Lacrima: Chapter Eighteen
Page Eight
Job splayed Esau’s “thought-catcher” onto the bed.
Lucille, having stood up, looked at the book with him.
Konrad’s key-tapping persisted in the background.
Pinching the corner of the book, Job let the pages flick until he found page eight. After having figured out that the numbers in Esau’s writing correlated with the pages, he saw the number “8” appear a few times.
Thematically linked with Solo-Mon, or as Esau writes “Solomon.” More like the name than the app, Job noted.
“The numbers,” he said aloud. “Why put them there?”
“To organize,” Lucille replied with a shrug.
“Maybe.” Job pinched the page harder. “However, if Esau wrote them, why would the need arise to organize them? These pages are so close together. And the numbers seemed to be connected to certain, recurring ideas. For a personal journal, that seems odd.”
“Like how he boxes-out his thoughts and connects them with arrows?” Lucille added before shaking her head. “Job, we’re dealing with an eccentric. Of course, it’s odd. This whole journal is odd.”
“Even with that,” Job protested. “The pages are systematic. Pre-organized and following a certain kind of logic. The numbers are just there.” He flicked back to a previous page, now honed in on only the intruding digits. “They follow a different pattern as if…”
Lucille leaned in with eyebrows raised. “Yes?”
Job pulled away from the page, looking at it from a bird’s eye view. His comment of the numbers just being “there” was more a gutshot observation. But with a little perspective, he noticed why he felt that way. Esau’s blocked writing had consistent spacing. The arrows never wavered in their path. It all looked clean as if printed on a machine. The numbers in question didn’t follow this style. He didn’t put those in initially. Most of them were squeezed between the last letter and the period.
“I think either Esau wrote the numbers in later,” Job said. “Or someone else wrote these in later.”
“But you don’t believe that first theory,” Lucille discerned.
“No, I think a second person wrote in this journal and docked the sentences with these numbers.” Job pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth. “For what motive, I have no clue.”
“That would mean someone before us had access to his office,” Lucille extrapolated. “It wouldn’t make a lot of sense for this journal to leave that room. Maybe he didn’t keep it locked with the previous groups.”
“And this second person may have been trying to orient themself with Esau’s writing - like annotating a novel,” Job said, satisfied with that answer. “Looks like we have two people we have to learn more about.”
“More than that.” Lucille gestured to the book. “Siobhan, Daniel, Devon, Mark, the rest of the guests. We have all these people in Esau’s web.”
“Let’s focus our effort on Esau and keep in mind this annotator as we continue on,” Job emphasized. Finally, he returned to the page he wanted to investigate. Immediately, he saw a slight deviation from Esau’s model. In the middle, a central column with a date at the top (2/11/2020) formed a spine with arrows jutting off like ribs. Boxes orbited the main block. Job’s attention, by nature of the page design, narrowed to this column.
‘Me: Solomon, is there any way that I can improve the design of Lacrima. Everyone is isolating themselves. I’ve exiled Daniel. But that hasn’t helped Siobhan or anyone (7). I mean it removed a problem, but I think other problems are still there? What can I do to make Lacrima better?
Solomon: First off all, it sounds like you’re trying your best. Don’t ever forget that. The first step to figuring out a problem is knowing that you have one. Pat yourself on the back, Esau. Getting rid of Daniel is a good first step, but you’ll have to consider some factors.
Daniel’s actions are going to have lingering consequences on the group. Some might be long-lasting.
Sometimes isolation is exactly what you need to feel better. Let your guests have their alone time.
They might be home sick. Consider letting them go meet their friends and family and inviting them back.
I hope these ideas help you out. Is there anything else I can help you out with?...’
“It’s a transcript,” Job said. “A chat log of his conversations with the Solo-Mon app.”
“And he wrote it all out by hand,” Lucille added.
“He did. On page one, he hinted at the conversation he had with his chatbot. Here, he’s writing out word-for-word.”
“Esau must’ve thought it important enough to commit to his journal,” she further elaborated.
Job nodded and continued reading.
‘Me: Thank you, Solomon. I appreciate you. However, I need more help. Let me address the list you gave me. As for number 1, I knew that. Is there any way we can mitigate the long-term harm he has caused? If Lacrima can’t do that, then what are we doing here?
You give reasonable advice with number 2 on your list, but I feel that this has stretched beyond a simple “people break.” Siobhan is either in her room, in transit to the writing room, or in the writing room. Mark only speaks with Sisyphus. Devon has completely cloistered himself in his own quarters. If it weren’t for Sisyphus, their basic needs probably wouldn’t be met. This has gone on for weeks.
As for your last suggestion, I really don’t want to do that. Any other ideas?
Solomon: I hear you loud and clear, Master. Sorry that my previous suggestions were lacking. Your feedback always helps me to tailor my advice.
Your concerns about Daniel’s impact on the group are valid--especially for Siobhan. You’ve mentioned that you’ve tried speaking to them previously about Daniel. Here’s the thing--the trauma is still fresh. Try to bring the conversation to something other than Daniel. Retriggering people would keep the damage persistent--if not exacerbate it.
