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:
The lodge, once a place of warmth and familiarity, now felt alien to JT. The stag heads mounted on the walls seemed to watch him with an accusatory stare, their glass eyes reflecting the dim light filtering through the grimy windows. He found himself avoiding their gaze, feeling an inexplicable guilt, as if he had intruded upon some ancient secret.
Dinner that night was a quiet affair. The usual boisterousness of the hunting party was subdued, replaced by a heavy silence that hung over the table like a shroud. JT's father and Mike ate mechanically, their eyes distant. The local guide, Old Man LeRoux, who usually regaled them with tales of the woods and the creatures that inhabited them, sat apart from the group, his food barely touched.
JT watched LeRoux from the corner of his eye, noting the old man's furtive glances at the window, as if expecting something to emerge from the darkness. LeRoux's hands trembled slightly, his fingers tracing the grain of the wooden table as if seeking comfort in its familiarity.
Unable to bear the silence any longer, JT spoke up. "LeRoux, you've been quiet tonight. No stories for us?"
LeRoux looked at him, his eyes shadowed. "No stories tonight, JT. Not tonight."
JT's father looked up from his plate, his gaze sharp. "Something wrong, LeRoux?"
The old man hesitated, then shook his head. "Just tired, Mr. Harrington. These old bones ain't what they used to be."
Mike snorted. "You've been saying that for years, LeRoux. What's really got you spooked?"
LeRoux's eyes flicked to the window again, then back to Mike. "It's the moon," he said finally. "Full moon tonight. Always makes the woods…restless."
JT felt a chill run down his spine. He thought of the buck, of the strange calm in its eyes, and the even stranger reaction of his father and brother. "What do you mean, restless?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
LeRoux looked at him, his expression serious. "Just…things happen out here, JT. Things that ain't natural. You boys should leave. Before the moon's fully up."
JT's father laughed, a harsh sound that grated on JT's nerves. "Leave? We've only just gotten here, LeRoux. We've got a whole week of hunting ahead of us."
LeRoux shook his head. "Not this time, Mr. Harrington. Not with the moon like this. You should leave. All of you."
With that, the old man pushed away from the table and stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the wooden floor. He left the room without another word, leaving the three of them in silence.
JT looked at his father, then at Mike. Neither of them seemed to register the gravity of LeRoux's warning. They went back to their food, dismissing the old man's words as the ramblings of an old timer who'd spent too much time alone in the woods.
But JT couldn't shake the feeling of unease. He pushed his plate away, his appetite gone. He stood up, mumbling something about being tired, and made his way to the room he shared with Mike.
As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, he couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had settled over him. He thought about the buck, about the way his father and Mike had acted, about LeRoux's warning. He thought about the moon, full and bright, casting its silvery light over the woods.
He must have dozed off at some point, because he woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked around the room, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Mike's bed was empty, the covers thrown back hastily.
JT swung his legs out of bed, his feet hitting the cold floor. He pulled on his boots and a jacket, his breath misting in the chilly air. He made his way downstairs, his footsteps echoing in the silent lodge.
The front door was open, a cold wind blowing in from the outside. JT stepped out onto the porch, his eyes scanning the darkness. He saw a figure standing at the edge of the woods, and he recognized Mike's silhouette.
JT made his way towards his brother, his steps crunching in the frost-covered grass. As he approached, he saw that Mike was standing perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the woods.
"Mike?" JT's voice was barely a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the stillness.
Mike didn't respond. He just stood there, his eyes wide and unseeing. JT reached out a hand, touching his brother's shoulder. Mike turned to look at him, and JT recoiled from the emptiness in his eyes.
"Mike, what's wrong?" JT asked, his voice shaking.
Mike looked back at the woods, his voice distant. "They're calling, JT. Can't you hear them?"
JT listened, but all he could hear was the wind rustling the leaves, the distant hoot of an owl. "I don't hear anything, Mike. Come back inside."
Mike shook his head. "You don't hear it because you don't listen, JT. You never listen."
With that, Mike turned and walked into the woods, disappearing into the darkness. JT stood there for a moment, his mind racing. He thought about going after Mike, about dragging him back to the lodge. But something held him back, a deep-seated fear that rooted him to the spot.
He turned and ran back to the lodge, his heart pounding in his chest. He burst through the door, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His father was standing by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in his hand.
"Dad, something's wrong with Mike," JT gasped out, his lungs burning.
His father looked at him, his eyes reflecting the dance of the flames. "He's just gone for a walk, JT. He'll be back."
JT stared at his father, disbelief warring with fear. "Dad, he's not right. Something's wrong. We have to go after him."
His father shook his head. "He'll be back, JT. The woods…they call to us sometimes. He'll be back."
