Note to readers: This article contains content first created by LLM ChatGPT, and later modified by yours truly. The story portion began as the product of my prompt to ChatGPT and ChatGPT’s response. A rewrite of the story follows the introduction and was completed by myself, dredged from the depths of my personal organic database. Please, feel free to contact me with questions related to the content of this article or the series of articles.

As scene two unfolds, I continue my rewrite of the ChatGPT story “Shadows in the Smoke.” My intent is to reduce the threat of artificial intelligence while helping us recognize the opportunity it provides to writing. Most of this opportunity, for me at least, lies in AI’s ability to draw out ideas and identify weaknesses in my own writing. 

At the end of each scene, I add notes explaining my reasoning for the changes. Maybe they illuminate skillful elements of the craft of writing fiction.

Let’s get after it, then.

I’ll tell you a story, scene two.

Shadows in the Smoke

Harland leaned back in his chair, letting the silence draw out truth. People tended to fill in the gaps if you let them. The woman continued, words spilling out of her like a confession.

“My husband. He’s involved in… I don’t know…. Something menacing. I don’t have details, but he’s secretive, even more these past weeks. And there’s this woman… he’s been seeing her.”

Harland frowned. Another infidelity case. Variations on a hundred others like it. Just walk away. But the undercurrent of fear in her voice kept him listening.

“You have proof?” He kept his tone professional, detached.

“Just suspicions. Late-night phone calls, unexplained absences. I thought it was just me, afraid of losing him— and then I found this.” There was a rustling sound, and a thump, like she put the phone down. A moment later, she spoke again, voice trembling. “It’s a photograph. Of him… of them together.”

Harland considered her accusation. An affair was the most obvious conclusion, but the tremor in her voice opened up something more sinister. He’d witnessed the phenomena in other cases. A worried wife, certain of an affair, who then found out her husband’s dalliance involved their babysitter. This city had a way of warping even the simplest of betrayals into something dark and twisted.

“Where did you find the photograph?” he asked.

“In his jacket pocket,” she replied. “He must have forgotten it was there.” Before he could ask, she blurted, “It needed to go to the cleaners. I—I didn’t know what to do. I thought about confronting him, but…”

“But you’ve become afraid. Afraid of what he might do,” Harland finished for her.

“Yes.” Her voice was a whisper that barely made it through the phone line.

Harland glanced at the clock. It was late, and Eleanor would be waiting at home. He’d promised her he wouldn’t take any more spurious cases, cases that kept him out all night, that brought danger to their doorstep. But the fear in the woman’s voice hooked him. He couldn’t just leave her hanging in the wind. Not after leading her this far.

“Tell you what,” he said, reaching for his coat. “I’ll look into it. Discreetly. But if things start getting heated, and by that I mean dangerous, you need to get out. Understood? This city doesn’t play fair.”

She gushed over the phone. “Thank you, Mr. Harland. I don’t know what I would’ve done without your help.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he muttered and hung up.

The night air was cold and biting. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a trap. That his need to save the damsel had fooled him, somehow. 

The city streets were quiet. Everyone else was too smart to be out. Harland drove through the empty avenues, his mind racing. A husband, a photograph, and a woman who was afraid to confront the truth. A familiar story. But her terror changed things. It made the pieces fit together unevenly. This was a jigsaw in need of a special touch. If he didn’t make a hard effort… well, he wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.

He pulled up outside the address she’d given—a modest house in a quiet neighborhood, the kind of place where people had no secrets. Or they buried them very deep. Harland studied the place from his car. The lights were off, the curtains drawn. No signs of turmoil inside.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the car and approached the front door. His knuckles rapped against the wood, the sound echoing in the still night.

He listened for movement inside. Nothing. About to knock again, the door creaked open to reveal a woman standing in the shadows, eyes wide and face pale.

“You’re Harland?” she whispered.

“I am,” he replied. “Can I come in?”

