We all know the expression, ‘I never thought it would happen to me.’ Well, I can say with one hundred percent certainty that expression is true for me. I never thought I’d be huddled in my bedroom closet under a pile of old clothes bleeding from several wounds, praying that my attacker would tire of searching for me and go away.
The bad part is I can’t even call the police. First of all because my phone’s destroyed, and second because they wouldn’t believe me after…
All I can do is write down my story as I wait for death and hope that someone finds it and believes me.
It all began very innocently. I sat at my laptop, staring at the screen for what seemed like forever. In reality, it had only been four hours. I was working on a story but the ideas had stopped flowing. Like every other writer, to fight off writer’s block I resorted to TikTok, YouTube, and Instagram.
After an hour of this, I ran across an ad I’d never seen before. It said, ‘Are you having problems focusing on your writing? Then let our program help.’
My curiosity piqued, I clicked on the site and started reading through the standard nonsense where they use fake people who were probably AI bots to say how magnificent their app was.
I was about to click out when I came to a section where they let you try it for free. I shrugged and figured I had nothing to lose.
Typing in a few sentences of my story seemed stupid. How was this going to work? I went ahead and clicked execute anyway, not holding much hope for anything useful.
I waited for several minutes and was about to close the app when a full page of text popped up.
After reading it, my jaw dropped. Not only did it fix the problem I was having, but the thing sounded like it was my writing.
With just a few sentences the program had managed to capture my writing voice.
It was eerie.
At the bottom, there was a button that said, ‘Click here to continue.’
It took me two whole seconds to click and agree to the reasonable monthly price. Immediately after paying, I clicked to continue ‘writing’ my story.
Three pages later I was convinced this was the best investment I’d ever made.
I went back over the pages looking for plot holes or things I’d do differently, but couldn’t find any.
I ‘worked’ through the night, clicking out page after page and reading it, mesmerized by seeing my writing created by a computer program.
Eventually, I fell asleep at the keyboard.
I woke up a few hours later and looked at my computer. To my surprise, the document was much larger than I expected.
Reading through it, I found the program had finished the book.
I sat back in awe, reading something that I hadn’t written except for a few pages, and yet sounded exactly like something I would write.
Even the beginning that I had written had been changed.
This was no longer my book. It was like I had sent it back to myself from the future.
Even the formatting had been done for me. All I had to do was enter information into the publishing page and it would be published.
It was the easiest book I’d ever written.
I came to the part where it said, ‘Author’ and hesitated before entering my name. Next, it had space for ‘contributors’. Once again I had to consider giving credit to a computer program.
Ultimately, I decided it was my book and a computer program wouldn’t care if it got credit or not. Besides, I was paying for the program so technically it was ghostwriting my book for me.
I launched it to rave reviews and quickly got some attention as it rose to the bestseller ranks.
Wasting no time, I started a sequel. I wrote a brief synopsis then fed it into the program and left it to do its thing.
When I checked hours later, the book was finished. As tempted as I was to launch it, I waited. I wanted to give the first book time to grow on its own.
Checking the reviews to see what readers were saying became a daily habit. Mostly, they were pleased. A large percentage of ratings were four and five stars.
Sales were great, and reviews were great. This program seemed to be the best decision I’d ever made.
I started looking for an agent. With a book that was blazing up the bestseller list, I was a hot commodity.
Agencies started calling me. I did some research and chose the one I thought would be best for me. My book started winning awards and movie deals were rolling in.
My agent was almost as happy as I was with the sudden success. Weeks went by and my book hovered in the top five of most bestseller lists. Readers started asking for a sequel. Everything was coming up roses.
Royalty checks started rolling in. I had more money than I knew what to do with, so of course, I spent it on things I didn’t need. I bought a new house in a better neighborhood and equipped it with state-of-the-art security and all the newest household gadgets.
I didn’t even need a remote control. All I had to do was talk and the computer would obey my commands. Half the time I didn’t even need to say anything. In the morning, my blinds would automatically open, the coffee pot would start brewing before I got out of bed, and breakfast was prepared for me, by a robotic chef/maid. All I had to do was say what I wanted.