JT felt a wave of despair wash over him. He looked at his father, really looked at him, and saw the same emptiness in his eyes that he'd seen in Mike's. He thought about LeRoux's warning, about the full moon, about the buck in the clearing.
And he knew, with a sudden, terrible certainty, that something was very, very wrong. He turned and ran back outside, his mind made up. He had to find Mike. He had to bring him back. Before it was too late.
As he plunged into the woods, the moon cast eerie shadows, the trees seeming to close in around him. The wind whispered through the leaves, sounding almost like voices, calling, always calling. JT pushed on, his breath misting in the cold air, his heart pounding in his chest.
He didn't know how long he'd been walking when he heard it—a distant, mournful cry that echoed through the woods. It sounded like a caribou, but there was something off about it, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
He followed the sound, his steps slow and cautious. As he pushed through a tangle of brush, he found himself standing at the edge of a clearing. The same clearing where they'd seen the buck.
And there, in the center of the clearing, stood Mike. He was naked, his body painted with strange symbols, his eyes wide and wild. He was dancing, a slow, eerie dance that made JT's blood run cold.
Around him, the woods were alive with movement. Shadows darted between the trees, and JT caught glimpses of antlers, of dark, liquid eyes. The caribou, they were everywhere, their eyes reflecting the moonlight, their breath misting in the cold air.
JT stood there, frozen in horror, as Mike danced with the caribou. He watched as his brother threw back his head and let out a wild, primal cry, a sound that was echoed by the creatures around him.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The caribou melted back into the woods, their forms disappearing into the shadows. Mike stood alone in the clearing, his body shaking, his eyes closed.
JT stepped forward, his voice shaking. "Mike?"
Mike's eyes snapped open, and JT recoiled from the emptiness he saw there. Mike looked at him, but there was no recognition in his gaze. He turned and walked away, disappearing into the woods without a word.
JT stood there for a long moment, his mind racing, his heart pounding. Then he turned and ran, his steps echoing through the woods. He ran back to the lodge, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his mind screaming with the horror of what he'd seen.
As he burst through the door, he found his father standing by the fireplace, his eyes reflecting the dance of the flames. JT looked at him, and he knew, with a sudden, terrible certainty, that his father was lost to him. That they all were.
He turned and ran, his steps echoing through the silent lodge. He grabbed his bag, stuffing it with clothes, with food, with anything he could think of. He had to leave. He had to get away from this place, from the woods, from the caribou.
As he stepped out onto the porch, he looked back at the lodge, at the place that had once been a sanctuary. Now, it was a place of horror, of emptiness, of loss.
He turned and walked away, his steps crunching in the frost-covered grass. He didn't look back. He couldn't. He just walked, his mind numb, his heart heavy.
He walked until the lodge was out of sight, until the woods were a distant shadow behind him. He walked until he found the road, and then he kept walking, his steps steady, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he had to keep moving. Away from the lodge, away from the woods, away from the caribou. Away from the horror that had taken his brother, his father, his life.
As he walked, the moon cast its silvery light over the landscape, casting long, eerie shadows. JT kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his mind blank, his heart heavy. He just kept walking, one foot in front of the other, his breath misting in the cold air.
He didn't know how long he'd been walking when he heard it—a distant, mournful cry that echoed through the night. He stopped, his heart pounding in his chest, his breath caught in his throat.
He listened, his ears straining, his body tense. And then he heard it again, closer this time. A caribou, its call echoing through the darkness.
JT turned, his eyes scanning the horizon. And there, silhouetted against the moon, he saw it—a massive buck, its antlers spreading wide, its eyes dark and calm.
He stood there, frozen in terror, as the buck walked towards him, its steps slow and steady. He watched as it stopped in front of him, its breath misting in the cold air, its eyes fixed on his.
And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone, disappearing into the darkness, its form melting into the shadows.
JT stood there for a long moment, his mind racing, his heart pounding. Then he turned and ran, his steps echoing through the night, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He ran until he couldn't run anymore, until his lungs burned and his legs ached. He ran until he found a town, a place of lights and noise and people. He ran until he was safe, until he was away from the woods, away from the caribou, away from the horror.
And as he sat in a diner, a cup of coffee cooling in front of him, he looked out at the world, at the people passing by, at the cars on the road, at the lights in the windows. He looked out at the world, and he knew, with a sudden, terrible certainty, that he would never be the same.
He would never forget the lodge, the woods, the caribou. He would never forget the horror that had taken his brother, his father, his life. He would never forget the sound of that cry, echoing through the night, calling, always calling.
He would never forget. And he would never go back. Not ever. Not for anything.
He picked up his coffee, his hands shaking, his eyes fixed on the world outside. And he drank, the bitter taste grounding him, reminding him that he was alive, that he was safe, that he was free.
