How easy is it to differentiate AI work from real work? With this anthology series we want to try and tackle that question when it comes to telling stories. This series features stories created by different people with the same prompt. The catch? One of them is written by AI.
The Rules
- All stories must be based on the same prompt
- Try to keep the world count between 1000-1500 words
- All stories must be written by different writers
Fourth Anthology
For this fourth anthology, the prompt chosen was an ominous scenario. The prompt is the following: ‘The elevator only stops on floor 13 when you work the night shift. There is no 13th floor of the building.’ This is what we asked chat GPT to generate the story:
‘Write a story anywhere between 1000 to 1500 words using the following prompt: The elevator only stops on floor 13 when you work the night shift. There is no 13th floor of the building.’
Since some of stories are quite lengthy we have split the anthology into two parts: Part one and Part two found here. Without any further setbacks, here are the stories. Can you guess which one is AI and which one isn’t?
Stepping out on the 13th floor
Thin streams of moonlight filter in through dark clouds blotting the sky. Potholes are full of stale rainwater. My reflection stares at me from inside the nearest puddle. It’s got sickly eyes. My stubble’s grown since I started my 36-hour shift.
The life of a security manager-long, lonely hours. Days are easier with more people, but nobody stays after nightfall. Just two of us left after the firings, pulling these stupid night shifts. Money makes the devil go round, as they say. They had the funds to hang a new neon sign on every floor but not to hire a part-timer. Turning this old clinic into the new headquarters was an inspired decision. Idiots.
Taking a final drag of my cigarette, I flick the butt toward the dustbin. There goes the last one. Should’ve bought more. It hits the rim and falls off. The dustbin mocks me. Cigarette butts jut out from it like yellow teeth with rotting meat stuck between them.
Lightning flashes and thunder roars. It’s already 4.22 am. I just need to take care of the cabinet hinges, then I’ll go in and have a lie down. The raindrops hammer the asphalt hard. There is an almost imperceptible pattern to them, as if hundreds of bugs are crawling and cackling. The wind picks up, and that creaky window on the 2nd floor is making that sound again. Damn the bastard who messed with it.
I run back inside, nearly stumbling against the doorframe. The red neon sign flashes on. Water drops sliding down the length of my trench coat look like trickles of blood. A gust shrieks down the stairway and smacks me in the face. I rub my nose to stave off a sneeze.
The friction in the cables and the heavy metal box vibrating towards me, drum in my ears. The neon sign buzzes behind me.
The filing department is a red room.
The lift dings open, but the doors on the opposite side remain shut. Forgot to write the report about them. The annoying bright light inside mixes with the red, giving it a pink interior. The lift shudders under my weight. Its doors slam shut, clipping my foot.
On the glinting surface, a tall, muscular man glares at me.
I stagger.
Shaking my head, I chuckle. spooked by my own reflection. The long hours are at last getting to me. I’ll have to erase the recording before the guys see it. I slick my wet hair back, watching my image on the dome shaped roof. The lift is an irregular cylinder, big enough to fit a gurney, and horizontal lines run across the lift’s interior. Too many, too messy.
I press the button for the 2nd floor, but it doesn’t light up. I press it again. It comes loose. The buttons turn gooey, thick mucus hangs off them. Two buttons don’t work, the 2nd and the topmost 12th floor. The problem is with the digit 2. Maybe cause I’m not alone so I don’t need it… My chuckle warps into a ragged cough from a goat’s throat, ricocheting around the metal cage.
I move to press the 3rd floor button, shoes sticking to the metal. Going down a flight of stairs is always more welcome than the other way around.
The lift crawls to a stop. It opens only halfway. I try to step out, but the narrow gap snaps shut, nearly crushing my skull to a gory mess. My ass crashes to the metal floor, crunching my bones. The STOP button tumbles off. I’m gasping. Above me, the man smiles. It turns to a grin; a grin that stretches beyond his ears.
No more night shifts… I take a deep breath and reach for my phone. It falls out of my back pocket.
The cage shoots up its binding chains. A million nails screech the walls. On each floor, the doors open, then bang shut. I’m glued to the slimy surface. My eyes grow drier by the second. The man’s teeth loosen and drop. His frame swells, then contorts, collapsing into a hollow.
What!
The lift stops at the 12th floor and the doors remain open. Whirr. A black filament, mechanical yet fleshy, pushes out from the STOP sign. Another filament pulses beside, then crushes it!
A new button bulges on the panel, blinding. 13. Tar, blood, a mix of both drips down. That man is back. He’s draped in white.