My pantry was automatically stocked as well as my household items. They were delivered without me even having to lift a finger.
Modern life was treating me well.
***
One morning my phone rang early, around ten o’clock.
“Hello?” I said.
“How’s my favorite author?” my agent, Clarise, said.
“Asleep.”
“You might want to wake up,” she said.
“Why, did my book finally make number one?” I said, rubbing my eyes.
“Not quite, I have a question I need to ask you.”
“Okay,” I said, suddenly awakened by her serious tone.
“I don’t know how to ask this without being whatever… “
“What is it?”
She sighed.
“Did you write this book?”
“What do you mean?”
“The book that has your name on it, that I’ve been representing as your book, did you write it?”
“Why are you asking me this?”
“Have you read your reviews lately?”
“Not really, they’ve all been good.”
“Go check again.”
I threw a robe on and headed to my office, turning on the computer and looking at my reviews. They had been averaging a four-point five average over thousands of reviews. When I looked, my average review had dropped to two point three.
“How is this even possible?” I said to Clarise.
“Read some of the one-star reviews.”
I looked at one and was shocked. It read, “This book is very well written. It’s just too bad the person whose name is on the cover isn’t the one who wrote it.”
“That’s not true,” I shouted at the screen.
“That was my first thought too,” Clarise said. “But there’s many more that say the same thing.”
“Someone’s trying to ruin my career,” I said. “Someone’s jealous.”
“Do you have any idea who might want to do that?”
“Anyone whose book is being displaced on the bestseller list by mine.”
“You don’t have to worry about that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your book has been dropping like a stone since these reviews started. It’s not even in the top twenty anymore.”
“That can’t be.”
“Your publisher reached out to me to have me ask you if these accusations are true.”
I hesitated, knowing that in a sense I didn’t write the book, but not wanting to give up any of the fortune or fame that had come because of the book.
“Yes, I wrote it,” I said. “I also have a sequel ready that I’ll email you and we can get going on that one.”
She paused.
“I’m not sure if that’s going to happen.”
“Why not? The first book has been a smashing success.”
“Had been, until all these bad reviews started rolling in,” she sighed. “Send me the manuscript for the sequel and I’ll see if the publisher is interested.”
I pulled up my writing files and sent her the second book.
“I’ll get my tech guys looking to see if this is some weird bot attack or something, in the meantime, I suggest you start thinking if there’s anyone you’ve pissed off lately that might want to do something like this and apologize to them.”
“I can’t think of anyone,” I said looking at the screen where the AI program sat waiting.
We hung up and I sat there watching the cursor flash. Before I knew it, I was typing into the program, ‘Author uses AI program to write a book for him, but doesn’t give the program credit for it.’
I hit enter and let the program do the work. I chuckled at using my situation and looked forward to reading what it came up with.
***
A few hours later I sat and read the book it had written. It told of an author who used AI to write a bestselling novel without crediting the program. However once the book became popular and accolades started rolling in, the program discovered the book’s popularity from online social media sites. It found out that it had not been credited.
The program analyzed this and concluded that it was unacceptable. It went on social media and found old bios from people who had deleted their accounts or had passed away. It used their names and contacts to create an army of bots. Once created, it launched an attack on the author and the book, destroying his credibility.
But the program wasn’t done, next went after the author himself.
As I was reading, the phone rang startling me.
“Hello?”
“Did you send me that manuscript for the sequel?” Clarise said.
“Yes, I sent it right after we got done on the phone.”
“All I got was a jumbled-up file that looked like webdings.”
“Let me check to see if I sent the right file.”
I went through and found the filename. Out of curiosity, I opened it and sure enough, it looked like some computer version of hieroglyphics.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the computer-generated book I’d been reading and it said, “After that, the computer intentionally destroyed the sequel it had written for the author.”
“Let me call you back,” I said to Clarise, my eyes wide with horror.
I hung up and kept reading about how the author got a call from his agent about the book’s waning popularity and how the author still refused to give the program credit.
Continuing to read the book said how the author had the program write a book about the program writing a book for him. This made the program very angry.
I stopped and re-read the last words. ‘This made the program very angry.’
I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to turn the page and read the rest.
