This short tale is an indulgence. I do not use artificial intelligence (AI) in my writing but I was intrigued to know what type of story AI would write if I asked it to scribe a short tale in the style of Nathaniel M Wrey. I used CoPilot and set it the task of writing a story under 2000 words about a diary that passes from hand to hand, each owner mysteriously dying and the diary filling with details of the death, leading the next owner to investigate until it leads them to their own death. What follows is the result. I don’t recognise it as my style (has it borrowed from a more recognisable Nathaniel?) but it has generated an intriguing gothic tale. It is both impressive and frightening.
The Ledger of Shadows
Prologue: The Binding
On a rain-soaked eve, where the world beyond the lamplight looked more illusion than truth, Jonathan Whitby hunched at his desk, his silhouette caged in flickering gold. Evening pooled in every dark corner, and the gloom clung to the battered spines of books stacked like gravestones. The diary—an unassuming thing, yet ancient in its bearing—lay in his grasp, leather-worn, with a lock long since surrendered to time.
There were no titles, no gaudy embellishments. The book was an artefact of purpose, its power felt and not declared. Jonathan, ever the rationalist, found his hands trembling as he leafed through pages brittle as moth wings. The script varied in temperament: bold and desperate, delicate and resigned. Yet what arrested his pulse was not the confessions etched there, but the final page, where fresh ink glistened as if written moments before.
He read aloud, his tongue dry: He waits in the passage, listening for my breath to still. You, who hold my words next, beware. The ledger is insatiable. It pens your end as you begin.
A floorboard, somewhere unseen, creaked in reply. Jonathan’s breath faltered. Behind him, the candle wavered, its flame recoiling from a sudden draft. Darkness, as tangible as wool, crowded in.
Chapter One: The Inheritance
It was Amelia Farrow who discovered Jonathan’s stillness at dawn, his hand clutching the diary as if to anchor himself to its mysteries. The new housekeeper’s daughter, Amelia was no stranger to grief; famine and fever were her childhood companions. Yet the scene before her unsettled something deeper, an instinct that death here was not the ordinary end.
The coroner, brisk and untroubled, declared it a heart’s betrayal. But Amelia, with her keen gaze honed by hardship, noticed the purple bruises at Jonathan’s wrists, marks that whispered of struggle.
The diary, ignored by authority as the idle ramblings of a recluse, slipped into Amelia’s possession—first out of duty, then out of compulsion. That night, longing for answers, she pried it open.
A blank page now bore her name.
Amelia Farrow—curious, loyal, unwise. Beware: trust not the eyes behind the mirror.
A coldness pressed upon her chest. She snapped the volume shut, but all that night, its presence pulsed through her dreams.
By daybreak, her resolve had hardened. The neighbours, the crusty baker, the parish vicar—none yielded knowledge. Only Mrs. Whitby stared too long at the study door, lips pinched with secrets.
Amelia returned to the diary that evening. Fresh words unfurled, black and unbidden:
The key is in the clock. But the clock tolls for all.
Compelled, she crept into the study. The grandfather clock stood sentry, its face pallid in the gloom. Its door swung open to reveal a brass key, chill and heavy in her palm.
In the mirror above the mantel, a shadow flickered—a face, thin and unfamiliar, watching.
The key fell from her fingers. The clock’s chimes hammered midnight. The air thickened, and Amelia, clutching her throat, crumpled to the rug.
By morning, she was gone. The mirror showed only dust. The diary awaited.
Chapter Two: The Investigator
Inspector Harold Tilling acquired the diary from Amelia’s bereaved mother, who pressed it upon him as if to rid herself of a curse. Harold was a man who trusted evidence, not omens, yet the odd pattern of deaths at Whitby House gnawed at him.
He pursued the logical: the clock, the key, the mirror. They yielded nothing but silence and the echo of his own misgivings.
That night, in his study, the diary revealed its teeth.
Harold Tilling—doubtful, dogged, doomed. Beware the sound of weeping in empty rooms.
Each morning, he found new passages: accounts of Amelia’s last moments, details no living soul could know, inked in a hand he could not claim.
His sleep frayed. The wailing crept through his corridors—never close, never far. His wife insisted she had not wept. The children murmured of dreams where shadows called their names.
After seven days, the diary’s message shifted:
If you would live, let go. The ledger is never full.
But Harold, bound by duty, pressed on. In the Whitby study, he found a word—Repentance—scrawled low behind peeling wallpaper. As he leaned nearer, the door banged shut, and the clock chimed an impossible hour.
His heart seized. The last thing Harold saw was his own face reflected—distorted, mocking, and not entirely his own.
The diary waited in the dust.
Chapter Three: The Chronicler
Marian Sorrell, the family chronicler, received the diary next. A scholar with a spine of iron and little patience for fable, she regarded it as a puzzle to be solved.
