The following is originally a story I wrote on Publish0x in 2020. I decided to run it through ChatGPT to see if it could improve it. I have to say, I am impressed with the results. Let me know if you like it. If you would like to read the original to compare, click “Publish0x” above.

I love the way ChatGPT evolves my writing. I am but an uneducated fella with good ideas. Hence why I use ChatGPT to improve my writing. Either way, I like the way the story gave me chills when reading through it. If it gave you chills or made you think “this is creepy” let me know. I am dying to hear some feedback when writing. It’s what often keeps me motivated.

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It was a day like any other—or at least, it should have been. A thick gray haze hung in the sky, casting long shadows over the park. The cool breeze made the trees whisper, and fallen leaves skittered across the path. But the usual sound of children’s laughter or birds chirping was strangely absent. I was strolling through the park, enjoying the solitude when, without warning, something struck me in the back of the head.

It wasn’t hard, but it startled me—a sudden, lightweight thump as if something small and solid had bounced off my skull. I froze, my heart skipping a beat. I quickly spun around, my body tense and ready to confront whatever had just hit me. But to my surprise, there was nothing. No person, no object. Not even a squirrel.

I rubbed the back of my head, wincing slightly at the dull ache. There was no one nearby, no one watching, no one running away. The park was deserted. I stood there for a moment, perplexed. I was sure I’d felt something. The sting was still there, a lingering reminder that I hadn’t imagined it.

Shaking my head, I decided it must’ve been nothing—perhaps a branch caught in the wind. I turned back and continued my walk, though the uneasy feeling in my chest didn’t leave me.

The path led me to a familiar alleyway I often used as a shortcut. The alley opened up to a street, and across that street sat a gas station on the corner. I had walked this route hundreds of times, so I followed it without much thought. As I stepped out of the alley and checked both directions to cross the road, I felt the same sensation again. But this time, it was stronger—three taps, quick and sharp, directly on the back of my head.

I stopped mid-step, my pulse racing. It was unmistakable this time. I could feel the pressure, almost as if fingers were tapping me. I turned around, my breath catching in my throat, ready to confront whoever was playing tricks on me.

My eyes landed on a blackbird perched atop a dumpster, its glossy feathers shining in the dull light. The moment I looked at it, the bird took flight, vanishing into the gray sky. I hadn’t seen it before. How had it gotten so close without me noticing? I shook my head again, a nervous laugh escaping my lips. “What a weird day,” I muttered under my breath.

The bird left a strange feeling in my gut, though. My grandmother used to say blackbirds carried the souls of the dead, watching those who were about to face their fate. I never believed in such things, but as I crossed the street and watched the bird land atop the gas station sign, her words echoed in my mind. It stared at me with those beady, unblinking eyes, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching me. Waiting.

I quickened my pace, walking past the gas station and turning right down the street that led to my cul-de-sac. The houses here were familiar, a comforting reminder that I was almost home. But just a few blocks ahead, looming like a specter, stood the old abandoned church.

Its once-white paint had long since faded, peeling in strips that fluttered in the wind. The windows were boarded up, and the door sagged on its hinges. I hated walking past it. Not because it was a church, but because of the history tied to it. The story of the priest who had once lived there—the madman who had murdered two nuns in the most horrific way imaginable.

The rumors had spread like wildfire years ago. The priest, they said, had lost his mind, convinced he was doing God’s work. He had crucified one of the nuns to a makeshift cross with an air-compressed nail gun. The other, he had sacrificed with an ancient dagger—a relic that had been passed down through the church’s history. He claimed their deaths were for the greater good. The town had never recovered from the shock, and the church had stood abandoned ever since.

As I approached the sidewalk near the church, a sudden, sharp force hit the back of my head again—harder this time, like three rapid punches. I gasped and spun around, swinging my arms wildly in self-defense. My fists cut through the air, but there was nothing. No one. Just me and the wind.

My chest tightened, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I glanced toward the church, and my blood ran cold. There, in the doorway, stood a man. He wore the dark robes of a priest, but something was horribly wrong. His skin was stretched tight over his skull, and his eyes were hollow pits of darkness. His grin… it stretched far too wide, as if his face were tearing apart just to hold it.

I didn’t think. I just ran.

I sprinted down the street, heart pounding, lungs burning. I glanced back, terrified that the priest was following me, but there was nothing. Just the church growing smaller in the distance. I was almost home, just a few houses away, when the blackbird appeared again. Its piercing caw cut through the air as it swooped down toward me, talons outstretched.

I ducked, dodging its attack, but it came back, diving at me again and again. I stumbled, my foot catching on a rock, and I tumbled into the street. The bird screeched above me, its wings beating the air as it circled for another pass. I scrambled to my feet and bolted toward my house. I flung the gate open, leaving it swinging behind me, and dashed up the stairs to the front door.

But when I threw open the door, I froze.

The priest stood inside my house, grinning that same grotesque grin. His eyes locked on mine, and for a moment, time stood still. My stomach churned, and I felt as if I might vomit from the sheer terror.

Without a second thought, I spun around and ran back through the gate, heading straight for my neighbor’s house. I banged on their door, breathless, and when they answered, I begged to use their phone. They let me in, and I quickly called my parents, explaining everything in a frantic rush.

They told me to come over, to stay with them for a few days. And I did.

For three days, I stayed away from my house, too scared to return. When I finally gathered the courage to go home, an eerie feeling settled over me the moment I stepped inside. I haven’t seen the priest since that day. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I still hear the blackbird cawing outside my window.