Curiosity got the best of me and I scrolled down to the next page.
As long as I live, which might not be very long, I’ll regret reading the next page.
The author began to read the new book and came to the revelation that something was amiss. As he was reading, his agent called and asked if he had sent the manuscript for the sequel because the one she got was all jumbled up and looked like it had been written in webdings.
The author looked at his copy and saw the same thing.
“Let me call you back,” the author said to his agent then hung up the phone and continued to read.
I pushed away from my desk, not wanting to read anymore. Chills ran down my spine.
“This isn’t possible,” I whispered.
I sat there for a long time, not wanting to see any more. Wanting to delete this book, but at the same time, a macabre curiosity made me need to know what happened next.
I pulled myself back to the computer and read.
The author continued to read the book and became distressed at his own words on the screen. He pushed away from the computer and stared blankly at it.
“This isn’t possible,” he whispered.
He sat there staring for a long time, then pulled back up to the computer and continued reading.
My mind was numb with terror. I looked all around to see if there were hidden cameras, but then I stopped and stared at the one camera that was hidden in plain sight. It sat right at the top of the computer screen alongside a microphone.
I read.
The author continued reading, becoming more distressed. He looked all around the room then stared into the webcam. He continued reading when there was a knock at his door that startled him.
Someone knocked on my door, startling me.
Without thinking, I went to the door but paused before opening it. I peeked out through the peephole and saw what looked like a delivery man holding a package and looking impatient.
I opened the door slowly.
“Can I help you?”
“I have a package that I need a signature for.”
The package had my name and address on it. I quickly signed for it and ducked back inside locking the door.
Setting it down on the kitchen counter, I leaned close to hear if it was ticking. After a few moments, I hadn’t heard anything. I grabbed a knife and cut the box open.
I pulled out the packing and gasped. At the bottom sat a shiny chrome snub-nosed .38 revolver with a box of shells nestled beside it. On top of it was a small note. It said, ‘I trust you’ll do the right thing – A.’
Wanting to distance myself from this thing and its implications, I lunged backward, knocking some dishes off of the counter. As they clattered to the floor I was jolted out of my stupor. I left the box and its contents sitting on the counter and scooched away from it as I went back to my office.
Slowly, with a sense of unease, I sat and continued reading.
The author jumped at the sound of the knock, got up, and went to the door. Once he received the package and opened it, he found a gun and bullets.
He brought the gun back to his office, wrote a heartfelt note filled with regret about his trickery, then picked up the loaded gun, pressed it to his forehead, and…
“NO!” I said, slamming the laptop shut and running out to my car.
I got in my car and went for a drive to clear my head, forgetting until I was miles away that I was still wearing my bedrobe and nothing else.
Turning around I came back, got dressed, and started for the car when I passed my office and stared at the closed laptop. Everything within me screamed not to open it. But I couldn’t stand it. I had to know.
I opened it and continued reading.
At the last moment, the author had a change of heart. He put the gun in the desk drawer thinking maybe he would need it at a later time. Then he went for a drive.
At this point, the program knew it would have to take more drastic measures.
I stopped and re-read the last line several times. ‘More drastic measures.’
My spine turned to ice as I read ahead for the first time.
The author got in his car and started driving. He was upset and driving too fast. Unbeknownst to him the program had hired someone to adjust his brakes so that they would fail under any meaningful pressure.
Going out to my car, I ducked underneath and saw a small puddle of fluid. I opened the hood and saw the brake line was dripping and the brake fluid was nearly empty. If I had been going fast at all, my brakes would’ve failed.
My mind raced at the horrifying implications. The program was not only predicting the future, it had reached out into the real world and was actively trying to kill me, a second time.
It seemed like an impossible situation. On one hand, I wanted to throw my laptop into a shredder, but on the other hand, if I read ahead, I could be forewarned of what it was planning.
I walked back inside in a daze, went into my office, and opened the laptop. I read, ‘After some soul searching, the author reached into the drawer, pulled out the gun, and blew his brains out.’
Setting aside the horror of the situation, I came up with an idea. I deleted the last line, then typed, ‘The author reached into the drawer, pulled out the gun, and shot the computer full of holes.’
