Co-op survival horror · 1–4 players
Burn the dead or they come back — and the children are singing.
Coming to Steam · PC
Sneak peek
The town
Four strangers wake in a wrecked coach at the edge of a company town that has been sealed off behind a chemical-spill quarantine that nobody believes.
Every resident of Ashbrook carries something that should never have had a body. It walks. It prays. It gets back up from anything you do to it — stronger, and faster, and angrier — unless what is left of it burns.
Down in the hospital, in the dark under the maternity ward, something is assembling itself out of every body it has ever owned. And it knows your name. It has known your name since before you were born.
Find out why. Ration the fuel. Do not leave a corpse whole. Never split up — but you will have to.
The rules
A survival-horror campaign built around one economy: what you burn, what you save, and what you leave behind to come back for you.
Anything you down gets back up in a minute or two, worse than before — unless the body is burned. Lighter, molotovs, a flamethrower late in the game. Bottles are common. Rags are not. A half-burned body comes back as something that no longer fears fire.
Steam lobbies, drop-in at safe rooms, a shared stash, and a full solo campaign with the same story. Downed players are not killed — they are dragged away toward the nests. Rescue chases are where the stories come from.
Bullets pass your friends. Molotovs and the flamethrower do not check who is standing in the pool. Every co-op clip reel writes itself.
The children sing nursery rhymes. Distant singing means they are in the zone. The song getting slower and simpler means they have found you. Every enemy is heard before it is seen, positionally, in headphones — direction and distance are the read of every room.
No scripted jump-scare loops. A host-side director reads your noise, your light, your fuel, and how far apart you have drifted — and spends its budget where you are going, not where you were. You stop fearing the monsters and start fearing your own decisions.
An 8–10 hour story campaign through the suburbs, the hospital, the flooded lower town, the old village, and the abbey on the ridge. Sixty documents, twenty tapes, and a truth that goes back much further than the company. The ending is a vote.
Its flesh keeps no memory of fire.— the seal at the ridge abbey, 1891
Residents
Infected residents. Slow, many, murmuring prayers. They kneel toward the chapel when nothing is happening. They cannot climb. They drag the fallen home.
Newborn-sized. Litters of a dozen. They run on walls and ceilings, they climb a standing survivor, and they sing before they swarm. Never where you last looked.
Nine feet tall and still carrying, eleven years on. She does not hunt. She keeps her distance, along the route you need, and the litters are born of her — live, in front of you.
Cannot be hurt, cannot be caught. Trails the mother with a bassinet she never sets down, scoops up each newborn, and raises it in her arms until it is big enough to jump down and join the pack.
Screenshots
Fact sheet
