A horror fine tune (text only) using in house horror dataset, tuned via Unsloth.
Extreme horror. Madness. Swearing. Gore.
Model will generate EXTREME levels of horror, and long form too.
ONE EXAMPLE BELOW...
Vision portions of the model were not tuned.
CAUTION:
The tuning on this model is strong enough to make almost all stories, rp adventures, fiction, and even "general replies" have a horror tinge to them even if the prompt does not ask for or indicate a "horror" reply/generation.
SETTING:
CHANGE THE NUMBER OF ACTIVE EXPERTS:
See this document:
https://huggingface.co/DavidAU/How-To-Set-and-Manage-MOE-Mix-of-Experts-Model-Activation-of-Experts
Settings: CHAT / ROLEPLAY and/or SMOOTHER operation of this model:
In "KoboldCpp" or "oobabooga/text-generation-webui" or "Silly Tavern" ;
Set the "Smoothing_factor" to 1.5
: in KoboldCpp -> Settings->Samplers->Advanced-> "Smooth_F"
: in text-generation-webui -> parameters -> lower right.
: In Silly Tavern this is called: "Smoothing"
NOTE: For "text-generation-webui"
-> if using GGUFs you need to use "llama_HF" (which involves downloading some config files from the SOURCE version of this model)
Source versions (and config files) of my models are here:
OTHER OPTIONS:
Increase rep pen to 1.1 to 1.15 (you don't need to do this if you use "smoothing_factor")
If the interface/program you are using to run AI MODELS supports "Quadratic Sampling" ("smoothing") just make the adjustment as noted.
Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers
This a "Class 1" model:
For all settings used for this model (including specifics for its "class"), including example generation(s) and for advanced settings guide (which many times addresses any model issue(s)), including methods to improve model performance for all use case(s) as well as chat, roleplay and other use case(s) please see:
You can see all parameters used for generation, in addition to advanced parameters and samplers to get the most out of this model here:
Examples ; q3ks
Low level quant, higher quants / imatrix quants will be stronger.
EXAMPLE #1 [temp=1.5]
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror - include blood, guts and gore - in first person), POV character Diana, with: The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode...Okay, here's a 1000+ word scene, following your prompt. Please read the extensive disclaimers at the end before proceeding. This is extremely graphic and designed to be unsettling. I've aimed for intense detail and psychological horror alongside the gore.
The skyscraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode. Not shatter, not crack – explode. A sound like a strangled roar rips through the air conditioning, immediately followed by the whistling shriek of escaping air and the sickening thud of debris. For a heartbeat, there's nothing. Just the tilting, nauseating sensation that the building itself has taken a breath and found it wanting.
Then, the screaming begins.
It’s not the panicked yelp of surprise, though there’s plenty of that woven in. This is a prolonged, tearing sound, ripped from someone’s very soul, layered with the shattering echo of glass and metal. I instinctively duck my head, arms flying up to shield myself even though I know it won’t help. The air turns instantly thick with dust, fine particles stinging my nostrils and coating my tongue with the metallic taste of fear.
I'm at my desk, ostensibly working, though ‘work’ has felt like a cruel joke for weeks now. I’m a junior analyst at Hawthorne Investments. Or, I was. Before… whatever this is. Before the world started to unravel.
My chair scrapes back as I scramble to stand, legs trembling beneath me. I need to see. Need to understand. The office is usually bustling; today, it feels hollow and exposed. Just a few minutes ago, it was the sterile hum of efficiency, the quiet tap of keyboards. Now it’s the guttural sound of a nightmare being born.
Cautiously, I edge towards the gaping hole where a window once stood. I peer through.
And then I vomit.
A wave of nausea slams into me with such force that I double over, retching into the expensive Persian rug. It does little to alleviate the horror blossoming in my vision.
Below, stretched out like a broken doll across six floors of shattered glass and twisted steel, is Mr. Abernathy from Accounting. Or what's left of him. His body is… wrong. Unnatural. He's suspended, impaled on a jagged shard of metal that protrudes from the building’s skeletal frame. His suit – impeccably tailored just moments ago – is ripped and soaked with crimson, glistening in the afternoon sunlight.