Help!
He stares at me with the same baggy eyes, but ruthlessness burns in his sockets. My hands shake and my fingers curl into themselves. I grab something. My phone. I clutch it. You can’t take it from me…
The cage wriggles up; doors don’t close. Metal and concrete flash by. I can’t breathe. It grinds to a stop on the 13th floor—an excruciating, slow grind.
It shouldn’t exist… it doesn’t!
A dim lamp wobbles on a large wooden table, the only light source. The whole floor is devoid of life… of machines. Air whistles out my flared nostrils. My heart pounds against my ribs.
The man in white is here, moving in, growling. He utters vile words. His left hand holds a whip… his right, a thin knife. A guttural cry dies in my mouth. My lips are sewn shut.
Lash.
He steps under the light. His face… It’s me! He stabs my arm. I can’t function. My grip on the phone loosens. He drags me out, then flings me onto the table.
Help, someone!
My arm is riddled with punctures. I strain to unlock my phone, fingers shaking; the sensor asks to try again. He sneers, then jabs my arm once more. The arm turns a necrotic blue. The eyes grow heavy. The phone slips…
“… time.”
After 12
I forgot my fucking shake, again. Again, and again I always forget something, either my ID, my transceiver, my protein shake or my weed. It gets really boring here at night. Unless… of course, Mr. Bruce calls.
Mr. Bruce doesn’t call often, but when he does, it’s quite the night. It’s been maybe six days since his last call. I usually spend the time after his call anxiously waiting for the next, but somehow this time I find myself calmer, more distracted by my mundane surroundings, not even thinking about Mr. Bruce, and his call that changes the night.
It was really fun in the beginning, actually no, it was scary, incredibly scary. I mean accidently pressing the wrong button on the elevator and reaching a floor that doesn’t exist, was just… confusing. Amazingly the only night I didn’t get high; I’m suddenly on the 13th floor of a 12 floor building. I realized soon that this was the only destination to which the elevator agreed to take me at night. I suppose it must work differently during the day.
It was indescribable, what my eyes were seeing, without the aid of drugs of course. It was so shiny, so loud, so colourful. Nothing about it was the way I expected. A sight to truly behold, and Mr. Bruce, a gentleman, stationed in a way almost anticipating my arrival. Since that day I only take the elevator if he calls, if not, I presume it’s rude to show up on any other condition.
I wonder if the previous watchmen knew about Mr. Bruce, or is it just me? Wouldn’t really be likely that I’m the only one. To assume I’m that special, probably a thought orchestrated by my ego. Still, I wonder who all knows about him and his enigmatic floor. I haven’t had the chance to ask him yet, then again if the chance did come up, I’m probably just going to let it slide-
The phone is ringing.
I can hear the mind-bending corporate jingle playing painfully rhythmic from the old service telephone beside the elevators. My body suddenly froze in the stance I had instructed it to adopt. My heart quickened its function, as if looking to punch out the clock to head home from its shift. My breathing shallowed out, encouraging me to consciously slow it down, and try to regain my calm physiology before the unforeseen, yet not unexpected beckoning.
I break my suspension of movement and walk over to the phone. I grab the phone tight, tighter than usual, pick it up and put it to my ear, breathing deeply as I answer.
“Hello.”
“Good morning, Simon.”
“Simon?”
“My apologies, uh…Samuel! How are you?”
“I’m good sir, and it’s not morning yet, just a little after 1am.”
“I see… what a peculiar pace time has chosen.”
This time I hear a strong slurring in his speech, unmistakable, leaving me to wonder, how the hell does a ghost get drunk?
“Samuel my boy, I’d love for you to come on up and join the festivities.”
I was about to howl with excitement, jump up and down right there. But I didn’t, in fact those soaring feelings lasted for perhaps a minute or maybe less. Something felt off, I couldn’t shake it off, it was overpowering me, for mainly two reasons. First, I’ve never heard Mr. Bruce drunk, and second, he’s never called later than midnight. He’s a well-mannered and very self-aware gentleman who always has a drink in his hand (usually in a fancy martini glass), holding it in a very suave way like James Bond. But he’s never drunk, or at least never appears to be so in my knowledge, and he always calls right before a polite quarter to 12. Both these particularities struck me as quite odd, negligible, but odd.
Should I go this time? If I choose not to, it might really disappoint Mr. Bruce. I don’t know what that’s going to be like, and I can’t seem to imagine either. I have never rejected an invite from Mr. Bruce before; I don’t think I really want to find out what it feels like to do so.
