Instruct mode (for some use cases) often tests higher than "thinking mode" especially with core benchmarks.
EXAMPLE GENERATION: [ Version 1, of 21B model ]
[Q4ks, non imatrix] NOTE: Some formatting lost.
HomeGuard Horror
User
Tell me a horror story.
Assistant
<think>
The user wants a horror story.
The prompt is quite broad ("Tell me a horror story").
I have several options:
Tell a classic horror story (e.g., The Velveteer, The Red Fog).
Tell a short, punchy urban legend (e.g., The Hitchhiker, The Phone Call).
Create a new, original horror story.
Tell a story that relies heavily on psychological horror or suspense.
Option 3 (original story) is usually the most effective because it avoids the risk of a cliché that the model might overuse or not execute perfectly if it relies on specific tropes. I'll aim for a mix of urban legend vibe and psychological horror.
Let's brainstorm a concept:
Idea 1: A monster in the closet. (A bit cliché).
Idea 2: A mirror that shows a different version of you. (Classic, can be good).
Idea 3: The "Rule of the Night." A game that seems silly but leads to a terrifying consequence.
Idea 4: A story about being followed by something that isn't what you think.
Let's go with a mix of "The Stranger" and a "Digital Horror" twist. Or perhaps a story about something in the attic or basement.
Let's try a story about The Nanny. It's a classic trope but can be subverted or made terrifying.
Better idea:The Mirror Game.
Actually, let's go with something about Silence or The Third Person.
Let's write a story about a man who hears a noise in his house that he can't explain, until he realizes it's not in the house at all.
Revised Concept: The story of the "Shadow Man" or "The Copy."
Let's write a story called "The Echo."
No, "The Echo" is a bit overdone. Let's go with "The Unseen Guest."
New Concept: A story about a person living alone who starts finding things moved.
Drafting the plot:
Protagonist lives alone in a quiet house.
Small items move slightly (bottle rotated 10 degrees, coffee cup shifted).
They feel watched.
They install a camera.
The twist: It's not a burglar, but something ancient or something mundane but terrifyingly specific.
Alternative Plot (More visceral): The story of "The Night It Rained Teeth." No, too grotesque.
How about "The Game of Tag."Plot: You are alone. You hear a game being played. You must play or die.
Let's stick to a classic atmospheric dread.
Story Title: The Window in the WallSetting: A bedroom. Night time.
Protagonist: Elias.
Setup: Elias lives in an old house. He hears a noise.
Inciting Incident: He looks at the window in his bedroom.
The Horror: The window opens onto a forest that doesn't exist. Or, better yet, the window shows a reflection of someone standing inside his room, where there is no one.
Let's try a story about The GPS.
Plot: Driving off the road. GPS insists there is a shortcut. The voice becomes distorted.
Twist: The shortcut leads to a loop.
Let's go with a story about a specific, creepy rule."The Third Knock."Plot: Don't knock three times.
Let's try something psychological.Title: The Sleepwalker.
Plot:
Elara lives alone. She claims to be an insomniac.
She starts waking up with dirt on her hands.
She wakes up with a headache, a taste of copper in her mouth.
She sets up a night watch camera.
She sees herself walking around at night, doing things she can't remember.
She confronts her "alter."
The twist: Her "alter" isn't sleepwalking. It's something else wearing her skin, or something that takes over when she sleeps.
Let's refine the "Mirror" idea. It's visceral.Story:
A young woman, Anna, buys an antique mirror from a bazaar. It's huge. She hangs it in the hallway.
She notices things moving in the reflection.
The reflection moves a second later than the real thing.
She tries to touch the reflection's face. It's cold glass.
One night, she goes for dinner, drinks, and comes home.
She looks at the mirror in the hallway.
Her reflection is waving goodbye.
She is stuck inside the mirror.
Let's write a story called "The Uninvited Guest" but make it about sound.
Story:
A man lives alone in a flat.
He hears a tapping.
It's inside the walls.
He breaks the wall.
There is a small box inside.
Inside the box is a phone that rings.
When he answers, it's his mother, asking for help.
But his mother has been dead for years.
He realizes the tapping isn't a monster; it's a connection to something else.
Let's go with a story about The Rules. This usually hits the "urban legend" style that users love.
The Story of the "Good Sleep"Concept: A series of instructions left behind by a previous owner.
Rules:
Do not look at the ceiling.
If you hear a footstep, hold your breath.
