John Simmons
“For instance, it is nearly dawn.”
I stared blankly at her. Then “No it isn’t, it’s the evening. A long night ahead.”
“I know. I was just thinking about that Tom Stoppard quote.”
Blank again. So she said:
“There is an art to the building of suspense…dot, dot, dot. They’re like scary music in a horror film, those dots…”
“For instance, Psycho.”
“Maybe. But it’s about time though, isn’t it? You set up an expectation. Something’s going to happen. Next second. Or minute. Or even the days ahead.”
“Suspense can be a slow burn.”
“And then you wonder – what? What could possibly happen?”
“For instance, there’s someone outside the house, lurking in darkness. Can’t see his face. What’s he up to? Is he hiding something? Or holding something?”
“For instance, a knife.”
“Could be. Better lock up.”
“What if it’s too late? What if he’s already inside? What if he’s in the next room?”
“In the study? Doing what?”
“Well, he’s not writing my essay for me.”
“Sharpening the knife. Calm as you like. Smiling to himself about what’s next.”
“For instance, to open the door, knife in hand. The knife catching a glint of moonlight, just before dawn.”
“Waiting for us to go to bed. For instance…”
“Could you sleep after that? After nearly scaring the living nightlights out of me.”
“And thinking he’s just waiting for us to drop off. Waiting for the sound of our breathing to deepen. Waiting for…”
“The sun.”
“The sun. Dawn. It’s all over.”
“So, what’s next?”
“For instance, another day unfolds.” And…
(260 words)
Chat GPT first attempt. Prompt: Suspense story, only 260 words
For instance, it is nearly dawn when the first scream shatters the silence. Sarah jolts awake, heart racing, the echoes of terror still hanging in the air. She throws on a sweater, her mind racing as she recalls the warnings: the missing people, the whispers of something lurking in the shadows of the small town.
Outside, the sky is bruised with the remnants of night. She steps onto the porch, breathless. The mist curls around her ankles, thick and unnatural. It feels alive. The scream was close—too close.
“Max!” she calls, her voice trembling. Her dog, a golden retriever, usually fearless, doesn’t appear. Panic coils in her stomach.
As she searches, she remembers the strange occurrences: the flickering streetlights, the odd figures seen only from the corner of her eye. It was as if the town had been swallowed by a slow, creeping darkness.
Another scream pierces the morning, more desperate this time. Sarah’s instincts kick in, propelling her forward. She darts down the path leading to the woods, heart pounding louder than the thud of her footsteps.
The trees loom ahead, their branches like skeletal fingers. She knows she shouldn’t go in, but something pulls her deeper, an irresistible curiosity mingled with dread.
Suddenly, a low growl reverberates through the fog, freezing her in place. Shadows shift among the trees, and she realizes—whatever is out there is hunting. And she might just be its next target.
(239 words)
Notes on the experience.
It couldn’t count, so I asked it again for 260 words. Very little was changed (mainly a last-line addition of ‘… lost in the encroaching darkness’, which weakened the original ending). I was more insistent the third time that the word count had to be exactly 260 words. The version below came in at 266 words.
It seems that Chat GPT can write in a sub-genre of Stephen King but cannot count. Literate but not numerate, which surprised me, I’d expected the opposite. I suppose I should edit this down to 260 but I don’t think I’ll waste time with this particular story. I don’t think my version is great, but it seems more original, so I’ll hang on to that.
Chat GPT third attempt.
For instance, it is nearly dawn when the first scream shatters the silence. Sarah jolts awake, heart racing, the echoes of terror still hanging in the air. She throws on a heavy sweater, her mind racing as she recalls the warnings: the missing people, the hushed whispers of something lurking in the shadows of the small town.
Outside, the sky is bruised with the remnants of night. She steps onto the porch, breathless. The mist curls around her ankles, thick and unnatural. It feels alive. The scream was close—far too close.
“Max!” she calls, her voice trembling with fear. Her dog, a golden retriever, usually fearless and loyal, doesn’t appear. Panic coils tightly in her stomach, like a snake ready to strike.
As she searches, she remembers the strange occurrences: the flickering streetlights, the odd figures seen only from the corner of her eye. It was as if the town had been swallowed by a slow, creeping darkness, leaving nothing but dread.
Another scream pierces the morning, more desperate this time. Sarah’s instincts kick in, propelling her forward. She darts down the path leading to the woods, heart pounding louder than the thud of her frantic footsteps.
The trees loom ahead, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching out. She knows she shouldn’t go in, but something pulls her deeper, an irresistible curiosity mingled with dread.
Suddenly, a low growl reverberates through the dense fog, freezing her in place. Shadows shift among the trees, and she realizes—whatever is out there is hunting. And she might just be its next target, lost in the encroaching darkness.
(266 words)
– John
Max Parfitt
For instance, it is nearly dawn. When the sun comes up, where will you be? ... Read more.