By now you’ll all have become aware I’ve taken out a subscription to an interactive AI called ChatGPT 4o. To get me started it offered 4 buttons, one of which generates a short story.
To start the ball rolling, ChatGPT asked me:
“What is your favorite genre? Additionally, is there a specific theme or element you’d like included in the story?”
I replied:
“My favourite genre is gothic horror. Please include my favourite character, Raoul the tiger.”
So it wrote me the following story…
The storm raged outside, battering the ancient manor perched on the cliff’s edge. Lightning split the sky, casting eerie shadows across the walls adorned with portraits of grim ancestors. Inside, the dim glow of candelabras flickered, their light barely penetrating the oppressive darkness that seemed to seep from every corner.
In the heart of the manor, in a grand but decaying library, sat Lord Henry Albrecht. His face, etched with years of sorrow and secrets, stared into the flames of the massive fireplace. He was a man burdened by a legacy of madness and mystery. His fingers absentmindedly traced the edges of a worn letter, its contents known only to him and the dead.
Suddenly, a low, guttural growl echoed through the hallways, cutting through the silence. Lord Henry’s eyes darted towards the sound, his breath catching in his throat. It was Raoul, the majestic and formidable tiger, his companion and protector. Raoul, with his amber eyes gleaming like molten gold, was more than just a beast. He was a guardian of the manor’s darkest secrets, bound to Lord Henry by a bond of ancient magic and unspoken understanding.
Raoul padded silently into the library, his massive form moving with a grace that belied his size. He approached Lord Henry, his eyes locked onto his master’s, sensing the turmoil within.
“Raoul,” Lord Henry whispered, reaching out to stroke the tiger’s thick fur. “Something stirs tonight. I feel it in my bones.”
As if in response, the manor shuddered with a deafening crack of thunder. The portraits seemed to glower down at them, their painted eyes following every movement. A cold draft swept through the room, snuffing out several candles and plunging parts of the library into darkness.
Lord Henry stood, his resolve hardening. “We must go to the crypt,” he said, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at his heart. “The curse… it awakens.”
Raoul growled softly, as if acknowledging the gravity of the situation. Together, they left the warmth of the library, venturing into the labyrinthine hallways of the manor. The air grew colder, the shadows deeper, as they descended the spiral staircase leading to the crypt.
At the entrance, a heavy iron door loomed, its surface covered in rust and strange symbols. Lord Henry paused, his hand hovering over the ancient lock. With a deep breath, he inserted a tarnished key and turned it. The door creaked open, revealing a chamber filled with coffins and cryptic carvings.
In the center of the crypt stood a stone pedestal, upon which lay an ornate box, sealed with chains and wards. The box pulsed with an unnatural energy, as if something within struggled to break free.
“This is it, Raoul,” Lord Henry said, his voice trembling slightly. “The source of our family’s torment.”
As he approached the pedestal, the ground beneath them trembled. Raoul bared his teeth, his growl reverberating through the crypt. Lord Henry placed his hands on the box, feeling the dark power thrumming through it. He knew that opening it could unleash unimaginable horrors, but leaving it sealed meant eternal suffering for his lineage.
With a determined look, Lord Henry began to undo the chains and wards. The box shuddered violently, and a chilling wind howled through the crypt. Raoul stood by his side, his eyes never leaving the box, ready to defend his master against whatever emerged.
Finally, with a final click, the last chain fell away. The lid of the box slowly lifted, releasing a swirling mass of darkness that filled the crypt with a bone-chilling cold. From within the shadows, a pair of glowing red eyes appeared, and a voice, ancient and malevolent, whispered:
“You dare awaken me, Albrecht?”
Lord Henry steeled himself, drawing strength from Raoul’s unwavering presence. “I dare,” he replied, his voice resolute. “For the sake of my family, I dare.”
The darkness coiled and writhed, taking form before their eyes. The creature that emerged was a nightmare given flesh, a twisted amalgamation of shadows and malice, with eyes that burned like embers in a dying fire.
“You have paid the price for your curiosity,” the creature hissed, its voice a chilling echo. “The Albrecht bloodline shall end tonight.”
Raoul’s roar filled the crypt, a challenge and a warning. The tiger lunged at the creature, claws extended and fangs bared. They collided in a violent clash, the force of their struggle shaking the very foundations of the manor. Shadows and fur entwined in a deadly dance, each move precise, each strike calculated.
Lord Henry knew he had little time. As Raoul fought, he searched the pedestal for a way to banish the creature. His ancestors’ notes spoke of a ritual, a spell that could imprison the entity once more. His hands trembling, he began to chant the ancient incantation, his voice growing stronger with each word.
The creature, sensing the danger, redoubled its efforts to break free from Raoul’s relentless assault. It lashed out, striking the tiger with tendrils of dark energy. Raoul staggered but did not falter, his determination unwavering.
As the final words of the spell left Lord Henry’s lips, a blinding light erupted from the box. The creature howled in agony, its form unraveling as the light consumed it. Raoul roared triumphantly, driving the beast back into the shadows from whence it came.
The light grew brighter, filling the crypt with an otherworldly glow. The creature’s screams faded into silence as it was pulled back into the box, which slammed shut with a deafening thud. The chains and wards reappeared, binding it once more.
Exhausted, Lord Henry sank to his knees, the weight of his ancestors’ sins heavy on his shoulders. Raoul limped to his side, his fur singed but his spirit unbroken. The tiger nuzzled his master, a gesture of comfort and solidarity.
“We did it, Raoul,” Lord Henry whispered, his voice hoarse. “We have freed our family from this curse.”
As they ascended from the crypt, the storm outside began to abate. The manor, though still ancient and crumbling, seemed lighter, as if a great burden had been lifted. The portraits on the walls no longer glowered but seemed almost serene.
In the days that followed, Lord Henry and Raoul worked to restore the manor, breathing new life into its decaying halls. The villagers, once wary of the Albrecht name, began to see them as protectors rather than pariahs.
And so, the legend of Raoul the tiger and his master, Lord Henry Albrecht, grew. Their tale was told by candlelight on stormy nights, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, courage and loyalty could banish the shadows.
But in the deepest, dustiest corners of the manor, the sealed box remained. A silent sentinel, it stood as a testament to the horrors that had been faced and the resilience of those who had conquered them. And though the curse was broken, the memories lingered, a reminder of the darkness that once threatened to consume them all.
Then I asked ChatGPT to suggest a title for the story. It needed three tries before I said to myself: oh, that’ll do.
Well, it won’t win prizes. Too hackneyed and derivative. But – hey! – what do you expect from a Large Language Model trained on today’s internet? ChatGPT hasn’t been on a top-notch creative writing course, so its default style is generic (for the genre).
But I thought: for a bot, it hasn’t done too badly. At least it’s given me some amusement, and I hope it amuses you too.
Oh… I generated the illustration using DALL-E (which came bundled with my subscription) using the following prompt:
“Photorealistic picture of a dark gothic crypt. Raoul the Tiger is battling for his life with a fiery evil spirit which spits green slime.”
Whitby Writers Group 