There are four of you.
One of you doesn’t belong.
You wake in a house that isn’t yours, in the dark, with people you’re not sure you can trust. There is one way out. It is locked.
Search a shifting, pitch-black house with nothing but a flashlight and each other.
Key A is close. Key B is somewhere it really doesn’t want you to go.
Something patrols the halls. Manage your fear. Stay quiet. Stay together.
Unlock the door and run for the trees. Not everyone has to make it. One of you must.
It used to live here. Now it shuffles the dark, slow and certain, and every sound you make pulls it closer. You can’t kill it. You can only run, hide, and hope it heard someone else.
Sometimes a teammate is a little… off. Repeats something you already said. Walks a beat wrong. Leads you somewhere alone. The house can wear your friends. Could you tell, in the dark, before it was too late?
Nobody gets out alone. Each of you is good at one thing the others aren’t — so you’ll have to actually rely on each other.
Fast and fragile. You run the keys and outrun the dark — but if it catches you alone, you’re gone.
Steady when everyone else breaks. You keep your hands still and your head clear while the house screams.
Slow, huge, hard to kill. You hold the door and put yourself between the dark and everyone you love.
Beat the house and something… stitched together is waiting for you. Faster. Tougher. Wrong. You’ll want it.
If you can walk and point a flashlight, you can play. Everything else is nerve.
Talk to your team with Enter (text chat). Whisper. Lie. Just keep them close.
There are four of you. One of you doesn’t belong.