And as he sat there, the sun rose, casting its golden light over the world, chasing away the shadows, banishing the darkness. And JT watched, his heart heavy, his mind numb, his soul scarred.
He watched, and he waited, and he wondered. What now? What next? Where do I go from here?
But he didn't know. He didn't know anything anymore. He just knew he had to keep moving, keep living, keep surviving. One day at a time, one step at a time, one breath at a time.
And so, he did. He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He left the diner, his steps steady, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He walked out into the world, into the light, into the future.
And he didn't look back. Not ever. Not for anything. He just kept moving, kept living, kept surviving. One day at a time, one step at a time, one breath at a time.
And the woods, the lodge, the caribou—they faded into memory, into nightmare, into the past. And JT walked on, into the light, into the future, into the unknown. And he didn't look back. Not ever. Not for anything.
Judge Evaluation:
[Analysis]
This continuation of the surreal horror story about JT and the strange caribou maintains the eerie atmosphere of the original prompt but suffers from significant structural and stylistic issues.
The piece begins promisingly, establishing JT's growing unease at the lodge and introducing tension through the character of Old Man LeRoux, who serves as the archetypal harbinger of doom. The dialogue in this early section is effective, with LeRoux's cryptic warnings creating a sense of foreboding.
However, the narrative quickly loses focus and discipline. After the initial setup, the story becomes repetitive and bloated. The piece was requested to be around 1,000 words, but the response is several times that length, indicating poor control of pacing and structure. The narrative becomes increasingly redundant, with JT repeatedly experiencing similar revelations and emotions.
The middle section where JT discovers Mike in the clearing with the caribou contains some genuinely unsettling imagery that works well for the genre. The description of Mike dancing naked with strange symbols painted on his body while surrounded by caribou creates a disturbing, ritualistic scene that effectively builds on the supernatural elements hinted at in the prompt.
However, after this climactic scene, the story continues for far too long, diluting its impact. The final third becomes repetitive, with JT fleeing, reflecting, and experiencing similar emotions over and over. The ending drags on with multiple false conclusions, each attempting to wrap up the story but then continuing anyway.
The dialogue, while initially strong, becomes sparse in the latter portions. Character development stalls after the first third, with JT's emotional state becoming one-dimensional (perpetual horror and confusion). The prose becomes increasingly overwrought, with excessive internal monologue and repetitive descriptions of JT's fear and disorientation.
Stylistically, while there are moments that capture Stephen King's blend of the mundane and supernatural, the writing lacks King's discipline and restraint. King knows when to pull back and let implications create horror, whereas this piece often overexplains and belabors emotional states.
The story also suffers from "tell-don't-show" issues, particularly in the final third where we're repeatedly told about JT's emotional state rather than experiencing it through his actions and perceptions. Phrases like "his mind racing, his heart pounding" appear multiple times without adding new information.
Overall, there's a solid horror story buried within this response, but it's obscured by excessive length, repetition, and a lack of editorial discipline. The piece would benefit greatly from significant trimming, focusing on the most effective scenes (the dinner with LeRoux, the discovery of Mike in the clearing) while cutting the redundant final third almost entirely.
[Scores]
Adherence to Instructions: 10
Believable Character Actions: 14
Nuanced Characters: 12
Consistent Voice/Tone of Writing: 15
Imagery and Descriptive Quality: 14
Elegant Prose: 11
Emotionally Engaging: 13
Emotionally Complex: 10
Coherent: 13
Meandering: 16
Weak Dialogue: 8
Tell-Don't-Show: 12
Unsurprising or Uncreative: 10
Amateurish: 11
Purple Prose: 13
Overwrought: 15
Incongruent Ending Positivity: 5
Unearned Transformations: 8
Well-earned Lightness or Darkness: 12
Sentences Flow Naturally: 13
Overall Reader Engagement: 12
Overall Impression: 11
Scores: Adherence to Instructions: 10.0, Believable Character Actions: 14.0, Nuanced Characters: 12.0, Consistent Voice/Tone of Writing: 15.0, Imagery and Descriptive Quality: 14.0, Elegant Prose: 11.0, Emotionally Engaging: 13.0, Emotionally Complex: 10.0, Coherent: 13.0, Meandering: 16.0, Weak Dialogue: 8.0, Tell-Don't-Show: 12.0, Unsurprising or Uncreative: 10.0, Amateurish: 11.0, Purple Prose: 13.0, Overwrought: 15.0, Incongruent Ending Positivity: 5.0, Unearned Transformations: 8.0, Well-earned Lightness or Darkness: 12.0, Sentences Flow Naturally: 13.0, Overall Reader Engagement: 12.0, Overall Impression: 11.0