Read all the stories, guess which one is AI. Answer revealed at the bottom.
Story one
Arthur knew the city was watching him. Not in a grand conspiracy way, but in the small, quiet ways that are easy to dismiss. The traffic lights held on red a beat too long just for him. The same magpie was always on the same TV aerial. One for sorrow.
He’d mentioned it to Marie once. ‘It’s like it’s all a bit too arranged,’ he’d said, staring out the kitchen window.
She’d sighed, the way she did when he started this. ‘It’s a bird, Arthur. They like perches. And the lights are just old.’
He stopped talking about it after that. But he started writing it down. He bought a cheap notebook from the stationer’s and began to log it all. The registration of the pizza delivery moped that seemed to be the only one working in the entire borough. The woman who walked her terrier past his door at exactly 8.17 every morning.
It was the puddle that convinced him he wasn’t mad. After a night of rain, a single perfect puddle had formed on the cracked paving slab by his gate. And frozen in the middle of it was a postage stamp, Queen’s head down in the ice. It felt like a sign. A mistake in their system.
That night, the black cab was there again. But its light was on inside. And sitting in the driver’s seat was the magpie. It turned its head and looked right at him.
His blood went cold. This was it. He had to know.
He clattered down the stairs, his slippers slapping on the concrete, and shoved the heavy front door open.
The cab was gone. The street was empty and quiet. Just the orange glow of the streetlights and Marie, standing by the postbox. She was holding his notebook.
‘They said you wouldn’t let it go,’ she said. Her voice was different. Tired.
‘Who did?’ His own voice was a whisper.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ She started tearing pages out, slowly. Letting them fall onto the wet ground. ‘You notice things, Arthur. But you’re not meant to put it all together.’
She turned and walked away up the street. He didn’t follow. He just stood and watched the rain soften the paper, the careful blue ink of his handwriting blurring into nothing.
Story Two
Sally did not believe in reincarnation. Yet here she was, reborn, and fully aware of it. She remembered her last life clearly. Her death had been quick and unexpected, a fall from the platform onto the tracks in front of a train. She still did not know how it happened.
Now she was a fly.
She kept hitting the window, desperate to get out. Around her, the frantic buzzing of other flies told her they were all the same, all trapped, all once human. All panicking.
Then it happened. The fly spray came, a bitter cloud that took out dozens around her. Sally felt the chemical burn, the slow paralysis. She had not even properly flown.
What next, she wondered, as the world faded.
Then she felt it. A new form, stronger, fuller. Paws. Whiskers. A low purr rumbled in her throat. She opened her eyes, now sharp and slitted, and saw a room full of flies buzzing against a window.
One landed near her.
Without thinking, she pounced.
Oh, whiskers, she thought with a thrill. This is much better.
Story Three
John was dying. He knew it, and he told everyone who’d listen. His wife wasn’t taking him seriously. Neither were his kids.
With every cough, his back ached more. His nose clogged. He couldn’t eat. This man flu was deadly and nobody believed him.
One afternoon, he called his wife from the kitchen to change the channel. The remote lay one foot away. He couldn’t muster the strength to lift it.
“Ridiculous,” she shouted. “You’re such a baby. Even the kids don’t act like this.”
By day four, John was no longer dying; he was surviving. He felt proud. He’d fought like a tiger. He would not be defeated.
John didn’t see the lorry as he crossed the street.
John died.
Story Four
She was on his chest; he couldn’t breathe. But he had to stay alert. He wanted to survive.
He put his hands up.
The woman stopped.
“I can’t take much more,” he gasped.
“I’ve injected you eight times. I can’t give you any more. If you don’t let me extract that tooth now, you’ll need to go to the dental hospital,” said the exasperated dentist.
The man took a drink of water from the flimsy plastic cup, the kind dentists always give you. Why aren’t these cups just straight up and down instead of… His thoughts were disturbed by Sally, the dentist, saying, “Hello? Is anyone there? We need to get going on this, or all the anaesthetic will wear off.”
“Okay,” John said. “Go for it. And don’t bother with the suction thing, just do it.”
Sally leaned in, forceps in hand. John clenched his eyes shut. There was a scrape, a crunch, a sound like a tree root giving way, and then it was over. She held up the tooth, a jagged little monument to his fear.
But John wasn’t looking. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling tiles, counting each water stain like they were stars. For the first time in an hour, he took a full, deep breath.
Sally dropped the tooth into a tray. “All done. You were very brave.”
John sat up slowly, mouth full of cotton wool and blood. “Do I get a sticker?”
Sally didn’t laugh. “No. But you get to keep the tooth.”
He looked down at the tiny, bloodied thing in the tray. It looked small now. Harmless.
He smiled, a weird, lopsided, numb smile.
“Worth it.” He paused, then added, “Now that I’m no longer in agony… fancy a steak dinner? I hear I’m finally allowed to chew properly.”
Sally raised an eyebrow, then allowed a faint smile. “Let’s see how you manage soup for the next 48 hours first.”
Story Five
It was just before 7am and the house started coming to life.The blinds were raised, curtains in front of them swung aside. Lights turned on in a couple of rooms. Like any other house anywhere, just the start of another day. Except, no one had lived there for years. The front door creaked open and stayed that way, inviting passers by to turn and look. It wanted them to come through the gate, but no one did. Everyone had heard the stories. The horror, the deaths, the lack of arrests or sentences. Priests and ministers and other holy men had tried to sanctify the house. They crossed into the neat little garden and soon fled, claiming to have been attacked by something in the house. There was now an eight foot high fence all around the property. So passers by could no longer see the open door. Only out of towners would wonder why. Condemned was the reason given. No access to anyone by order of the council. Even that sign had faded now. Oh, and the power had been cut off, and yet the lights still lit up every morning.
There were a few books written about it, although no one in any kind of authority would confirm nor deny what was written in them. One book claimed the property was built on an ancient cemetery, but that was quickly forgotten about as no other buildings near were affected. One brave You Tuber attempted to fly a camera drone through the open door. It survived the journey through the open door and along the short hallway. The operator turned it in a circle to see what was around. The last image was when it faced the little door that led to the cellar, there was a bright flash and then the drone was lost. No more pictures and seemed no movement, they weren’t brave enough to scale the fence and try to retrieve it. And so the legend lived on, what was in there, why was it in there, could it get out. Some said it was a classic haunting. The house was traumatised by the violence from before. Four corporation workers, sent to sort some repairs, were found dead on the lawn in front of the house. Their blood that spilled onto the soil somehow activating something ancient, maybe evil.
So next time you see a boarded up house with keep out signs at the front, it’s best to keep out. You never know why the warning is there.
But back to the house, and just before 7pm the front door closed, the curtains swung back, blinds lowered and the lights turned off. The house went back to sleep
Click to Reveal Answer
Story One was ai. Thanks for playing.
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