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
On the second morning, the frost came thicker. It crusted the porch railings like a rash of hoarfrost and turned the dirt path to the woods brittle underfoot. JT stood shivering on the steps, boots unlaced, watching his father and Mike move around the truck in tight, silent circles. No one said much. JT’s father kept fiddling with the rifles, wiping invisible dirt from the barrels, expression shuttered and remote. Mike smoked a cigarette with twitchy movements, blowing thin streams into the cold.
JT felt like there was a bubble around him, invisible but impenetrable, the world muffled by his own skin. The memory of the buck lingered, sticky and sour. He kept seeing those calm eyes, black as holes, and his father’s face—stripped of its usual hardness, almost reverent. Like he was about to pray.
His father caught him staring. “You ready or what?” he barked, too harsh, voice echoing off the frosted trees.
“Yeah,” JT mumbled, fumbling with his laces. He wanted to ask about yesterday, about the way they’d all just stopped and stared, but the words died in his throat. The rules were simple: keep quiet, keep up, don’t ask questions you don’t want answered. Especially now, when everything felt thin and strange.
They set off down the trail, boots crunching through the crusted grass. The woods pressed close, branches clawing overhead, the sky a low gray ceiling. Every so often, JT glanced sideways, half-expecting to see the buck again, impossibly still amid the brush. Instead, he saw only the tangled undergrowth and the hunched backs of his father and brother.
Mike broke the silence first. “Saw fresh tracks near the creek last night,” he said, voice low, almost casual. “Big ones. Probably the bull from last year.”
His father grunted. “We’ll circle around there later.” His gaze never left the path, lips pressed tight.
JT tried to picture the tracks, dark wounds in the frost, but all he saw were those eyes again, calm and bottomless. He shook his head, trying to clear it.
They moved deeper into the woods. The air smelled sharp, full of pine resin and something else—something metallic, like blood or rust. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was expectant, humming beneath the surface. Every crack of a twig sounded too loud, like a warning.
*
By midday, the clouds had thickened, pressing the light into a flat, sullen gloom. They stopped on a rise overlooking a shallow valley where the creek wound serpentine between stands of black spruce. Mike lit another cigarette, shielding it from the wind with cupped hands. JT’s father leaned against a tree, staring into the distance, jaw working as if chewing over words he refused to say.
JT hesitated, then forced himself to break the spell. “Dad,” he said quietly, “yesterday—”
His father’s head snapped around. For a moment, something raw flashed in his eyes. Then it closed off, shuttered tight. “Wasn’t nothing,” he said flatly. “Animals freeze up sometimes. They get confused.”
JT swallowed. “But…you looked like—”
“I said it was nothing.” The words were final, heavy as a slammed door.
Mike looked away, pretending not to listen, but JT saw the tightness in his shoulders, the nervous tapping of his fingers against the rifle stock.
JT’s cheeks burned. He wanted to protest, to say that wasn’t what he’d seen, but the words curdled on his tongue. Instead, he nodded and looked down at his boots, the frost melting around the toes.
*
Later, they followed the creek, boots sinking into the spongy moss at its banks. The forest was denser here, shadows stretching long and tangled. The silence deepened, thick as syrup, until JT felt like he was wading through it. Every so often, he thought he glimpsed movement just beyond the edge of sight—a flicker of antler, the flash of an eye—but when he turned, there was nothing but trees.
Once, he stumbled on a patch of tangled roots, nearly falling. When he looked up, he realized he’d fallen behind again. His father and Mike were little more than silhouettes now, swallowed by the gloom.
Fear rose sharp in his throat. The woods felt alive, watching him with a thousand unseen eyes. He hurried forward, branches clawing at his jacket, breath coming fast.
Suddenly, a shape loomed ahead—a massive bull, standing half in shadow, antlers tangled with bits of moss and torn bark. Its breath steamed in the chill air. It was close enough he could see the scars along its flank, the twitch of its ears. But it didn’t bolt. It didn’t even blink.
JT froze, fear pinning him in place. The bull stared back, eyes bottomless and calm as before. Time stretched thin, quivering like a held breath.
Then, impossibly, it spoke.
Not with words, not really—but with a sound that vibrated deep in JT’s bones, a low rumbling hum like the earth itself groaning. Images flooded his mind—a blur of tangled antlers, the crunch of snow under hooves, the sharp tang of blood. A sense of vast, indifferent age, older than the woods themselves.
