OVERSTAY: Liminal Horror

You took a wrong turn in an office that shouldn't have a wrong turn. Now the hallway repeats. The carpet is the same mustard yellow in every direction. The fluorescent lights buzz, flicker, and die one by one. And somewhere in the dark between the pillars, something is listening. Eight floors down. Eight pages each. Don't be heard. IT IS BLIND. IT HUNTS BY SOUND. The thing in the halls cannot see. It has no line of sight, and walls mean nothing to it because it was never looking through them. It knows only what it hears. Every step you take pushes a ring of sound through the building. You never see that ring - until it reaches something that listens, and it flares red around you. That flash is your only warning. Sound takes time to travel, so it always chases a moment behind you. Walk and you are quiet. Run and you are loud in every direction at once. Stand perfectly still and you do not exist. THREE THINGS LIVE HERE The Listener hunts by sound alone. The Rusher ignores your footsteps until you sprint - then its bones flash amber, it charges for one second, and stops to recover. The Shiver freezes solid in the direct beam of your flashlight and moves again the moment you look away. Each needs a different answer. On the last floor you meet all three at once. A FIELD GUIDE YOU EARN Every creature you survive, or die to, goes into the field guide: what it is, and how to live through it. It stays with you between runs. THE FLOOR DECIDES HOW LOUD YOU ARE Carpet swallows your footsteps. White tile and bare concrete throw them across the building - more than twice as far. The shortcut is often the route that announces you. DECOYS OF YOURSELF You carry three folded cardboard cutouts of your own character. Throw one and it pops upright and keeps calling for thirteen seconds - long enough to cross a floor behind a hunter's back. Supply bags on every floor hold spares, but unzipping one is loud. EVERY FLOOR IS DIFFERENT After Hours. Maintenance. Water Damage. Utilities. Last Shift. Alarm Wing. Cold Storage. Clock Out. Each descent changes the building, deeper floors hunt harder, and every page you find is another fragment of the overtime log someone left behind. THE BUILDING REMEMBERS Every floor holds the remains of an earlier shift. Stumble into one and something starts: the power fails, an alarm broadcasts, a room calls the roll - and everything that hunts on that floor comes to listen. Not every shape at the edge of your flashlight is really there. Not every one is only a shadow. A RADAR FOR THE PAGES, AND NOTHING ELSE The radar shows the pages. It will never show you what is hunting you. That you work out from sound, from shadow, from which ear the drone is loudest in, and from the ring that flares when you are heard. SOMETHING HIDDEN ON EVERY FLOOR One power-up is tucked away in a dead end on each floor, off the radar entirely. Muffled steps, a brighter lantern, or lungs that never tire. LIGHT IS EVERYTHING Your flashlight is a narrow cone held in your own hand. Ceiling lights flicker and gutter out. Shadows are cast in real time by every wall and pillar - and the shape moving across one of them might not be a pillar. BUILT FOR TOUCH One thumb moves you. Running is a deliberate toggle, never an accident. No menus in the middle of a chase. No in-app purchases. No account. No subscription. The game itself plays entirely offline. Ads are deliberately kept out of your way: a short ad between floors, and one you can choose to watch for extra decoys. None of them interrupt a run, and none are personalised. Pixel art by LimeZu. Built with Godot.