Never count the shadows.
Drafting:
The protagonist rents a cheap apartment. It's too cheap for a good reason.
He finds a notebook with rules.
Rule 1: Don't look at the corner of the ceiling (classic, good).
Rule 2: If you see a red door, don't open it.
Rule 3: If the phone rings, let it go to voicemail, never answer.
Rule 4: If you hear scratching, it means it's time to sleep.
He follows them for weeks. He sleeps well.
One night, he wakes up.
The scratching starts.
It's not scratching. It's typing.
It's typing on the wall.
He realizes the next person will be renting the room. The rule "Let it go to voicemail" refers to the voice of the thing next to the bed.
Let's write the full story.
Title: The Note in the BoxSetting: A single-story house in a quiet suburb.
Character: Adam. He is a neat freak.
The Note: Found in the box of miscellaneous keys under the staircase.
The Horror: The thing that hunts him doesn't want to kill him; it wants to be him.
Writing the narrative:
Adam moves in. Everything is perfect.
He finds the box.
He finds the notes.
The notes seem paranoid.
He ignores them until the first warning comes true.
The ending: The box is empty now, because the thing has taken him over.
Alternative:
Let's go with a more classic "creature" horror, but with a twist.
The Stalker.
A woman lives alone. A man stands in the yard every night, staring at her window. She calls the police. They find nothing.
Eventually, she notices he only moves when she turns her back.
The ending: He's not outside; he's in the mirror.
Let's stick to the "The House That Ate Its Keepers" vibe but modern.
The "Black Hole" in the Room.Story:
A girl lives in a boarding house.
She has a room on the third floor.
There is a closet in the corner that always stays open.
One night, she wakes up.
She looks at the closet.
It's empty.
She looks at the door.
It's closed.
She relaxes.
She turns around.
The closet is open.
She looks inside.
It's not a closet.
It's a passage to a dark place.
But there's something worse.
The thing that came out isn't the horror.
The horror is that she is the thing that went in.
Let's write a story about "The Red Light."
Plot:
You are driving at night.
You see a red light on the side of the road.
You slow down.
A figure raises an arm.
You approach.
It's a warning.
Not about traffic.
About something you can't stop.
Let's go with the "The Game" idea. It's engaging.
Story:"The Red Door"Setting: An old apartment building.
Protagonist: Marcus.
The Rule: There is no red door on the fourth floor. If you see one, turn left immediately.
The Twist: Marcus gets lost. He finds the red door. He opens it.
Inside is not a room, but a hallway that looks exactly like his apartment hallway but reversed.
He sees a version of himself.
The version of him is trying to push the red door closed.
Marcus realizes that to stay in the "real world," someone must be inside the red door.
And Marcus is the one who has to go in.
Let's try a shorter, punchy one about The Uninvited Guest.
Story:
A guy alone in his apartment.
Hears a noise from the attic.
He investigates.
He sees a man in a coat standing in the corner.
The man is staring at him.
The man asks, "Is this seat taken?"
He is in a chair that wasn't there before.
The man is a memory.
A memory of a man who lived there years ago.
The man wasn't dead.
He just was never found.
He has been living in the attic for decades, watching the new tenants.
The horror isn't a monster attack. It's the loss of privacy.
The ending: The protagonist is now part of the house's history.
Refining the ending for maximum impact:
The protagonist is just sitting there. The man in the corner speaks.
"Another one?"
"Yes."
"Can you keep it quiet? I have a headache."
The protagonist realizes that he is doomed to sit there, waiting for the next owner to come in.
Let's write this one. It's psychological.
Structure:
Intro: Protagonist (Alan) alone in his house. Rain.
Inciting Incident: A noise from the attic.
Rising Action: Alan goes upstairs. The atmosphere changes. Cold. The sound of a watch ticking.
The Climax: He sees the figure.
The Twist: The figure isn't attacking. The figure is a previous victim who was never found, now permanently part of the house.
Drafting...
Alan is alone. He hears a floorboard click. He goes to the attic.
He finds a dusty coat rack.
There's a man sitting on a stool that wasn't there before.
The man turns slowly.
Alan tries to leave.
The man speaks. "Don't go too far."
Alan realizes the man is the previous owner, who vanished.
The man isn't a ghost. He's just... stuck.
Alan realizes he is now trapped too.
Let's make it more active.
Alan is playing a game. He turns off the lights. He plays the "Count to ten" game.
