https://youtu.be/0FzaJ1lP6rU?si=cl_46fK_nNTGWUUh

Chuck walks shaking but resolute into the underbrush off the beaten path; coughs and gags, his nose invaded by a sickeningly sweet, putrid smell; the buzzing of numerous flies and bugs, growing louder, further confirms to him that he's likely on the right track. The hideous dark shape casting a long shadow in the center of the clearing finally comes into view, pulsating and writhing softly, seems to recoil, as if unable to decide between the anticipation at the smell of fresh blood, and a primitive sense of danger. It hasn't been watered in who knows how long and who knows what it's been surviving on... did it catch unfortunate wildlife, or a passerby or two maybe, even? Or did it only cannibalize its own rotting fruits when they fall and hit the ground, disputing them to the flies? The fact remains that amazingly, the damned thing actually survived the neglect, is visibly, desperately hungry. He had half hoped it would die.

Chuck's about to make a terrible mistake; the instructions are fairly straightforward to water, as they say, the family tree; indeed “watering” in this occasion involves not only no actual watering the plant in any traditional sense, but especially NOT with gasoline... that detail is absolute madness, and could in addition result in many acres lost if the wind was to cooperate... probably lives in danger within a wide area. Maybe he was just pushed over the edge this last time, tired of being both ma's disappointing child, and her last living son – a struggle that's likely going on mostly inside his head. No matter, he's resolute; come what may he's gotta do what he's gotta do even if it ends in tears, or the stench of burnt meat and burnt fur, and agonizing cries out in the trees.

How often did Joe come here and lay down under the tree, and meekly let its tendrils get under his skin and suck his blood, and father before him?
And how often did his brother Slick... eh, probably never, this one. But what would he tell him in such a situation?
“You already know that one you dolt, burn it!”
“Fire was always your answer to everything...”
“That's because it works, duh!”
He makes his way towards the bloody trunk, swearing as he kicks off the black tendrils hungrily gripping his feet, trying to sniff out the veins like vegetal mosquitoes; he looks down at them, eyes red with tears, painfully aware of the subversive nature of his resolution; arrived there, panting and sobbing frantically, about to pass out as the stench's grown unbearably strong, he gives the imposing structure a good look, conflicted, invaded by fear and sadness. He has to shake himself out of it, and starts dousing the base of the trunk with the cannister he's brought.
“I'm sorry ma, I'm sorry...”

From : Dr Monke to : Dr Charanson, 10-21 7:12PM
I have per complete chance come across a subject whose recovery I am currently monitoring, that you could call a textbook case of transcarnal psychosis; I thought he could be of interest for your research on the matter.

Obviously the crisis at hand didn't allow me the time or resources to come into possession of the subject. It is ironic, I can already hear you think, how the current circumstances could allow us to acquire almost any subject under the appropriate pretenses and said subject's disappearance going all but unnoticed, at the same time as they make us, in our profession, too busy to act on such – in the eye of the common folk – frivolous and fantastical projects. However, for reasons which will become obvious, I have inoculated him with certain inhibitants which should keep him and his properties under control (apart from the aforementioned substance infection that you know, there is an array of disorders, of which I have listed below the ones relevant to the topic) and somewhat easy to retrieve, would you choose to take a look.

But enough digression; you know these issues all too well. All of this to tell you, my esteemed friend and colleague, that my role in whatever this is, regardless of what you may or may not make of this lead I am offering, starts and ends here, except for possible arrangements for transportation. I leave the rest to your entire discretion.
[…] He is of course, for lack of a better word, not all there. But it is your thesis that a significant piece of our collective psyche has desired these macabre, invasive weeds into existence, and having seen the thing itself with my own eyes – although badly damaged by the actions of the subject, I must say the doubts I had about certain fine points of your theory, especially the hereditary part, are all but blown away. In short, I believe his story, for better or worse; I am, to be frank, curious to know what your own experience would say of it. […]