.  

Gina Easton is a former registered nurse who decided to pursue her long-time dream of writing as a profession. To date she has had twelve short-stories published in horror anthologies and magazines.

She also has two novels (both in the horror/fantasy genre) scheduled for release in 2021.

She adores the weird, mysterious and magical aspects of life, which she explores through her writing.

She lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband.