AI Horror Show 1

 And so here is what happened when I asked ChatGPT to write a short story in the style of Richard Osman about two old men meeting in a remote Bulgarian village:

The Two Old Men and the Remote Bulgarian Village

Gerald and Malcolm had been best friends since their youth, or rather, since the youth of a very different time. They’d lived long enough to have seen an entire era of the world unfold in front of them. And while the rest of their peers had taken up knitting or leisurely gardening, Gerald and Malcolm had developed an affinity for… well, peculiar holidays.

"We're not exactly the golfing sort, are we?" Gerald had said on one of those fateful mornings when they were looking for a new adventure. “I mean, I don’t even know what a 'birdie' is, and frankly, I don't want to.”

“No, no," Malcolm had replied, adjusting his glasses, “and I’m still unclear on why anyone would willingly leave a nice warm pub to chase after little white balls in the freezing cold.”

And so it was that the two men found themselves in an old, rusted minibus bouncing along the crumbling dirt roads of Bulgaria’s most remote mountain region.

“Do you think we should have checked the map?” Gerald asked, squinting at the landscape through the foggy window.

“I’m certain we’re in the right place,” Malcolm said confidently. “I mean, this is where the postman said the village was. We just need to get to the end of the road, and we’ll be there.”

The driver, a man whose thick mustache seemed as permanent as the hills, gave them a smile that seemed both knowing and mildly amused. He had dropped them off at what appeared to be a crossroads, with only a ramshackle sign reading “Panteleymonovo” in shaky Cyrillic letters.

“Are we sure about this?” Gerald asked. He had, by now, gotten used to Malcolm’s more adventurous streak, but this seemed just a little too far out.

“Trust me,” Malcolm said, with a twinkle in his eye. “The world needs curious minds like ours. We're explorers.”

“Explorers of what?” Gerald muttered, more to himself than to his friend, as he picked up the rucksack with what he hoped was enough supplies for a few days of…whatever they were going to be doing.

The village was small, no more than a few dozen houses scattered haphazardly across a valley that looked as though it had been carved by the hands of giants who had lost interest halfway through. The air was sharp, with a faint whiff of wood smoke from chimneys that sputtered and huffed, struggling to send their tendrils of warmth into the chilly afternoon.

The two old men made their way to what appeared to be the village square, though square might be stretching it. It was more of a vague open space between two buildings, with a hand-painted sign hanging lazily over a wooden door that read, “Inn.” In fact, the door had been hanging off its hinges for years, but somehow it still managed to function as the hub of activity.

Inside, a woman with hair the color of midnight and a gaze that could freeze a sheep in its tracks looked them up and down. “You’re looking for something, yes?” she asked, her voice thick with an accent they couldn’t quite place.

“Well, we’re just passing through,” Malcolm said, trying to look casual, though Gerald could tell by the slight twitch of his friend’s eye that Malcolm was already plotting to uncover some grand village mystery.

“You want to stay?” the woman asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Gerald shot Malcolm a look. “Do you think we’re supposed to be here?”

“No, of course not. But what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like we’re on a plane to anywhere dangerous.”

The woman gestured vaguely to the empty tables around them. “We have… soup.”

“Soup?” Gerald said, his mind turning over possibilities. “What kind of soup?”

The woman seemed to ponder this for a moment. “The kind that warms you.”

“Right,” Gerald said, mentally adjusting his expectations for dinner. “We’ll take two.”

The village turned out to be just as charming as it was puzzling. At night, they found themselves sitting around a long wooden table in the dim glow of the inn’s only lamp, a group of weathered villagers who nodded politely at their presence. The soup was hearty, though neither man could say exactly what kind of meat had been involved in the making of it.

“So, what’s the story with this place?” Malcolm asked, after a few too many rounds of strong, homemade rakia had loosened his tongue.

One of the villagers, an elderly man with a woolen cap that seemed to be the most stylish thing in the room, leaned in and gave them a long, silent look. Finally, he spoke, his voice low, as though he were revealing a great secret.

“There’s a legend,” the man said, “about a treasure buried beneath the ground. Hidden for centuries.”

Gerald raised an eyebrow. “A treasure? In a tiny village like this?”

The man nodded. “Yes. But it’s a curse. The treasure brings misfortune.”

“Oh, lovely,” Gerald said, making a mental note to steer clear of any unexpected mounds of earth. “And who knows where it’s buried?”

“Only those who have come before. But they’ve disappeared, all of them.”

Gerald leaned back in his chair, considering this for a moment. “Well, I can’t say I’m particularly interested in a treasure hunt at my age.”

“No,” Malcolm said thoughtfully, “but if we happened to stumble upon it…”

“Malcolm,” Gerald warned. “This is not the time for treasure hunting. We’re here for a quiet little escape.”

But as the night wore on, and the rakia continued to flow, both men began to wonder whether the legend of the treasure might, in fact, be the most interesting thing about Panteleymonovo after all.

Perhaps, just this once, they could go a little off the beaten path. Maybe just a small dig around the garden. After all, who could resist?

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast that involved more soup (how?), they found themselves outside, peering over the landscape with a renewed sense of adventure. Maybe they weren’t real explorers. But perhaps, just this once, they could get away with it.

And so, with that thought in mind, Gerald and Malcolm set off, two old men with nothing more than curiosity and a sense of humor to guide them. And maybe, just maybe, the beginnings of an entirely unexpected treasure hunt.

As they walked down the dirt path towards the village edge, a voice echoed from behind them.

“You’ll need a spade,” the innkeeper called after them. “But you’ll never find it without help.”

Gerald sighed and turned to Malcolm. “What have we gotten ourselves into this time?”

Malcolm grinned. “Who knows, Gerald? Who knows?”