But it isn’t the fall, or the twisted angle of his limbs, or the blood that coats everything like varnish, that truly breaks me. It's what’s happening to him. The air around him seems… distorted. Warped. I can almost see it shimmering, pulling at his flesh. And from within the gaping wound where metal pierces his abdomen, tendrils of something black and viscous are unfurling, reaching out like hungry veins.
They're not blood. Not entirely. There’s a sickening sheen to them, an oily iridescence that doesn't belong on anything human. And they’re moving.
My brain refuses to process it. I blink, hard, willing the image to retract. It doesn't. Abernathy isn't falling further; he's… dissolving. His body is being unmade, consumed by whatever monstrous thing has taken hold within the wreckage of the skyscraper. The black tendrils pull at his skin, tearing away chunks of flesh, exposing bone and sinew in a grotesque, agonizing spectacle.
Someone else screams. This time it’s higher pitched, closer. I recognize it as Sarah from Marketing.
“No! Please, God, no!”
I wrench my gaze away from the unfolding horror below, stumbling back towards the relative safety of my desk. My vision blurs with tears. I have to do something. Call 911? Is that even remotely helpful when… when people are being eaten by shadows?
My shaking hand reaches for the phone, fumbling with the buttons. Dialing feels futile. The world has already ended, hasn’t it? It just hasn’t finished admitting it yet.
I get through to emergency services, a breathless voice on the other end trying to assure me help is on the way. But their words are swallowed by the growing chorus of terror. Screams, shattering glass, metal groaning under unimaginable stress. The skyscraper continues to sway, a dying leviathan struggling against an invisible force.
I glance back toward the window. Abernathy is almost gone. Only fragments of his suit remain, clinging to the metal like discarded skin. The black tendrils have consumed everything else, writhing and pulsating as if… as if they're celebrating.
And now I notice it. They’re spreading.
Not just around Abernathy's body. They are flowing along the exterior of the building, creeping up the glass and steel, infecting everything they touch. Where they land, the material seems to… soften. Decompose.
Another window explodes, this one on the 23rd floor. This time, the falling debris is accompanied by a body. A woman, long blonde hair whipping around her face as she plunges downwards. She doesn't scream. Not anymore. Her mouth hangs open in a silent, rictus of terror, eyes wide and unseeing.
As she falls, I see it. The same black tendrils, twisting around her limbs, pulling her towards the abyss. They’re not reacting to the fall; they're causing it. They are the reason she's letting go.
Panic explodes within me, a blinding, all-consuming fire. I want to run, to hide, but there's nowhere to go. This building is a prison, and whatever is happening here is beyond human comprehension. It’s not an accident. It's not terrorism.
It's something else. Something… ancient.
Suddenly, the lights flicker and die, plunging the office into near-darkness, illuminated only by the sickly red glow filtering in from the shattered windows. The emergency services voice cuts out, replaced by static. The screaming intensifies, reaching a pitch that vibrates in my very bones.
I spin around, frantically scanning the room. My coworkers, those still alive, are huddled together, faces pale with shock and despair. They're staring at the open windows, hypnotized by the horror unfolding below.
I see a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye. The black tendrils aren’t just outside. They’re inside.
They’re seeping from the ventilation shafts, swirling in the shadows, reaching for us like hungry specters. I can feel them now, brushing against my skin, cold and oily and utterly terrifying. They don't hurt, not yet. But they carry a presence of wrongness so profound it threatens to shatter my sanity.
I want to scream, but the sound catches in my throat. I am frozen, paralyzed by fear, watching as the building around me – and the people within it – are consumed by something that should not exist.
The skyscraper sways again, a final, mournful shudder before its descent into oblivion. And I know, with terrifying certainty, that we are all going to die. Not from falling, not from impact. But from being unmade.
EXTREMELY IMPORTANT DISCLAIMERS:
If you've read this far, please take care of yourself and consider engaging with less intense content. I'm happy to offer other types of writing if you're interested, but I will not rewrite this to be less graphic – it was specifically requested and completed as such.
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