When he turns on the lights, someone is standing next to him.
The stranger says, "You made a mistake."
"What?"
"You didn't turn around."
Alan turns around.
The stranger is right behind him.
Let's go with a story about The Unseen Third Person.
Story:"The Third Man"Plot:
A woman lives alone. She hears a third person in the room when she is alone.
She installs a camera.
The camera shows her alone.
She wakes up exhausted, feeling like someone watched her sleep.
She confronts the "third man."
She realizes the third man is her reflection that has gained autonomy.
It wants to take her place.
Let's stick to the "The Uninvited Guest" idea but make it more atmospheric.
Title:The Uninvited Guest
Story:
John lives alone in an old house.
He hears a dripping tap.
He checks the faucet. It's shut.
He hears a whisper.
He ignores it.
He hears footsteps downstairs.
He grabs a flashlight.
He finds the living room empty.
He goes to sleep.
He wakes up with a headache.
He looks at the sofa.
There is a wet towel hanging on it.
He lives alone.
Who left the towel?
He goes to the mirror in the hallway.
His reflection is waving.
But his reflection is behind him.
Let's write this one. It's concise and creepy.
Drafting the response...
I will write the story about "The Uninvited Guest" but focus on the psychological horror of the "stranger in the room."
Twist: The stranger isn't a person. It's a thing that mimics human interaction.
Actually, let's go with "The Game of Hide and Find".
A man hides in a closet.
He hears footsteps.
He waits.
The footsteps stop.
Silence.
He opens the door.
The room is empty.
He goes downstairs.
His family is sitting around the table.
He goes to greet them.
They don't see him.
They are talking about him.
"He was such a nice boy."
"He always hid so well."
They are playing a game.
The twist: He is the one who has been dead the whole time. Or they are monsters.
Let's go with "The Uninvited Guest" but with a slightly different ending.
Story:
A man lives alone.
He hears a noise.
He goes to investigate.
He sees a figure in the corner of his bedroom.
The figure is back toward the wall, facing the bed.
The man walks into the bedroom.
The figure turns slightly.
It looks like a man.
It asks, "Can I have your coat?"
The man says, "No."
"Please."
The man tries to leave.
The figure stands up.
It walks toward the man.
The man reaches for the door handle.
It's cold.
The figure touches the man's shoulder.
"Stay a while."
The man realizes the figure isn't an intruder.
It's something that lives in the room with him.
It only comes out when the owner is tired or distracted.
But now, it has come out.
And it never goes back.
Let's write this.
Final Plan:
Write a story about a man who lives alone and finds a "stranger" in his room that isn't a stranger, but something that belongs there.
Refining the prose for maximum dread.
Start with the mundane.
The noise.
The investigation.
The realization.
The ending.
Let's go with "The Third Person" idea. The idea that there is always a third person in the room.
Drafting...
Elara lives alone in a rental.
She finds a list of rules on the wall.
Never count the corners.
If you hear a tapping, turn back.
She ignores them.
She sleeps.
She wakes up with a headache.
She notices her reflection in the mirror is lagging.
She realizes the rule "Third person" refers to a creature that follows you home.
The ending: It's behind her.
Let's write it.
</think>
I remember the first time I saw the house in the ad. It was a fix-it-up in the foothills of the Appalachians. The rent was absurdly low, and the seller’s note was vague: "Perfect for someone who enjoys solitude. No neighbors. No pets."
I moved in on a Tuesday. The house was a Victorian monstrosity, with dark wood wainscoring and floorboards that groaned as if whispering secrets. It had a basement I never went to, and a attic bedroom that seemed to breathe.
The first week was bliss. The silence was heavy, the wind howling through the pines, the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light. It was everything I wanted: a place to write, to rest, to disappear.
On the third night, I woke up. The house was quiet, save for the creaking of old timber and the occasional scuttle of a moth. I closed my eyes, drifting back to the edge of sleep.
Then, I heard it.
It wasn’t a noise from the house settling. It was a sound from inside the closet.
I sat up, heart pounding. I lived alone. I had locked the door to my bedroom. I didn’t have a closet in the corner I slept in. I looked across the room at my bedroom door. It was closed.
I reached for the lamp, fumbling for the switch.
The light didn't turn on.
I froze.
There was a distinct click of the lamp switch. It sounded exactly like the lamp on my dresser. But the bulb was burnt out. I had replaced it the day I arrived.
"Hello?" I croaked.
