Over dit spel

Don’t Panic

Sunrise. Twilight of Earth. The world is ending. Acrid auromas of sun-scorched streets fill the air. Blackened corpses gnarled into shapes of agony line streets. Peering outside is enough to scorch eyes from the socket. The only refuge is in the night.

But the night belongs to the Visitors.

Let the Right Ones In

A knock on the door. A solitary voice, begging for refuge. They look like us. Talk like us. Smell like us. Are they us? Look for the signs.

Your Guests, Your Death

Isolation is not an option. The Visitors will overwhelm us. Let some in. Hear their stories. Some will help. Some will need help.

Some are Visitors.

Do What You Must

The Visitors kill. Kill them first. Interrogate the guests. Do what must be done.