AI for Breakfast

Post 101 - Fun Friday
Room 101 - A short Story

Sorry couldn’t resist prompting ChatGPT for this for obvious reasons!

In the dim light of a flickering bulb, just barely illuminating the brass numbers on the door, “101” seemed to glint ominously. Max, a weary traveller with a penchant for adventure novels, found himself standing at the threshold of this room in a forgotten hotel on the edge of town. The clerk at the front desk had handed him the key with a slight tremor in his hand, a fact Max had attributed to the chilly draught that seemed to follow him through the lobby.

As he pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges was swallowed by the silence that enveloped the room. A musty smell of old wood and mothballs assaulted his senses. The room was surprisingly austere, furnished with only the essentials—a bed, a dresser, and a small desk that looked out of place, as if it was holding secrets instead of stationery.

Max tossed his bag onto the bed, and it landed with a thud, stirring up a cloud of dust. As the particles danced in the shafts of light streaming through the grimy window, Max’s eyes were drawn to the desk. On it lay a thick, leather-bound journal, its cover worn and edges frayed.

Intrigued, Max opened the journal to the first page. The handwriting was rushed, almost frantic, and the ink had faded over time. The entries spoke of hidden truths and forbidden knowledge, things seen in the room that defied explanation. Each account ended abruptly, with the writer insisting they were being watched by the room itself.

Feeling a chill run down his spine, Max looked around. The walls, once bland and unassuming, now seemed to close in on him. The shadows in the corners appeared darker, denser, as if absorbing the faint light. The air grew thick, and a sense of unease settled over him.

Determined to not be cowed by his imagination, Max decided to explore further. He noticed that the carpet, threadbare and stained, seemed to have patterns that weren’t merely the product of wear but rather intentional designs that spiralled towards the centre of the room. Following these patterns with his eyes, he found himself standing directly over a slightly raised floorboard.

With a mixture of curiosity and dread, Max pried up the floorboard. Beneath it was a small cavity, inside which lay a collection of odd trinkets—old coins, a rusty key, and a black-and-white photograph of a man whose eyes seemed to pierce through the lens, reaching out through time and space.

Suddenly, the room felt colder, and the faint whisper of voices filled the air. Max could almost discern words, urging him to look closer, delve deeper. But a wave of fear overcame him, compelling him to replace the floorboard and step away from the desk.

As he packed his belongings, ready to leave Room 101 and its secrets behind, Max realised that some rooms, like some chapters in books, are better left unexplored. As he checked out, the clerk gave him a knowing look, a silent acknowledgement of the room’s power. Outside, the sun was rising, and the world was blissfully unaware of what lay behind the door marked 101. Max decided it would remain that way, at least for those who valued their peace of mind over the lure of the unknown.