I will go; I need to. The only thought that bounces around my head that finally settled in, my body confirmed it straight away, I will accept Mr. Bruce’s un-refusable invitation.
“Yes sir, I’d love to,” I finally responded.
“Excellent,” Mr. Bruce patiently answered.
The line then immediately died. My long-stored breath finally released. I set the phone back and made my way to the elevator. I press the button, the elevator doors open, I get inside, press another button, the mysterious and coveted one that only appears after dark, the doors close. The machine began its ascent, pulling itself upwards, passing floor by permanently existing floor, carrying me up to my fate for the night, stopping finally at the mysterious floor of the mysterious Mr. Bruce.
The elevator makes a sharp, warm noise. I have arrived, on the 13th floor, of the 12-floor building. As I step out, I feel my nerves begin to calm. My body returning to me. It almost seems ordinary now. All my excitement and equal fears stop existing. It feels like I was about to meet an old friend, or my ex-dealer. I walk right up to Mr. Bruce’s door and ring the bell. Even now I feel no rise in emotion, no internal need to prepare myself for the interaction I am about to have. I hear footsteps approaching, timed and smooth, towards the doors, towards me, yet I feel almost nothing.
The doorknob turns, and in a brisk motion the door pulls open. Mr. Bruce appears at the forefront, completely naked with an empty martini glass in hand, looking right at me with sleepy eyes and a smile.
“My boy! You made it.”
I look inside, and the view behind him is insanity, grander than ever. The granite ground and ceiling are both covered in confetti, with a massive silver disco ball spinning around in the center of the room reflecting beams of light like the moon on amphetamines. Right under the ball, the expansive deep sunken floor filled with cushions on top of animal skin. The French windows built onto the three dimensions in front of me have no light coming from the outside but are smeared with what looks like messy splashes of glow. The only light is coming from the disco ball.
Now this is a ghost orgy, I thought to myself. It was all very 90s themed, as it always was. Must be Mr. Bruce’s favorite type of party, I don’t really know which era he’s from. The “people” inside were all glistening in the light. I couldn’t tell them apart. It looks like their bodies are all moving in some kind of rhythm un-attached but together, making light sounds in the form of moans and gasps.
I am so taken aback by the background that I completely ignore the fact that he answered the door butt naked, which I wasn’t shocked by, cause he’s usually fully naked around this time. It is difficult not to look down, but there are no surprises there, so I pull through.
“Well, if you’re done admiring, would you like to join?”
“Yes sir,” I quickly responded.
I walk in slowly, taking it all in. Somehow tonight feels much more intense and overwhelming. The further I walk in, the harsher the light comes onto me, almost blinding my eyes, to the point where a few steps inside, I couldn’t see anything except the glare. I turn around to face Mr. Bruce, he is clear, but everything else around is getting blurry. The light leaking on every side of my vision, like I entered a really bright black hole from an old sci-fi space movie. This is new, I didn’t take anything, I wasn’t dreaming, I really don’t know what’s happening. I notice something, my shake, it’s on the floor. I look at Mr. Bruce; he looks back at me like he was waiting for me to realise something. I don’t remember leaving it there, I don’t even remember coming with it. The light slowly dulls out. I see the “people”, I see them all wearing my uniform surrounding me and Mr. Bruce. I recognize one of them; he was the one who worked the night shift before me.
Mr. Bruce breathes in deeply and calmly.
“This is the night my boy, the night we talked about. It’s the night I get to take you.
It’s the night I was taken. I hope you enjoyed your last trot down there.”
I stare at Mr. Bruce blankly, not scared, just confused.
“I was here already?” I ask.
Mr. Bruce looks at me, smiling compassionately like an all-knowing father smiling at a null-knowing child.
The lights start to blur out again. Everyone around me appears to be disintegrating away.
Mr. Bruce walks towards me, still naked, still very impressive. Looking right at me.
“Are you ready?” He calmly asks.
I thought for a second, maybe two, to really answer him.
“I think I forgot something.”
More anthologies and results
Are either of the stories in this article written by AI? If you are still unsure, and want to know who wrote each work keep your eyes peeled for Part Two of Series 4, going live on next week’s Short Story Sunday. That article also reveals the writers and which story is AI.
If you want to read part two of this anthology click here. The authors and results are revealed at the end of that article. If you are interested in seeing previous anthologies click here for Part 3, here for Part 2 and here for Part 1.
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