From what you’ve told me about the isolation--that sounds like the situation has gotten worse. You’ll want to find ways to get them out of their loops. Have you tried creating more social events for your guests? If that--maybe nudge them out of their rooms by not bringing food to them. Make them walk to the dining hall. There you can converse with them and break through to them. Sometimes care needs to look like tough love.
For Siobhan, get her back on track with her love of writing. From what you told me, this new era sounds like a coping mechanism--rather than a genuine, artistic desire. Constructive creative projects can do a lot of good for mental health.
For Mark, consider using Sisyphus to your advantage. His whole purpose in being created was to manage the mansion and its guests. Is there anything concerning about his conversations? If not--maybe you should join their talks as a third person. That might help with the isolation.
For Devon, he has always been the most troubled of your guests. A firmer hand might be what you need to use with him. Use Sisyphus to push him out into the community you’ve cultivated.
This is totally understandable, Esau. These are your friends. You should be able to work things out together.
If I were to make a conclusion out of this--I would tell you to be more confident in yourself. You’re the host of Lacrima. You set the agenda. You designed this whole place. You can do this.’
Job scanned the auxiliary boxes. Each of them correlated to an underlined section of the transcribed chat log.
‘Social Events: Solomon keeps recommending these. I’ve tried them. They all land flat.’
‘Tough Love: If you truly care about someone, wouldn’t you do anything for them? Even if they didn’t wish for it? I think so.’
‘Isolation: This is the root of everyone’s problems, including my own. Lacrima is supposed to be a place where we come together to help each other out. The world outside is too atomized. Too individualized. That’s why I made this place. Isolation should be foreign concept. No one should be alone.’
‘Use Sisyphus: Solomon keeps pushing me towards this. I don’t want my tools to use me; however, I can’t deny how useful he has been. I can kill two birds with one stone (54).’ An arrow emerged from that box and looped back to the ‘Isolation’ box.
Job sat up in the bed and glanced over to Lucille, who read along with him.
“I think Esau was dealing with AI Psychosis.”
“AI Psychosis?” Lucille bit her tongue. “Oh, isn’t that when people start getting delusions about talking to chatbots?”
“Pretty much,” Job said. “This is particularly interesting to me because my Master’s thesis is about LLM AI and how its potential application in therapy. And, of course, the myriad ways it can go horribly wrong. That’s the major reason why I came to this mansion.”
“Field research,” Lucille laughed.
“Got more than I bargained for.” Job sighed. “Anyway, Esau’s writing points towards him overusing Solo-Mon - to the point where he relies on it to make decisions.”
“He keeps mentioning how he keeps using his own app,” Lucille said. “Even when he ‘knows it’s bad for him.’” She used air quotes there.
“There’s this strange split he has in his thinking,” Job said. “He’s self-aware of the negative effects, yet he takes Solo-Mon’s advice on the face of it. He also projects human mannerisms onto the AI. Calling it by a proper name Solomon, rather than the app’s hyphenated name Solo-Mon - makes the chatbot seem more like a person to him.”
“He was also really polite to Solomon,” Lucille observed. “Like he’s mirroring how the chatbot speaks to him.”
“As if Solo-Mon is an actual person,” Job further added.
Job began flipping to page fifty-four, as the vagueness of the text in ‘Use Sisyphus’ tantalized him and the ‘54’ helpfully guided him along. As he dashed across the leaves of paper, a square of plastic film fluttered out. Lucille plucked it off the mattress. She held the photograph up to the light for both of them to see. A glossy sheen forced Job to adjust his gaze to properly see the figures in the grayscale photo. He recognized the central figure with his grand white beard, stocky build, and hairy hands. The man himself, Esau - grinning with overbearing enthusiasm - swung his arms around two people: a lanky, light-haired woman on his right and a man whose hair was both long and dark to the left. Two other men bookmarked the group on either side. The far left one barely mustered a smile while the other raised a glass to the camera. In the margin, sharpie ink in Esau’s hand read out: “First Guests 1/1/2020.”
Looking at the pages the photo fell out from, Job found four plastic sleeves - two on each page. The right page still displayed their photos while the left had both sleeves empty. Furthermore, one of the left sleeves had come unglued. The other remained intact.
Lucille lifted up the right section of Esau’s book, inviting Job to look closer.
The top photo showed Esau with his arms crossed, but still smiling. Two men, different from any of the figures in the previous photos, held up fish and thumbs up. The title: “Successful Catch 4/2/2020.”
Below that, Job saw Esau once again, but this time in a suit and bowtie. He had his hand on the shoulder of a repeat figure in these Nebble pictures: Jacob. Esau’s brother wore a suit and necktie. He only had his hand up to brandish a glass of something dark in color. Esau eked a plastered smirk. Jacob stared into the eye of the camera without a hint of mirth. “Third Visit 5/13/2020” was written out on the lower margin.
Lucille returned the “First Guests” photo to the remaining, usable sleeve. Job played with the flayed remains of the sleeve beneath.
Like someone ripped it… He thought. The same person as the annotator?
“There’s a missing photo,” Job said. “This pretty much confirms someone tampered with the book before us.”