She hesitated for a moment before stepping aside, allowing him entry. Her house was dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of a lamp in the corner. She led him into the living room, where she handed him the photograph with trembling hands.

Harland studied the image under the dim light. A grainy photograph, it was the kind taken with a cheap camera. Still, the faces were clear enough—her husband, arm in arm with a woman, not the client. They stood outside a building Harland didn’t recognize. It was the type of establishment not found in a respectable neighborhood.

“Do you know where this was taken?” he asked.

“No,” she replied quickly, wringing her hands. “I’ve never seen that place before. I don’t even know who that woman is.”

Harland slipped the photograph into his coat pocket. “I’ll find out. And remember what I said—if you get the slightest inkling your husband or the woman pose a danger to you, get out. Do I make myself clear? I’ve seen too many women beaten, crippled or dead, all because of a false understanding of marital allegiance.”

She shuddered, trying to nod. “I will, Mr. Harland. I promise.”

He left her in the doorway, a quivering silhouette. It made him want to trust her. Not the best reason to take on a client. The uneasiness followed him to his car, coalescing with a sense of being watched, that someone lurked just out of sight. 

He lit a cigarette, drawing in the smoke and allowing the ember to color his face before he climbed into the car. Let them watch and wonder what he was up to. Curiosity would draw them out.

Estimations on the value of the information he’d collected crowded his thoughts. Her reports of hushed phone calls and spousal absenteeism painted a somewhat one-sided picture. The physical photograph meant something, he was sure. But he needed more background, and he knew a good place to start.

The drive to the other side of town was filled with thoughts of Eleanor, at home, waiting for him, trusting him. He’d promised her no dangerous cases. Yet here he was rolling into the kind of neighborhood where people disappeared when they didn’t want to be found. 

Harland had a contact there, a man who owed him. If anyone knew where to find the mysterious building from the photograph this was the guy. 

But the closer he got to the man’s home base, a sketchy bar that offered little protection for snooping detectives, his promises to Eleanor began to crumble. 

He needed to finish this case quickly. Only the whole thing was becoming more complicated with every move. It was dragging him deeper into an enigmatic riddle he might not be able to solve. Might even get him hurt.

What did I do to make it human?

Most of the rewrite on this scene centers on clarifying language. I left in many of the clichéd ideas, while trying to freshen them by reducing the number of telling verb phrases such as “he learned” or “Harland considered.” These tend to telegraph motive and prematurely resolve suspense.

I attempted to remove vague ideas ChatGPT presented as “evidence.” Misinterpretations or anxiety about the security of a relationship with a spouse is commonplace. Hardly proof of nefarious deeds. What makes a case worthy of pursuit are details of a certain type, that gut feeling described with precision, off center clues. With a little more focus on the woman’s underlying terror, it feels a bit more realistic.

Harland’s emphasis on the importance of staying safe also felt weak. I bolstered it using his expression of exposure to spousal abuse in the 50’s, from cases he’d worked before.

When the woman greets him, allows him inside, and openly shows him the photograph, it raises questions about the woman’s motives. She trusts a man she doesn’t know but is terrified of her husband’s interactions with the strange woman. This is an excellent clue or red herring. Very plausible in her state of distress, or an indication of underhanded trickery on her part to sabotage her husband. 

I fleshed out the image of her elongated shadow, a powerful metaphor with ambiguous interpretations. By combining it with Harland’s feeling of being watched, I raised the stakes on his quest. ChatGPT did a good job with the lighting of a cigarette… to show he’s unafraid. And in those days of noir fiction, it would also help him think. 

The end of the scene came across as shallow and uninspired. I tried to interconnect Harland’s visit to his contact in a risky part of town with his growing belief that he is betraying his wife. 

Overall, the bare bones noir mystery works. It’s the use of cheap tricks and overused tropes that prevent ChatGPT’s version from moving the reader. Maybe I’m getting a little closer to that.

Let me know your thoughts.