The AI I Programmed Claimed My Body Was Sealed Behind My Bedroom Wall — Then My Son-In-Law Handed Me An Eviction Notice
The diary’s contents gnawed at Arthur. He sat at his computer, the screen’s glow reflecting in his troubled eyes. He logged into a secure medical archive, his fingers flying across the keys. He had personal records access from his engineering days.
He entered his name, date of birth, and scanned his retinal print. Old medical history began to populate the screen, a digital ghost from his past.
He filtered the results to 1995. A record flagged. “Admission: St. Jude’s Regional Hospital, January 12, 1995.”
Arthur clicked on it. The details flowed. “Patient Arthur Finch. Traumatic Brain Injury. Severe skull fractures. Retrograde Amnesia, estimated memory loss duration: 6-8 months prior to admission.”
A car crash. He remembered the accident, vaguely. A blur of metal and pain, then waking up weeks later in a hospital bed, Eleanor by his side, reassuring him that everything was fine. He’d lost chunks of time, but he hadn’t thought anything of it then. He just assumed it was the trauma of the accident.
Now, the dates screamed at him. January 1995. The amnesia covering late 1994. The exact period when Thomas vanished. The exact period when his own diary entries spoke of a violent confrontation he couldn’t recall.
His hands gripped the edge of his desk. The missing six months. The black hole in his memory. It wasn’t just about Eleanor, or Beatrice, or Julian. It was about him.
He had been in that room. He had written those words. He had been there when Thomas died, and the accident, conveniently, had erased it all.
Arthur closed his eyes, the cold, clinical data on the screen painting a horrifying picture. The pieces of the puzzle were fitting together, but the image they formed was grotesque, terrifying.
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