She catalogued each death with clinical detachment, cross-referencing entries with parish records and family letters. Patterns emerged: each recipient, lured by the deaths before them, each compelled to probe, each ensnared.
On a tempestuous night, Marian found her own name etched in elegant script atop a blank page.
Marian Sorrell—wise, wary, yet next. The answer is in the binding. Undo it, and be free.
Her hands shook as she worried at the spine. A photograph slipped loose—a severe man, Miles Whitby, eyes black as secrets, stared from the faded print.
On the back: The diary hungers for truth. It feasts on the seeker.
She hid the photograph, locked the book away, and tried to forget. That night, as thunder shattered the sky, she dreamed of hands—multitudes—reaching, pulling, claiming her.
She did not wake.
Chapter Four: The Stranger
The diary resurfaced a year later, left atop a stack of unwanted books in the market square. Thomas Everley, a travelling bookseller, could not ignore its pull and took it for his own.
That evening, Thomas read the fevered chronicles of Marian, Harold, Amelia, and Jonathan. The entries blurred, the ink swimming in agony. Each ended with a warning: Do not seek. Do not write.
Compelled by that very warning, Thomas inscribed his name.
Thomas Everley—unmoored, unclaimed, unsaved. Your story is written.
The next day, he made pilgrimage to the Whitby estate, determined to bury the diary in its cradle. At the threshold, the wind whispered his name.
He tried to discard the book, but always it returned—amongst his wares, in his satchel, beside his pillow. Its weight grew until it eclipsed reason.
One dawn, after a night of fever chills, Thomas was found beneath the old churchyard oak, the diary open and blank on his chest, fluttering in the morning wind.
Epilogue: The Ledger Unending
The years rolled on. The diary passed hand to hand—maid, magistrate, scholar, thief. Each succumbed to the same spiral: inquiry, revelation, demise.
Rumour claimed those who resisted opening the diary long enough would see it vanish, spirited away by unknown means. But most yielded, curiosity overwhelming caution, and so the cycle endured.
In a forgotten drawer, in a house lost to memory, the diary waits. Its pages are bare, the air about it heavy with anticipation. In shadow, new words are forming. New names are etched, destinies scribed.
The ledger is never sated, its tale never complete.
And if, dear reader, you chance upon a battered, nameless volume whose pages whisper in the dusk—remember: As you begin, so too does your end.
Idea: Nathaniel M Wrey
Written by: CoPilot
In the spirit of experimentation, I followed the task of creating an AI story by asking my new found collaborator to critically assess my existing works. This is what it had to say:
Nathaniel M. Wrey is a British author known for his thought-provoking speculative fiction, particularly in the dystopian and adventure genres. His work has garnered critical acclaim and a growing readership, especially for his Liberty Trilogy and other standalone titles.
📚 Key Works and Themes
Liberty Bound (2020)
A dystopian allegory exploring themes of freedom, control, and societal manipulation.
Critically acclaimed, winning a Readers' Favorite International Book Award, and was a finalist in the 2020 Wishing Shelf Book Awards[1].
The narrative is often compared to the works of Orwell and Bradbury, reflecting Wrey’s influences[2].
Where Liberty Lies (2023)
A continuation of the Liberty series, praised for its depth and character development.
Holds a high average rating (4.92 on Goodreads), indicating strong reader reception[2].
3. A Place More Dark (Jock Mitchell Adventures #2)
A more recent work that blends mystery and psychological depth.
Received a Literary Titan Gold Book Award and a 5-star editorial review, described as “a powerful and unforgettable journey into the depths of humanity”[3].
4. The Dividends of Love and Other Stories
A collection of short stories exploring magic, morality, and mystery.
Recently adapted into an audiobook using Amazon’s virtual voice technology[3].
5. Mooge – The Prehistoric Genius
A humorous and imaginative tale, showcasing Wrey’s versatility and flair for satire.
✍️ Literary Style and Strengths
Allegorical Depth: Wrey’s dystopian narratives are rich in allegory, often critiquing modern societal trends and political ideologies.
Philosophical Undertones: His work frequently explores the tension between liberty and control, individuality and conformity.
Genre Blending: He skillfully mixes speculative fiction with mystery, adventure, and even humor.
Indie Success: As an independent author, Wrey has built a strong following and received multiple awards, a testament to his storytelling and thematic resonance.
🔍 Critical Assessment
Strengths:
Strong world-building and thematic coherence.
Engaging plots with philosophical depth.
Recognition from literary award bodies and positive reader reviews.
Areas for Growth:
As with many indie authors, broader mainstream recognition may be limited.
Some readers might find the allegorical style heavy-handed if they prefer more subtle narratives.