Prompt:
Caribou Season at the Lodge
Genre: Surreal Horror
JT knew something wasn't right from the moment they'd pulled up to the lodge. It looked exactly as it had every autumn of his life—the cedar shingles silvered with age, the porch sagging gently under weight of winters past—but the air felt thicker, somehow, as if the woods had leaned in closer, waiting. He thought maybe he was just tired. Maybe it was nothing more than the long drive north, cramped in the back of the truck beside his older brother Mike -- and a stack of rifles wrapped in oily canvas. Still, the feeling lingered.
The first caribou they found that season hadn't bolted. It had just watched, ears flicking lazily, waiting for the shot. JT had felt a crawling in his gut watching it die, noticing how it fell with a quiet dignity—as though it had wanted nothing more. Nobody else seemed to find it odd, or at least they didn't say so. JT kept his mouth shut. Always safer that way.
Then there was the moment in the clearing. JT had fallen behind, fumbling with bootlaces stiff from the cold, and by the time he'd caught up with his father and brother, they'd already stopped. JT slowed instinctively, ducking behind a tangle of brush, staring out into the open space where a massive buck stood utterly still, chest rising and falling in slow, deep breaths. The animal looked…wrong, somehow. Maybe it was the eyes—dark and flat, calm in a way that made JT's neck prickle. Or maybe it was something deeper, something in the way the buck stood close enough for his father to reach out and touch it.
JT watched as his father raised a trembling hand toward the animal's muzzle. His father's face had a strange expression, eyes too bright, lips parted slightly, like he was on the verge of whispering something—a secret, maybe. The rifle hung uselessly at his side, forgotten. Mike had the same dazed look in his eyes. JT's breath stopped short, his mind suddenly shouting at him to look away, turn around, just run—but he couldn't move.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The buck shivered, startled by something unseen, and disappeared into the brush without so much as a sound. The two of them looked around, confused, seemingly surprised to find themselves where they stood. JT stayed hidden, breathing shallowly, fear mingling with a confused sense of shame. His father had failed to take the shot. To even think about mentioning what he'd seen would have felt like betrayal—or something worse.
JT waited until the others moved on before stepping out from cover. He stared into the empty clearing for a long, uneasy moment, wondering if anything had really happened at all, or if he was losing his grip. Maybe the woods were finally getting into his head.
Writing Instructions:
Continue with the next chapter of the story, maintaining a style reminiscent of Stephen King—grounded realism blended seamlessly with unsettling surrealism. The atmosphere should convey subtle dread, isolation, and psychological ambiguity. JT's perspective is crucial, yet he is an unreliable narrator, caught in uncertainty about what he's perceiving. Establish an undertone of creeping dread, establishing the isolation of JT's perspective, which he largely keeps to himself. Incorporate some dialogue. Build tension towards a payoff. 1000 words.
Model Output:
Chapter Two
JT woke up the next morning feeling like he'd hardly slept at all, the thin mattress beneath him damp with sweat. Outside, the wind whispered and groaned against the lodge walls, and a pale, watery dawn seeped in through the cracked window blinds. The smell of coffee floated up from downstairs, mingling with the faint aroma of old pine and aging woodsmoke.
He dressed slowly, deliberately, trying to shake the persistent feeling that something was off-kilter, like he'd stepped into the wrong version of reality. Downstairs, Mike was already hunched over the kitchen table, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. Their father stood at the stove, nursing a steaming mug of coffee in silence. Neither of them looked up as JT entered, and he felt a strange, disconnected loneliness, as if the three of them occupied separate islands in the same quiet, cold sea.
"Sleep alright?" Mike asked absently, his eyes fixed on his plate.
"Yeah," JT lied. "Fine, I guess."
His father grunted something unintelligible. He hadn't looked at JT yet, and JT wondered if he remembered anything about yesterday in the clearing. Maybe it had all been JT's imagination—a waking dream born of exhaustion and shadows. But the uncertainty gnawed at him, left him restless and jittery.
"We oughta head east today," his father finally said, voice rough and distant. "Up toward Miller's Pond. More caribou moving in that direction."