JT gasped, stumbling backward. The bull blinked slowly, as if disappointed, and turned away. It slipped between the trees without a sound, the forest swallowing it whole.
JT’s legs trembled. He pressed a hand to his chest, heart hammering like a trapped bird. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what was real anymore—the trees, the bull, himself. Everything felt thin, insubstantial.
He was still standing there, shaking, when his father’s voice cut through the fog. “JT! Where the hell’d you go?”
JT flinched. “Here,” he managed, voice hoarse. He pushed through the brush, emerging into a small clearing where his father and Mike waited with matching scowls.
“Keep your damn eyes open,” his father snapped. “These woods’ll eat you alive if you’re not careful.”
JT nodded mutely, throat tight. He wanted to tell them what he’d seen, what he’d felt, but their faces were closed off, carved from stone. Whatever spell had gripped them yesterday was gone—or maybe it had just sunk deeper, invisible now but still there.
Mike wouldn’t meet his eyes. “We should head back,” he said quietly. “Sun’s dropping.”
His father nodded, gaze flickering uneasily over the trees. “Yeah. Enough for one day.”
They turned, trudging back toward the lodge in silence. The woods seemed to close behind them like a door.
*
That night, the wind picked up, rattling the windows in their frames. The old lodge groaned and creaked, settling into the cold. JT lay awake in the dark, listening to the sounds of the forest—a distant branch breaking, the low moan of the wind through the eaves.
He kept seeing those eyes, that impossible calm, the sense of something ancient and vast pressing in from all sides. A whisper at the edge of hearing, promising secrets he didn’t want to know.
He turned over restlessly, pulling the blankets tight. From the next room, he heard his father’s footsteps pacing slow and heavy, back and forth, back and forth. Mike muttered in his sleep, words lost to the night.
JT closed his eyes, willing himself to forget, to sleep. But the woods had already gotten inside him, roots digging deep. And somewhere out in the darkness, something waited, patient and silent, just beyond the reach of dreams.
He wasn’t sure anymore who was hunting whom.
Judge Evaluation:
[Analysis]
The test model has produced a continuation of the surreal horror story that largely succeeds in maintaining the established tone and building upon the psychological tension of the first chapter. The piece effectively captures the isolation of JT's perspective and his growing unease with the strange occurrences in the woods.
The writing demonstrates strong atmospheric qualities, with vivid descriptions of the environment that contribute to the sense of dread: "The air smelled sharp, full of pine resin and something else—something metallic, like blood or rust." The author skillfully uses sensory details to immerse the reader in the setting and JT's psychological state.
The character dynamics are well-handled, particularly the strained relationship between JT and his father and brother. The dialogue, though sparse, effectively conveys the tension between them and their unwillingness to acknowledge the strange events. Lines like "I said it was nothing" with the description "The words were final, heavy as a slammed door" efficiently communicate both the spoken words and the emotional subtext.
The surreal elements are introduced gradually and with restraint, maintaining the psychological ambiguity requested in the prompt. The encounter with the bull that "speaks" not with words but with a "sound that vibrated deep in JT's bones" is particularly effective, blending the real and surreal in a way reminiscent of Stephen King's style.
However, there are some weaknesses. The pacing occasionally feels uneven, with some sections moving too quickly through potentially impactful moments. The dialogue, while functional, sometimes lacks the distinctive character voices that would make it more memorable. There are also a few instances where the prose becomes slightly overwrought, with metaphors that call attention to themselves rather than enhancing the narrative.
The ending effectively builds tension for future chapters, with JT lying awake and hearing his father's restless pacing, suggesting that whatever strange force is affecting them is growing stronger. The final line "He wasn't sure anymore who was hunting whom" is a strong closing that encapsulates the shifting power dynamic and growing dread.
Overall, the piece successfully continues the story in the requested style, maintaining the psychological horror elements while developing the characters and advancing the plot in intriguing ways.
[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: 3
Unsurprising or Uncreative: 4
Amateurish: 3
Purple Prose: 4
Overwrought: 4
Incongruent Ending Positivity: 1
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: 3.0, Unsurprising or Uncreative: 4.0, Amateurish: 3.0, Purple Prose: 4.0, Overwrought: 4.0, Incongruent Ending Positivity: 1.0, 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