Giving Interstellar Players a Horror Ghost Game Shock - Chapter 4

[Player has entered Campus Nightmare. Enjoy the game.]

When the last five words played, the previously monotonous mechanical voice abruptly distorted, taking on a warped, dual-tone quality—a strange mix of male and female voices.

Caught off guard, Liu Haitao flinched. Realizing what had happened, he immediately played it off.
“Damn! Resorting to these cheap tricks, huh?”

He continued to mock:
“Bet the game’s difficulty is so low you had to use gimmicks like this to scare me… Hah, now that I’ve seen through it, I’ll speedrun this in five minutes!”

Hearing his boast, Ye Yuxi snorted.
“Five minutes? Let’s see if you can even get to the main storyline by then.”

A curious underclassman next to her asked, “Senior, is this game story-driven? Isn’t that usually for romance games?”

In the interstellar age, games had developed into distinct stereotypes: horror games were synonymous with action or shooting, while story-driven games were generally associated with dating sims.

Ye Yuxi merely smiled mysteriously. Soon enough, they’d realize the brilliance of narrative-driven horror games.

Meanwhile, Liu Haitao’s surroundings gradually became clearer as the chaotic visuals in the game stabilized.

The in-game setting was nighttime, likely within the campus referenced in the title. His character was now dressed in a fitting white shirt and holding a peculiar cylindrical object.

Having played many games, Liu Haitao quickly deduced it was some kind of tool. Examining it, he noted it seemed metallic with an old-fashioned physical switch.

“Seriously? Who even uses switches like this anymore? Isn’t everything neural-linked these days?” he scoffed.

(illustration: cylindrical object)

“What’s the point of this? Not even a laser gun?” He ridiculed the prop before starting to observe his surroundings.

Tall buildings flanked both sides of the asphalt road, and the flowerbed nearby boasted a single intricately detailed flower.

Despite the streetlights lining both sides, the lighting remained dim. The entrances to the buildings were pitch-black, with no signs of life in sight.

While debates about large maps versus small maps persisted in the industry, it was widely believed that larger maps demonstrated a designer’s skill more effectively.

Liu Haitao had expected Ye Yuxi’s map to consist of nothing more than a room or a corridor. To his surprise, the map was expansive and detailed, with no glaring flaws even after a thorough circuit.

“This map’s pretty well-made, but horror games need to be scary and engaging above all else,” he muttered.

“No enemies yet, no missions or backstory triggered—and don’t even get me started on that useless prop. It’s all just a series of failures…”

Just as he finished complaining, a soft chime sounded, and a translucent screen automatically popped up.

[Economics ’23, Ah Fei]: The rehearsal starts in ten minutes. Why aren’t you guys here yet?

[History ’23, Qiu Zi]: Latecomers have to treat everyone to milk tea~

The sudden notification startled Liu Haitao again.

It wasn’t that he was particularly timid; it was the oppressive, dimly lit environment paired with the eerie ambient music. Somehow, it was getting under his skin.

Unlike other games where threats—be they murderers, zombies, or otherwise—were introduced early on, this game hadn’t revealed its antagonistic force. The prolonged suspense was making him jittery.

Frustrated by repeated jumpscares, Liu Haitao, now visibly annoyed, threw the cylindrical object in his hand away.
“I’ve had it! All these gimmicks!”

Outside the game.

The crowd gathered around the large screen was puzzled.

As third-party observers without the immersive experience, they couldn’t fully grasp the psychological tension created by the eerie environment. Instead, they criticized:

“It’s just a notification. Why’s he so jumpy?”
“Yeah, I thought he’d be braver than this. Now it looks like he’s scared…”
“Right, Senior Ye?”

The student who spoke—a girl—seemed to be trying to curry favor.

Having heard plenty of rumors, she now saw firsthand that the game’s modeling alone was enough to showcase Ye Yuxi’s skills. As long as the gameplay and story weren’t complete disasters, this project would surely earn top marks.