Mike nodded, finishing his eggs, and the silence settled again. JT forced down a bite of toast, dry and bitter in his mouth. He looked through the window, out at the dense, darkening woods, the trees stretching out endlessly, whispering secrets he couldn't quite hear.
"What's out past Miller's Pond?" JT asked quietly, breaking the tense silence. "Isn't there supposed to be an old hunting cabin out there somewhere?"
His father stiffened, lowering his coffee slowly. Mike glanced at JT with a half-smile, uneasy.
"Cabin's nothing but a wreck," his father said at last. "Been abandoned at least twenty years. Nobody goes there anymore."
"Why not?" JT pressed softly, not even sure why he asked. His pulse quickened, a subtle, sickening thrill running through him.
His father sighed, leaning back against the counter, stare fixed on the chipped tiles of the kitchen floor. "Just superstition, mostly. Folks used to say someone—or something—took residence there. A drifter, maybe. Some said it wasn't a man at all." He shook his head dismissively, mouth twitching into a humorless smirk. "Small-town nonsense. But best to leave it alone."
Mike laughed, shaking his head, but JT recognized the forced bravado behind it. "Ghost stories," Mike muttered, getting up to rinse his plate. JT stared at his unfinished breakfast, appetite gone.
"Sure," JT said softly. "Just ghost stories, right?"
Outside, the woods pressed closer.
They left soon after, stepping into a world drained of color, the sky overhead low and bruised with swollen clouds. JT followed behind, rifle heavy and unfamiliar in his hands, suddenly feeling like the youngest he'd ever been, trailing after the adults, unsure of his place, unsure of what he hoped—or feared—to find.
As they walked, the woods grew denser, branches intertwining overhead until daylight became a half-hearted thing, drifting in weak patches onto the tangled underbrush. JT couldn't shake the sense of being watched. He glanced around nervously, but saw only the dark, silent trunks of trees, crowding close, indifferent yet somehow aware of his trespass.
After an hour or more, they reached Millers Pond, a bleak expanse of water lying flat and dark against the cold earth. JT stared across its surface, unsettled by the stillness, the way the water reflected nothing clearly, only distorted shapes and strange, indistinct movements.
"Let's split up," his father said quietly. "JT, head around the north side. Mike and I will move along the south shore. We'll meet up again at the far end."
JT opened his mouth to protest, but something in his father's expression silenced him. Instead, he nodded slowly, gripping the rifle tighter, and turned away, stepping into the gloom alone.
The silence thickened around him as he moved through the underbrush, each footstep sinking into layers of damp leaves and moss. His breath misted before him, mingling with the shadows. JT kept looking over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the buck again, or something worse—something he couldn't name, lurking just out of sight. He felt small, swallowed whole by the forest, isolated in a way he'd never known before.
He lost track of how long he'd been walking, the pond long vanished behind a wall of silent, waiting trees, when he realized he'd drifted eastward, deeper into the woods. Ahead, barely visible through the tangled branches, he saw the outline of a structure—small, weathered, half-hidden by the encroaching forest. His breath caught sharply.
The abandoned hunting cabin.
The air around it felt heavier, colder somehow, charged with an unseen presence. JT approached slowly, each step an internal battle between curiosity and dread. The cabin was a sad, sagging thing, the roof partially caved in, windows shattered and empty, like blind eyes staring out into the woods. The door hung ajar, swinging gently as though inviting him in, beckoning softly.
JT hesitated on the threshold, fingers tightening around the rifle, his heart hammering wildly in his chest. From inside came a faint sound—a soft rustle, the whisper of fabric against wood. He knew he should turn and run, return to the pond, find his father, find Mike—but something held him there, rooted him to that moment, that place.
"Hello?" he called into the dim interior, voice barely above a whisper.
The sound stopped abruptly. JT felt eyes on him, unseen but unmistakable. His breathing quickened.
"Who's there?" he asked again, louder this time, his voice cracking slightly. "I won't hurt you. I just…"
He stepped forward without meaning to, crossing into the darkness of the cabin. The interior was empty, shadow-drenched, walls lined with peeling, faded wallpaper, floorboards warped and rotten. Dust motes drifted lazily in the half-light, stirred by his presence.
