M.A. Kleen

Please enjoy this horror short, part of a series experimenting with artificial intelligence. I fed a location, plot, characters, scenario, and mood into ChatGPT and asked it to craft a story, then used Stable Diffusion XL to create an illustration. How did it turn out? Well, you be the judge.

An intrepid college reporter enters an abandoned house intent on debunking its urban legend, only to discover that the Creeper is far more real—and far more terrifying—than she ever imagined.

The deadline loomed in the back of her mind, but Leah wasn’t thinking about her upcoming assignments. As head reporter for the Oak Hollow College Sentinel, she had written about everything from student elections to cafeteria scandals, but this was different. This was a story she had been waiting to tell since her freshman year.

Oak Hollow College had its fair share of urban legends, but none were as infamous as the Creeper. The legend claimed that an abandoned house on the edge of town, hidden behind overgrown trees and twisted vines, was haunted by something not entirely human. Stories of students disappearing, hearing strange whispers, or even seeing shadowy figures darting through the overgrown yard had become part of campus folklore. The house had sat empty for decades, but the rumors had only grown with time.

This weekend, the house was scheduled for demolition. By Monday morning, there would be nothing left but a pile of rubble, and with it, the mystery of the Creeper would be gone forever.

Leah couldn’t let that happen. If she didn’t investigate the house now, no one would. And then what? Another legend lost to time, another opportunity to prove herself squandered. The idea of being the one to debunk—or confirm—the legend excited her more than she cared to admit.

She stood outside the house now, under the shadow of oak trees that looked as old as time itself. The evening sun dipped behind the dense foliage, casting long, jagged shadows across the unkempt yard. She snapped a few photos of the exterior, noting the rotting wooden boards, shattered windows, and ivy clinging desperately to the cracked foundation.

“This will make a great story,” she murmured to herself, slipping her phone back into her bag. Just a quick look around, she thought. No one else has the guts to do it, so it’s up to me.

But a small voice in the back of her mind whispered otherwise. It reminded her of the stories she’d heard: the one about a student who ventured in and never came out, the reports of doors slamming shut on their own, and the unsettling rumor of something—or someone—watching from the upper windows.

Shaking it off, Leah took a deep breath and moved toward the door.

The front door hung slightly ajar, the lock broken long ago. It was almost like the house was inviting her in, daring her to take the plunge. She hesitated at the threshold, catching a faint scent—something musty, decaying, like mold and damp wood left to rot in the damp air for years.

“Just get in, take some notes, snap a few pictures, and get out,” she whispered to herself. “It’s probably nothing.”

She pushed the door open with a creak that echoed through the empty halls, like a groan from the house itself. Stepping inside, she immediately noticed the cold. It was unnaturally frigid, far colder than it had been outside. Dust hung thick in the air, disturbed by her movements, and every step made the wooden floor beneath her feet creak ominously.

The hallway stretched before her, dark and foreboding, with peeling wallpaper and old photographs hanging crookedly on the walls. She shone her flashlight down the corridor. The beam illuminated a staircase to her left, spiraling up into darkness, and several doorways on either side.

“Alright, let’s get to it,” she muttered, pulling out her phone to take more pictures.

As she explored the first room—a parlor filled with old, broken furniture and a fireplace clogged with debris—she couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was watching her. Every now and then, she paused, listening to the faint creaks and groans. Was it just the house settling, or something more?

Her heart began to pound in her chest. Get a grip, Leah, she told herself. There’s no such thing as ghosts. She forced herself to move toward the staircase.

As she climbed the stairs, Leah’s flashlight flickered. The soft whine of its dying battery filled the still air, making her pulse race. The air grew colder the higher she went, and the stairs creaked louder with each step.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched out like a gaping maw, the darkness oppressive and thick. To her right, a door stood slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of a room beyond.

She pushed the door open with her foot, shining the flashlight inside. The room was small, with a single chair positioned near the window. Dust motes danced in the thin beam of moonlight streaming through the broken glass. The smell here was worse—damp, mold, and something else… something metallic.