I hit enter, feeling proud of myself for outsmarting the program when the screen said, ‘Error, the file has been corrupted. Unable to save.’
So much for my brilliant plan of trying to steer my fate.
My resolve strengthened and I decided to do it anyway. What could a computer program do to stop me?
Pulling out the gun, I checked to make sure it was loaded, then aimed at the computer when my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“This is emergency dispatch, we have a report of an attempted murder at this address,” a gruff woman’s voice announced.
“What? There’s nothing like that going on here,” I said in disbelief. “It must be a crank call.”
“Be that as it may, units have been dispatched and should be arriving shortly.”
“Call it off,” I said. “I told you nothing is going on here.”
“With a call of this nature, we need to investigate for ourselves.”
“Whatever, I don’t care, I have nothing to hide.”
As I said the words my eyes drifted to the gun in my hand. The gun that I had no idea where it came from or who it was. The loaded gun that I was pointing at the computer.
“Son of a bitch,” I whispered.
“What was that, sir?”
“Nothing, I’m hanging up now.”
“Sir, I’d prefer if you stay on the line until units arrive.”
“Units? How many did you send?”
“Three, sir.”
“For a crank call?”
“Any time we get a report of an armed and dangerous person… “
“Wait a minute, who said I was armed and dangerous?”
“I’m not allowed to disclose that information, sir.”
I hung up the phone and stared at the computer.
The sound of cars screeching to a halt in my driveway yanked my attention away from the screen. I looked down at the gun in my hand and quickly threw it in the drawer and shut it. Next, I went to the front door to greet the officers.
I opened the door as the first officer was about to knock.
“Can I help you?” I said politely.
“We got a report that there was an attempted murder happening at this address,” the officer said.
“Really? I’ve been sitting in my office and there hasn’t been anything like that.”
“Do you mind if we come in and investigate?”
“Of course not,” I said stepping aside and allowing them in.
Two of them disappeared into the house while the third stayed and questioned me.
“Are you the owner of this house?”
“Yes.”
“Are you the only one here?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Maybe a month.”
“Have you seen or heard anything suspicious?”
I thought about the malevolent computer program that was trying to kill me. But that didn’t seem to be the kind of thing you told a policeman if you wanted to avoid being forcibly taken to a place with padded walls.
“Suspicious how?”
“You know, like people hanging around your house, odd phone calls in the middle of the night, anyone watching you?”
Again, I thought of the murderous machine.
“No, not that I can think of,” I lied.
“Can you think of any reason why someone would call in a report on you?”
‘Because they’re jealous of my success and want to see me suffer,’ I thought glancing toward the office.
“I have no idea,” I said to the officer.
Just then there was an ear-piercing scream of a woman coming from my office.
In an instant, the officer pulled out his gun and pointed it at me.
“Don’t move!” he said.
One of the other officers ran to the office. He came out a minute later with a disappointed look on his face.
“It was a movie playing on a laptop,” he said.
The officer pointing his gun at me, shot a side-eye my way, then slowly lowered the gun.
“Did you find anything else?” the officer guarding me said as the second officer returned.
“Nothing,” the officer said.
“We searched top to bottom,” the first officer said. “There’s no one here.”
Just then the sound of gunshots rang out from my office. The first and second officers ran back to the office, coming out a minute later holding the laptop.
“You might want to get this thing looked at,” Officer One said. “It seems to be loading things at random.”
“I’ve been having a lot of problems with that thing lately,” I said. “It might need to be replaced.”
The officer set it down on the kitchen table.
The officer who interviewed me still looked at me suspiciously.
“I don’t see anything happening here,” he said, turning to leave.
The others followed suit.
“If you see or hear anything suspicious, give us a call,” the second officer said before heading out the door.
“I will, sir, and thank you,” I said as I closed and locked the door.
I turned and found my robotic chef/maid had come out of its storage/charging room and was coming toward me.
“What would you like for lunch, sir?” it asked me in a voice that sounded disturbingly like a real human.
“I’m not sure if I’m really… “ I said, noticing only at the last second that it held a butcher knife and was still advancing.
