West Virginia author: no, it's not like Wrong Turn, until it's exactly like Wrong Turn.
William's works include the psychological horror novel "The Man Behind the Door" and the supernatural horror novel "The Devil Within Us All," William takes inspiration from his own experiences to craft novels that tackle the horrors and demons of real life.
His debut, The Man Behind the Door, tackles grief, trauma, and addiction through the lens of a ghost story and explores generational trauma. It was acclaimed for its compassionate tone, handling of the difficult subject matter, and multiple storylines that come together in the end.
He currently works full-time as a pharmacy technician at an independent pharmacy while raising his first son with his future wife. He enjoys outings with his family, reading, and playing music in his free time.
You can connect with William and read more of his work right HERE.
WITHOUT HEART AND SOUL
by
William Gray
The grotesque figure stood closer than ever, its robe wrapped tightly around it and soiled by blood and gore.
I never should have done this.
The money had been good, though, and I needed it. My parents had always warned me about life, using phrases like living outside of my means and high interest and even crushing debt, but I hadn’t listened.
Clearly, none of it sunk in.
Maybe it was my parents’ refusal to support my dream. The amount of times that I heard ‘you need a real career, art won’t pay the bills’ had done some serious damage to my confidence.
The fact that they were right was the worst part.
Technically proficient but uninspired; At the surface, your art is vivid and eye-catching, yet it is missing the emotional depth to take it to the next level; and—my personal favorite—
visually stunning but without heart and soul.
Without heart and soul.
Each criticism had landed like a blow, pushing me to succeed to spite my non-believers. I spent money that I didn’t have on the best supplies, putting myself deeper into debt as I tried to find my specialty. No matter what format I tried, I got the same luke-warm praise from the casual viewer. The response from the more educated were varying, but none of them gave the excited support that I’d been looking for.
When the email hit my inbox, I didn’t open it for weeks. It screamed scam, from the email it came from (xjaa83k31@noreply.com) to its simple one sentence subject line (“The BEST AI Art Generator”) to the content, which was just a simple URL.
I was familiar with the concept of AI art and had even played with it before just to see what it was like. Every prompt I’d ever put into one of those engines resulted in an image that was not quite what I was looking for, but it wasn’t like I was really worried about it. I definitely wouldn’t use it to further my career.
It was after a particularly nasty review of my latest work that I changed my mind.
I had a small collection of different tablets on hand from various attempts at digital media. I’d discovered I had a nasty habit of contributing my shortcomings and overall lack of skill on the tools I used instead of myself.
Pulling out an iPad Pro, I wiped the content from it and created a new Apple ID. I figured if I started fresh and it turned out to be a virus then I had very little to lose if there was nothing on the device itself. A quick walk to the coffee shop down the street allowed me to connect to a public WiFi, and I was ready.
I carefully typed the link into the search bar of the clean iPad, ready to witness an onslaught of horrific popups that would freeze my device. Imagine my surprise when a relatively sleek website appeared, with a simple description:
RACI (or Realistic Art Creator Interface) is the most intuitive AI for creating art
reminiscent of that created by real, live human beings. Go ahead, give it a try!
*DISCLAIMER: These images are not for commercial use,
and any use of them will lead to dire consequences.
I had to laugh at the one. ‘Dire consequences’ was a little melodramatic, even for me. Still, my fingers hesitated over the keyboard before typing in the first prompt.
Beautiful garden, creepy figure, oil painting, cool colors. I hit enter, expecting a poor imitation of the real thing, and my jaw dropped.
The image was striking. It was exactly as I’d conjured it in my mind, with the blues and purples of the flowers juxtaposed against the vibrant green of the leaves. The sky was the cool blue that follows an early spring rain. As I leaned in closer, I could see the brush strokes from the imaginary brush the AI had used to create the image. Near the back of the garden, the figure stood.
It was of my creation, I realize now. I’d conjured it, and now it was punishing me.
Dire consequences.
I submitted image after image to different magazines, posted them online for sale, and even sold a couple covers to relatively popular indie authors.
I noticed him a few weeks after the first time. I’d sold countless pieces to unsuspecting appreciators of the arts, and I didn’t catch the figure until it was pointed out to me. Deciding it must be a glitch in the AI, I ran with it.
I started calling him the Haunted Man, and he became my trademark. A signature in the form of an image.
As he grew closer with each keystroke—calling to mind the Stephen King novella about the polaroid camera—things got worse. I started losing sleep, and paranoia set in. Every shadow scared me.
I was losing my mind, but I couldn’t stop.
With each prompt, he grew closer until he was nearly on top of the viewer. The last two-hundred and fifty images had been unusable, but I kept trying. I needed something, anything I could turn around and sell.
I hit enter and he disappeared.
My heart pounded against my chest as the seconds stretched on, and when they slowly piled onto one another and turned into minutes, I began to breathe easier.
A notification popped up in the corner of my screen. It was an email, and while I didn’t recognize the sender, the preview brought a smile to my face.
This piece is one of the most beautiful I’ve seen in years. Full of heart and—
The preview ended there, but I didn’t click on it. My eyes were locked on the reflection in the middle of the dark screen, where I found myself staring back. Over my shoulder, the Haunted Man stood, his arms outstretched.
I could see the brush strokes on his rotting skin.
I screamed, but the sound was lost.