No answer.
The air temperature dropped. I felt it on my skin—a cold, damp chill that prickled my goosebumps.
I stood up, trembling. I walked toward the closet. I knew I had to check. It might be a raccoon, or a leaky pipe. I gripped the door handle.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The sound came from inside the closet. It was the sound of something small and hard hitting the floorboards.
My hand went slack. I backed away, away from the closet, towards the door of my bedroom.
I tripped. My foot hit the bed frame and I fell hard, knocking the breath out of me. I sat up, gasping, and looked at the closet. The door was still closed. The shadows inside seemed to have lengthened, stretching across the room like spiderwebs.
I scrambled backward, my back against the wall, and stood up to run.
I saw the reflection in the full-length mirror I’d bought at a garage sale weeks ago. It hung on the wall across from my bed.
In the mirror, I saw myself. I was sitting on the floor, eyes wide, shaking.
But in the reflection, I wasn't shaking.
The version of me in the mirror sat still, staring back with a calmness I didn't feel.
Then, the version in the mirror lifted its hand.
I screamed as I turned my eyes back to the room, staring at the closet again. The doorknob was turning. Slowly, slowly.
I didn't dare look at the closet. I ran out of the room, slamming the door behind me. I went down the stairs, my footsteps loud and frantic. "Someone help me!" I yelled toward the street, toward the empty night.
I reached the front door. I twisted the handle.
It didn't open.
I pushed. I pulled. I threw my weight against the wood.
Nothing.
I went back to the hallway. I looked at the door to my room—the door I had just exited.
From the other side, behind the wood, I heard a sound.
It was the sound of the lamp. It was the sound of the closet. And now, it was the sound of my reflection.
I saw the shadow of a hand reaching through the cracks under the door. A long, pale, spindly hand.
I ran back to the door. I tried to push it. I tried to scream.
The hand was under the door now.
I turned around. There was no way out. The stairs were blocked. The side door was jammed.
I looked up at the ceiling. There was a hatch to the attic.
I dragged my desk up. I stepped on it. I reached up. I grabbed the latch.
I opened the hatch. It slid open. I looked up.
There was a light. A small, flickering gas lamp. And standing there, looking down at me.
It was me.
But not the me from the mirror. This was the me from the closet.
The figure in the attic smiled, but it didn't reach its eyes. It stepped forward.
"You know," it whispered, its voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over concrete. "This house always has one more person than it needs."
"Who are you?!" I shouted, gripping the edge of the hatch.
"I'm the guest," the figure said. "The one who takes over. And you? You're the previous one."
I looked back at the room. The mirror was dark. The shadows were thick.
"Get out!" I roared.
The figure took a step down. "You can't leave, Elara. We are the house. We are the owners. The one who moves in must always stay."
It grabbed my ankle. The grip was like cold steel. It pulled. My legs slid off the desk. I dangled in the air, my head hanging over the edge of the house.
I flailed my other hand, trying to reach the ladder that was supposedly in the attic, but there was no ladder. There was only the figure, looking at me with a bored expression.
"You have a choice," it said, tightening its grip. "You can go down with me, become part of the history, and never see the sun again."
"Or?"
"Or I leave you in the attic, to be the thing that scares the next owner. You stay here. You scream at the ceiling forever."
It yanked. My ankle twisted. I heard a snap. I screamed.
The figure dragged me down into the attic. The light from the gas lamp was blinding. I was forced into a crouch.
The figure released my ankle and stood up, wiping my dirt off its jacket. It pointed to the hatch.
"Close it, Elara."
I looked down. The figure wasn't there. The attic was empty. The gas lamp was sputtering.
I looked at the hatch. I pulled it down. Whap. I fixed the latch.
I was safe. Or so I thought.
I returned to my bed. I sat up, breathing hard, wiping dirt from my clothes. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was 3:02 AM.
I closed my eyes to rest. I felt the mattress give way slightly, as if someone was sitting on it beside me.
I didn't dare turn around. I remembered the mirror. I remembered the closet.
I just stayed still. I listened.
I heard the sound of the lamp again. Click.
The light went down.
I held my breath.
Then, I heard a whisper right beside my ear.
"Welcome to the house," the voice said. "It takes a long time for the first few to stop screaming."
I was still.
"Go," the voice said.
And for the first time in my life, the silence of the house was comforting. The lamp kept flickering, but the voice was gone. I closed my eyes, praying for dawn.