Ye Yuxi, however, stayed silent for a while, rubbing her chin with an incredulous expression.

“No way… he just threw away the flashlight?”

Hearing this murmured remark, everyone’s eyes turned to Ye Yuxi.

Since Liu Haitao couldn’t hear her from inside the game, someone immediately asked curiously,

“Senior Ye, does that flashlight actually do anything?”

Ye Yuxi spread her hands with a helpless look.
“This involves one of the core mechanics of my game…”

Originally, she had expected this particular mechanic to be triggered only after players reached the main storyline. But it seemed Liu Haitao was destined to dig his own grave.

Inside the game, Liu Haitao had no idea he was racing down the path of self-destruction. After discarding the flashlight, he made no effort to pick it up.

“What’s the point? It’s not like it’s a laser gun. How useful could that little thing be against a murderer?”

Instead, he turned his attention to the translucent screen. After some clumsy fiddling, he finally managed to pull up his character’s to-do list from the in-game virtual assistant.

The highlighted task read:

Meet up with your juniors at May Bridge.

Conveniently, there was a nearby signpost. By the faint glow of a streetlamp, Liu Haitao figured out the direction to May Bridge and strode forward with confidence.

Following the sign, he soon reached an arched gateway.

The interior of the archway stretched into a long tunnel shrouded in complete darkness. There were no lights inside, and even the streetlamp at the entrance failed to illuminate even a sliver of the space beyond.

Liu Haitao stared into the pitch-black void. The monotonous background music that had been playing on a loop abruptly shifted into a variation, sending a shiver down his spine. He hesitated.

After a few moments of indecision, he gritted his teeth.
“Whatever! At worst, it’ll just be a chase scene here. You think I’m scared of that?”

With that, he dove headlong into the darkness.

It was absolute, suffocating blackness.

From the moment Liu Haitao stepped inside, it was as though the light behind him had been swallowed up. He couldn’t even see his own hand in front of his face.

Instinctively, he turned back to look at the entrance he’d just passed through—only to realize in horror that there was nothing there.

Impossible! He had just come from a well-lit area. No matter what, he should have been able to see the streetlamp at the entrance!

In that instant, his body reacted faster than his mind. Panicked, he turned and sprinted into the darkness, hoping to run back the way he came. But instead of escaping, he found himself trapped, unable to break free from the oppressive void.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

In the heavy darkness, there was nothing—nothing to see, nothing to hear. The only sound was his own echoing footsteps.

After running blindly for what felt like ages, Liu Haitao finally stopped, his fear boiling over.

“This doesn’t make sense! I’ve only taken a few steps… I should’ve been out by now!” His voice trembled, barely coherent.

The suffocating fear brought on by the darkness gnawed at his nerves. This eerie, endless tunnel was on the verge of breaking his psyche.

Gasping for breath, he suddenly remembered the in-game virtual assistant. Desperately, he tried to summon the translucent screen by focusing his thoughts.

Nothing.

The darkness remained unbroken.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Liu Haitao noticed a crimson number floating in the lower-right corner of his vision.

[ 15 ]

He was certain that number hadn’t been there before.

Before he could make sense of it, the red number ticked down.

[ 10 ]

“What the hell?!”

Liu Haitao finally snapped. His nerves were stretched to their limit, his spirit teetering on the edge. Letting out a strangled yell, he ran blindly in a random direction.

Even if he slammed into a wall, so be it—he’d cling to it and feel his way out!

But to his growing terror, no matter which direction he turned or how far he ran, he encountered nothing.

It was as if the school, the tunnel, everything he’d seen before… was an illusion.

He was trapped in an endless void of nothingness.

Time lost all meaning. The crimson number in his vision ticked down to zero.

A cold, mechanical voice echoed:

Sanity value depleted. Player’s character has died.

Bl00d-red letters materialized on the screen:

Player Achieved BE Ending: “Into the Abyss”

Outside the game, Ye Yuxi instinctively glanced at the clock.

Well, well… Five minutes, right on the dot.