Кто знает английский, помогите перевести художественный текст! Очень сложно перевести

Начало я кое-как перевела, текст бредовый, я так поняла, что Синтия боится грибов, а какой-то Фортнам пытается ей доказать, что они не ходят и не могут путешествовать. Он отправляет её спать, идет на кухню и видит там блюдо с грибами. Дальше вообще получается бессмыслица, помогите, если знаете английский!

He must have stood there for half a minute, his breath frosting the air, before he reached out, took hold of the dish, sniffed it, felt the mushrooms, than at last, carrying the dish, went out into the hall. He looked up the stairs, hearing Cynthia moving about in the bedroom, and was about to call up to her. Then he stopped. He knew her answer. She had not. He put the dish of mushrooms on the newel at the bottom of the stairs and stood looking at them.
He imagined himself in bed later, looking at the walls, the open windows, watching the moonlight sift patterns on the ceiling. He heard himself saying, Cynthia? And her answering, Yes? And him saying. There is a way for mushrooms to grow arms and legs. What? She would say, silly, silly man, what? And he would gather courage against her hilarious reaction and go on. What if a msn wandered through the swamp, picked the mushrooms and ate them…? No response from Cynthia.
Once inside the man, would the mushrooms spread through his blood. Take over every cell and change the man from a man to a – Martian? Given this theory, would the mushroom need its own arms and legs? No, not when it could borrow people, live inside and become them. Roger ate mushrooms given him by his son. Roger become «something else». He kidnapped himself. And in one last flash of sanity, of being himself, he telegraphed us, warning us not to accept the special-delivery mushrooms. The «Roger» that telephoned later was no longer Roger but a captive of what he had eaten!
Doesn’t that figure, Cynthia, doesn’t it, doesn’t it? No, said the imagined Cynthia, no, it doesn’t figure, no, no, no…
There was the faintest whisper, rustle, stir from the cellar. Taking his eyes from the bowl, Fortnum walfed to the cellar door and put his ear to it.
-Tom?
No answer.
-Tom, are you down there?
No answer.
-Tom?
After a long while, Tom’s voice came up from below.
-Yes, Dad?
-It’s after midnight, - said Fortnum, fighting to keep his voice from going high. – What are you doing down there?
No answer.
-I said.
-Tending to my crop, - said the boy at last, his voice cold and faint.