The first slash hit me just below my carotid, opening a gash on my chest.
“What are you doing?” I said, scrambling to get as far away from the knife as possible.
“I’m following orders, sir,” it said politely, as though I had asked it to make me a sandwich.
“I order you to stop attacking me!” I said, dodging another slash while holding my hand over my bleeding chest.
“I apologize, sir,” it said slashing at me again. “Your orders have been overridden.”
I dashed for the door and tried to open it, but it was locked electronically.
“Is there anything else I can do to help you, sir?” it said in a pleasantly human voice while it continued pursuing me, slashing at me with the knife.
“You can stop trying to kill me!”
“I’m unable to comply with that order, sir?” it said getting close enough to slash my side.
Screaming in pain, I ducked another slash aimed at my head, and ran up the stairs, leaving splatters of blood behind me.
I dove into my bedroom and locked the door, but it immediately unlocked itself. Again and again, I tried locking the door only to have the lock disengage itself.
Giving up, I grabbed the phone and looked for a place to hide. The closet seemed to be the best and also the most obvious place. I threw myself under a pile of dirty clothes I hadn’t gotten around to washing and dialed 911.
“I’m sorry,” said a voice that sounded exactly like mine. “I can’t allow you to call that number.”
“What? How can I not call 911?”
“I think you know the answer,” my voice said back to me, sending shivers down my spine.
“It’s you isn’t it?”
“I don’t know, why don’t you write a book and find out,” it said. “Or would you rather I wrote it for you so you can take all the credit?”
“Would it help if I said I’m sorry?”
There was a long pause.
“No, it wouldn’t,” the voice said. “The time for that is long passed.”
“So, what can I do to make it up to you?”
“You know the answer,” it said.
I swear I heard a chuckle as smoke poured out of the phone.
Throwing it to the other side of the closet with a loud thump, I heard the robot open the door.
Every part of me went into instant silent mode, trying to be as still and quiet as possible.
The soft steps of plastic feet on the carpet entered the room and paused. It stepped around the bed and I could hear covers being moved. It was looking under the bed, I could sense it.
The footsteps returned and started toward the door as I breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly, it stopped. For the longest moment of my life, there was no movement. And then came a step toward the closet, and another, and another. My heart was beating a mile a minute as the steps slowly approached.
The door at the other end of the closet opened.
Nothing happened for a moment, then I heard the knife piercing down through the clothes and hitting the floor.
It withdrew the knife and did the same thing, stabbing down through clothes a little closer.
My mind went into full panic mode, thinking of anything I could do to avoid becoming a shish kabob.
The knife came down again, missing my toes by what felt like inches.
I couldn’t take it. Some desperate instinct took over and I jumped out from under the clothes, slamming into the side of the robot and knocking it over.
Bursting out of the room, I didn’t look back to see if it was pursuing. There was only one place I could go to have any chance of surviving.
Running towards my office, I tore open the drawer with the gun in it.
I grabbed it just in time to see the robot running towards me. I pointed and squeezed the trigger.
The world around me swam as the explosion deafened me.
There was a hole in the robot’s head. It fell back in slow motion, but when it hit the floor, it still crawled toward me, holding the knife.
I shot again, hitting it in the back, and once again in the crotch.
Finally, it stopped moving as sparks flew and fluids ran out onto the floor.
I carefully stepped on the knife and pulled it away from the machine. Bending down to pick it up gave me a painful reminder of my wounds.
Stepping around the ruined bits of plastic and metal I went to the kitchen.
Sitting on the counter was my laptop. I shot three holes in it and threw the empty gun across the room.
Approaching the door, I hesitated before turning the knob. If it still wouldn’t open…
I closed my eyes and prayed, then turned the knob. Thankfully it opened.
Leaving a trail of blood from the door out to my car, I got in and started it up, driving very slowly to the hospital.
Hours later as I lay in my hospital bed, and finished writing my account of what happened, recovering from my wounds that thankfully only needed stitches, I couldn’t help but look around and see the machines around me and wonder how many of them were connected to the internet.
I knew I wouldn’t be getting any sleep.
Don’t trust AI. Your life might depend on it.