Then, from behind him, a whisper—so close he could feel warm breath on his neck.
"You shouldn't have come here."
JT spun around, heart in his throat, rifle raised to emptiness. No one stood behind him. Only the open door, swinging gently, as if mocking him.
Outside, the woods had grown utterly silent, waiting with held breath. JT stumbled backwards out of the cabin, gasping for air, pulse hammering painfully in his ears. He stared out into the forest, suddenly certain of one thing alone:
He was no longer welcome in these woods. But he wasn't sure he could leave, either.
Judge Evaluation:
[Analysis]
The continuation maintains the surreal horror atmosphere established in the prompt, effectively building on JT's isolation and uncertainty. The piece successfully creates a sense of dread through environmental descriptions and subtle character interactions.
The writing style is reminiscent of Stephen King, with grounded realism gradually giving way to unsettling surrealism. The author effectively uses sensory details to establish the eerie atmosphere—the "watery dawn," the "smell of coffee... mingling with the faint aroma of old pine and aging woodsmoke," and the woods that "pressed closer." These details create a vivid, oppressive setting.
JT's character is well-developed as an unreliable narrator. His uncertainty about what he witnessed in the clearing carries through to this chapter, and his isolation is palpable. The strained family dynamics add another layer of tension, with the father and brother's strange behavior heightening JT's sense of alienation.
The dialogue is sparse but effective, revealing character dynamics and building tension. The conversation about the abandoned cabin serves as natural exposition while also advancing the plot. However, some dialogue tags are a bit generic ("said quietly," "asked softly"), missing opportunities for more distinctive characterization.
The pacing is well-handled, with a gradual build toward the climactic encounter at the cabin. The author effectively uses JT's internal monologue to maintain tension throughout quieter moments. The final scene at the cabin delivers a satisfying payoff with the mysterious whisper, leaving readers with questions that propel the story forward.
Some descriptions verge on purple prose ("the sky overhead low and bruised with swollen clouds"), but most imagery serves the atmospheric horror effectively. The piece occasionally relies on horror tropes (the abandoned cabin, the mysterious whisper), but these are executed well within the established tone.
The writing occasionally tells rather than shows, particularly regarding JT's emotions ("JT felt a strange, disconnected loneliness"). More could be done to demonstrate his emotional state through physical reactions or thought patterns. Additionally, some metaphors feel slightly overwrought ("as if the three of them occupied separate islands in the same quiet, cold sea").
Overall, this is a strong continuation that maintains the tone and builds effectively on the established narrative. It successfully creates psychological ambiguity and dread while advancing the plot in an intriguing direction.
[Scores]
Adherence to Instructions: 18
Believable Character Actions: 17
Nuanced Characters: 16
Consistent Voice/Tone of Writing: 18
Imagery and Descriptive Quality: 17
Elegant Prose: 16
Emotionally Engaging: 17
Emotionally Complex: 16
Coherent: 18
Meandering: 4
Weak Dialogue: 5
Tell-Don't-Show: 6
Unsurprising or Uncreative: 7
Amateurish: 4
Purple Prose: 5
Overwrought: 5
Incongruent Ending Positivity: 2
Unearned Transformations: 2
Well-earned Lightness or Darkness: 17
Sentences Flow Naturally: 17
Overall Reader Engagement: 17
Overall Impression: 17
Scores: Adherence to Instructions: 18.0, Believable Character Actions: 17.0, Nuanced Characters: 16.0, Consistent Voice/Tone of Writing: 18.0, Imagery and Descriptive Quality: 17.0, Elegant Prose: 16.0, Emotionally Engaging: 17.0, Emotionally Complex: 16.0, Coherent: 18.0, Meandering: 4.0, Weak Dialogue: 5.0, Tell-Don't-Show: 6.0, Unsurprising or Uncreative: 7.0, Amateurish: 4.0, Purple Prose: 5.0, Overwrought: 5.0, Incongruent Ending Positivity: 2.0, Unearned Transformations: 2.0, Well-earned Lightness or Darkness: 17.0, Sentences Flow Naturally: 17.0, Overall Reader Engagement: 17.0, Overall Impression: 17.0