The first recordings came from a lab in southern England in 2019, when researchers studying mycelial networks attached microelectrodes to the branching tendrils of a common woodland fungus. They expected to measure irregular biological noise, tiny fluctuations associated with nutrient exchange and cellular growth. Instead, the electrodes picked up something startlingly structured: bursts of electrical pulses separated by consistent intervals, forming patterns that looked less like random activity and more like a rudimentary code. One researcher described it as “listening to static that occasionally arranges itself into words.”
The fungus in question was not exotic. It was a species found throughout temperate forests, weaving invisible networks beneath the soil. But under magnification and sensitive electrical monitoring, its mycelium exhibited behavior no one had anticipated. The pulses came in tight clusters, sometimes rapid, sometimes spaced with uncanny regularity. When the data were graphed, the rhythm resembled the timing structure of Morse code, short pulses, longer pauses, repeated motifs, and occasional bursts that mirrored the pacing of repeated “letters.” None of the researchers suggested the fungus was speaking, yet they could not ignore the striking organization of the signals.
To test whether the patterns were environmental noise, the team introduced variables: moisture changes, temperature shifts, light exposure, and simulated predation. Each shift altered the electrical pulse activity, but in ways that seemed deliberate rather than chaotic. When the fungus sensed a nutrient source placed inches away, the pulses increased in frequency, almost like an internal alert spreading through the mycelial web. When another fungus species was introduced nearby, the pulse intervals changed dramatically, resembling a warning rhythm noted in other studies of plant communication.
The most intriguing discovery came when the researchers physically injured a small portion of the mycelium. Within seconds, electrical pulses erupted across the entire network, fast, clustered signals that appeared to ripple outward from the damage site. The timing of these pulses was nearly identical during repeated tests, as though the fungus possessed a preprogrammed response pattern. The signals functioned like alerts traveling along neural pathways, except fungi possess no neurons.
Mycologists have long known that fungal networks transmit information, coordinating nutrient distribution and resource sharing among trees in what ecologists call the “wood-wide web.” But electrical communication was previously assumed to be slow, diffuse, and chemically mediated. The new recordings challenged that assumption. These pulses traveled faster than chemical diffusion and exhibited internal structure. Some clusters repeated with small variations, almost like dialects within the same species.
To push the analysis further, the research team worked with computational linguists, who compared the pulse patterns to known communication structures in animals and human-developed codes. The linguists found that the electrical bursts fell into statistically meaningful groupings, clusters, repeated motifs, and spacing that suggested functional segmentation. The patterns were not words in any human sense, but they were also not noise. They exhibited complexity that bordered on intentional organization, even if the mechanism behind it remained unknown.
Other labs soon attempted to replicate the findings. Studies on oyster mushrooms showed similar pulses, though with different timing characteristics. Cordyceps networks produced slower, denser clusters. Mycorrhizal fungi, those that fuse with plant roots, created pulsing patterns that changed dramatically when connected trees were under drought stress. Each species seemed to possess its own electrical “accent,” hinting at the possibility of information systems embedded deep within fungal biology.
Most scientists remain cautious. They emphasize that electrical pulses do not prove communication in the cognitive sense. Instead, they may represent highly efficient internal signaling, a biologically evolved method for coordinating growth, resource distribution, and environmental response. Yet the Morse code resemblance continues to fascinate researchers. Even the skeptics acknowledge that the statistical structure of the pulses is difficult to explain purely through random physiological fluctuation.
Some alternative theories have emerged. One proposes that the structured signals are emergent properties of complex networks, similar to how flocking birds create synchronized shapes without conscious intention. Another suggests the pulses could reflect chemical oscillations driving growth patterns. A more speculative line of thought posits that fungi, with their vast subterranean networks, may possess a form of distributed intelligence still poorly understood, an intelligence that communicates through timing rather than language.
For now, the fungus that emits Morse-like electrical signals remains a biological puzzle. It is neither evidence of language nor proof of randomness. It is something in between: a living organism creating patterns that resemble communication, operating through electrical rhythms that science has only recently learned how to hear. Whether the signals represent coordination, adaptation, or a deeper biological logic, they challenge our assumptions about what fungal life is capable of, and what hidden conversations may be taking place beneath our feet.
Note: This article is part of our fictional-article series. It’s a creative mystery inspired by the kinds of strange histories and unexplained events we usually cover, but this one is not based on a real incident. Headcount Media publishes both documented stories and imaginative explorations—and we label each clearly so readers know exactly what they’re diving into.
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