“You sure?” Lucille asked, seemingly unconvinced. “Who says Esau couldn’t have done that?”
“A possibility, yes,” he replied. “But given Esau’s nature in being very particular as evidenced by how he writes out his journal, I think this act of vandalism is by someone else’s hand.”
Lucille accepted this with a nod. This looked behind her and jumped to her feet.
“Konrad!”
He jumped back from his hunched position.
“Sorry! Didn’t mean to sneak up!”
“How long were you standing there?” she asked, curling a smile once the shock passed.
“I don’t know - a couple minutes.” He rubbed the skin underneath his tired eyes. “I saw the commotion with the photo and walked over to be a part of it.” Konrad squinted and pointed to the “First Guests” picture. His lips parted, teeth clenched, and he hesitated before popping air through his mouth. “Hey, I… recognize him.”
“Which one?” Job asked.
“The miserable one on the left.” Konrad obliged himself and removed the photo from the delicate sleeve. He held it carefully, but not as carefully Job would have wanted. “I need to explain myself. Come over to the computer.”
Job rolled out from his bed. He didn’t realize how long he resided on that mattress until his feet hit the floor. He had to stretch out his legs just to walk over to Konrad’s desk. Konrad was in the throes of explaining to Lucille.
“... I took screenshots of the feed because I noticed that these servants - the ghosts - might be discrete individuals.”
“Huh?” Lucille gawked at the screen. A column of recently made folders labeled one through seven shined in a window on the desktop.
“Whenever I saw a ghost on the cameras, like whenever one of us left a room or we asked Service to rearrange a room, I took a screenshot. I noticed that some ghosts have similar silhouettes or features. Eventually, I thought: Well, what if these ghosts are concrete figures and not just summoned whenever Service needs something done.” He dragged his mouse over the folders, highlighting them. “With that shower thought, I organized the screenshots and split them up into seven hypothetical ‘ghost-persons.’ Each having their own folder.”
Job heard this and thought, Is Konrad sleep-deprived? Dehydrated? Crazy? All of the above? Then thought about what he was doing and promptly tabled that judgment. He kept an open mind.
“Aren’t all the ghosts kind of… obscured?” Lucille asked, probing for the correct word. “Glitched out and all that? How can they be sorted?”
“Like this!”
Konrad clicked open the folder he creatively named “#4.” Ten jpeg files were contained therein. One by one, he opened each into their own window and divided up the limited real estate of his single monitor. He pointed to the jpegs and then held up the photo.
“Tell me if I’m crazy. This ghost seems to have the same broken nose. You can kinda make it out here and better in this other picture. In the photo, this guy has a receding hairline and a short-cropped haircut. The ‘#4’ ghost doesn’t seem to have much hair. At this angle-”
“Konrad.” Lucille put her hand on his. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“I…” He regarded his screen, the photo, and Lucille, then sighed. “Okay.”
She laughed. “It’s always good to get a break from screentime.”
Lucille escorted Konrad out of the room, leaving Job alone. He passed a hand over his forehead. The fever had diminished, but didn’t fully perish yet. Job sat down in the chair and picked up the photo. He compared the miserable man’s face with the non-face captured on the cameras. Job scrutinized the bitcrushed pixels. The resolution and the ephemerality of the ghost compromised any visual analysis.
“I can kind of see it,” he said before shaking his head. “We’re all tired.”
He returned to the bedside and placed the photo back in its proper place. A part of Job wanted to join Lucille and Konrad on their walk, but his curiosity drew him back to Esau’s journal.
One more page, he promised himself. Then a break. Though he knew how poorly he kept those.
Page fifty-four opened up before him. A matrix of textboxes in the smallest font Esau could have managed stretched out in a maddening display. The arrows came out and went to dozens of others. In totality, the ten by ten array was a singular entity. One hundred squares of unique text. It made his head throb even more. A centered rectangle gave this page a title: “Machine Intelligence.” An illustration, exotic in this word-burdened, tome showed a human brain - agonizingly crosshatched - with wires connecting it to nondescript boxes.
Just skimming, Job’s eyes hurt. He tried his best to follow Esau’s arrows
‘...only changes in matter and energy…’
‘...cognition is electricity…’
‘Where does it...’
‘...isolated environment…’
‘20 watts per day…’
The maze of madman ravings finally nailed Job’s coffins. He closed his eyes and closed the book in the blackness.
The difference from page one to fifty-four is staggering, he thought. I need to parse it out after some rest.
He yawned, blinking and steadying himself. Job paced to the other side of the room and watched the eternal rainstorm outside. Pushing through the headache, he chuckled. When he thought back on the past hour, Job couldn’t help but feel satisfaction. He was really picking at the foundations of this whole operation. Yes, Esau’s journal held pages of secrets and agendas, but they were ones that he could find - if given enough time and effort.
Job didn’t like playing detective, but he very much liked playing the academic. Pouring over a text and analyzing it? Well within his comfort zone. Selectively choosing who he will trust and not to find a potential killer? A role he wished wasn’t on the back of the card dealt to him.
Job wobbled his way back to the bed.
His eyelids grew heavy.
He fell asleep, collapsing as a crescent around the journal.