Then she noticed something peculiar—a set of footprints in the dust. They weren’t hers. They led from the door to the far corner of the room, where darkness pooled like a living thing.

Leah’s breath hitched. Her mind raced through the possible explanations. Squatters, perhaps? But no one would willingly live here. She swallowed hard and took a step forward, her hands trembling. She had to be sure. She crouched down and studied the footprints more closely, her flashlight illuminating the uneven, dragging pattern of the steps.

And then, from the shadows, she heard it.

A faint scraping sound. Like nails on wood. Slow, deliberate. Growing closer.

Her pulse spiked, adrenaline flooding her veins. Leah scrambled to her feet, the flashlight beam shaking as she pointed it toward the far corner of the room. The shadows shifted, and for a moment, she thought she saw something moving—a dark shape, hunched over, just out of reach of the light.

Her breath caught in her throat. The legends had always described the Creeper as something human… but not quite. Something that moved like it had forgotten how. She took a step back, her heel catching on the floorboards.

The scraping grew louder, followed by a slow, wet breath. Her stomach turned at the sound.

Get out, her brain screamed, but her legs felt glued to the floor. She could see it now—an outline, vague and shifting in the gloom. It was crawling, its limbs long and unnaturally bent. She couldn’t see its face—she didn’t want to—but she knew it was watching her.

With a strangled gasp, Leah bolted. She flew down the stairs, barely keeping her balance as she crashed through the darkness. Her flashlight flickered out just as she reached the bottom, plunging her into near-total blackness. She could hear it behind her now—its footsteps a horrible, uneven shuffle, followed by the same scraping sound she’d heard upstairs.

Leah’s lungs burned as she raced toward the front door, but when she reached it, she skidded to a halt. The door, which had been open when she entered, was now closed. No—locked. She fumbled with the handle, yanking and pulling, but it wouldn’t budge.

A soft, rasping breath reached her ears from behind. It was close—too close.

Leah spun around, pressing her back against the door, her heart slamming in her chest. The house was silent now. For a moment, she thought maybe she had outrun it. Maybe it was just her mind playing tricks on her, just the wind in the old house, just the—

The scraping started again. This time, it was closer, coming from the dark hallway. Her breath hitched as she squinted into the gloom, trying to make sense of the shifting shadows.

There. Crawling toward her, its limbs moving in a disjointed, unnatural way, was the Creeper. Its skin was pale and stretched tight over its bones, almost translucent in the faint light that filtered through the broken windows. Its eyes—if they were eyes—were sunken pits, glistening in the dark.

With a cry, Leah lunged to the side, sprinting toward the nearest room. She slammed the door behind her and threw her weight against it, her mind racing. There had to be a way out. There had to be.

She glanced around the room—an old kitchen, decayed and forgotten, with shattered windows too small for her to fit through. The smell of rot was stronger here, overwhelming, making her gag. But there, in the corner—a door. A back entrance. Her last hope.

She darted toward it, yanking it open just as the scraping reached the door behind her. Without looking back, she threw herself outside into the night air, her legs moving faster than she thought possible.

The cold air hit her like a slap as she burst into the overgrown backyard. Branches and vines whipped at her face and arms, but she didn’t stop. The sound of scraping still echoed in her ears, following her like a nightmare she couldn’t shake.

The trees loomed overhead, and the moonlight cast eerie shadows on the ground. She glanced behind her, but the house was already swallowed by the darkness, the windows black and empty.

Only then did she slow her pace, her lungs heaving, her legs trembling. The house was behind her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching her, that the Creeper was still there, waiting in the shadows.

She collapsed to the ground, her heart pounding as she fumbled for her phone. It was cracked from her fall, the screen barely flickering to life. She tapped out a message to her editor, her fingers shaking uncontrollably.

“Got the story,” she typed.

As she sent the message, the wind rustled the leaves around her, carrying with it a faint sound—the slow, deliberate scraping of something moving through the dark.