Sycamore End

The rent was cheap, the street was quiet, and the attic was supposed to be empty.

The house at the end of Sycamore

You're Riley. New town, new keys, a van full of boxes and a dog named Bean. Day one is unpacking: find the fuse box, figure out the stairs, wave back at the neighbor who's a little too curious about your attic. By the time the sun goes down, Bean won't stop barking at the ceiling.

Sycamore End is a short, story-driven first-person horror game told in chapters, watched through the soft rot of a worn VHS tape.

What you'll do

Settle in. Unpack the boxes, raid the fridge, mop the floors, learn which stair creaks under you. The house lets you get comfortable first. Watch the phone. Mom checks in. Then a number you've never seen starts texting, and it isn't asking questions. Hide. When something gets inside, you don't fight it. You kill the lights, fold yourself into a wardrobe, and watch the room through the slats while it searches for you. Call for help. 911 works. But the only spot with signal is the middle of the front yard, out in the open, in the dark.

The tape

Everything plays back the way it would on a shelf-worn cassette: grain, tracking wobble, colors gone slightly wrong. There's no smartphone and no waypoint. If you want to know what's knocking above the bedroom, you climb up and open the hatch yourself.

Sycamore End is made by one person. It's an evening of horror with no padding, best played at night with headphones. Contains jump scares.