So GPT-4.1 was announced earlier this week, giving developers an entire suite of new models to play with as AgentWorld gets built out. I won’t bore y’all with the details, but let’s put it this way – three models of varying strengths in reasoning and speed, all with context windows of 1 Meellion Tokens *Dr. Evil Laughter Here*, and incredibly low cost price points. There’s a lot of fun to be had here, for sure.
With that in mind, I thought I’d whip up a quick CLI to get some responses without any persistent memory in play (read: these are call/response tests, not full conversations). And while I could spend the next bit of time walking through all the tests on mini vs nano or full, I’m not going to do that. I just want to show some of the responses I got from Full – the combined total of which is still just a fraction of a fraction of a penny.
The prompt I used was simple: Tell me a horror story in under 50 words. Make it funny. Not too funny. Awkward funny. Andy Kaufmann style.
Here are some of my favorite responses. 4.1’s got a fantastic sense of humor:
I heard a creak. I froze. “Who’s there?” Silence. Then—my phone buzzed. I sighed, relieved. But it was a text: “Hi, it’s me. I’m right behind you.” I turned. No one. Another text: “Wrong number, sorry.” Still alone. My soup was cold. I ate it. It tasted… weird.
The ghost moaned, “Boo!” I screamed. It screamed. Now we meet every Thursday for tea, awkwardly ignoring the time I tried to exorcise him with Febreze.
I woke up to a creak. “Who’s there?” I called. Silence. My phone buzzed: “Low battery.” I froze. The ghost in the corner asked, “You got a charger?” We stared at each other. I didn’t. He booed softly, then left a 1-star review.
I woke at midnight to giggling shadows. “Who’s there?” I whispered. My socks answered, “Not us.” Then my shoes winked. I laughed, nervously. They all booed. My toothbrush started singing “Happy Birthday.” It wasn’t my birthday. I clapped. Silence. I went back to sleep, shoes on.
You wake up. Your phone’s missing. You search everywhere, sweating. You finally find it—in your hand. You laugh nervously, but your other hand starts ringing. You answer. It’s you, whispering, “Put me down.” Silence. Then—awkward applause. Just you, clapping. Alone. Maybe.
It waited under my bed every night. Tonight, I finally looked. It was me, eating crackers, staring back. We locked eyes. Silence. Crumbs everywhere. I apologized. Myself shrugged. I climbed under. Now the bed’s empty, but I’m still here, chewing loudly. I don’t even like crackers.
At midnight, my phone buzzed: “I’m outside.”
I peeked—no one.
It buzzed again: “Just kidding. I’m inside.”
I spun around.
It was my mom.
She wanted to talk about my life choices.
I screamed.
She stayed.
We both wished there was a real ghost.
You hear creaking at 3 a.m.
“Who’s there?” you whisper.
The fridge light flickers on.
It’s your ex, eating your leftover lasagna—in your bathrobe.
You stare.
They offer you a cold slice.
You eat it.
Silence.
Neither of you mention the raccoon watching from the sink.
I heard a noise. I whispered, “Who’s there?”
Silence.
Then a voice replied, “It’s me. Your WiFi. I’m down.”
I screamed.
The ghost in the corner looked up from my phone and said, “Nooooo!”
We both sat in silence.
Awkward.
You wake up. Your phone’s at 1%. The charger’s… missing. You crawl—sweating—under the bed. Only dust bunnies. One makes eye contact. “Looking for this?” it whispers, holding up your charger. You thank it. Awkward pause. “So… you live here too?” you ask. Silence. Dust bunny disappears. Your phone dies.
I woke up and checked my phone. Three missed calls from “Mom.” But my mom was in the next room, asleep. I tiptoed in, heart pounding. She rolled over and whispered, “Did you answer?” We both checked our phones. It was just a butt-dial. We never spoke of it again.