
Cabin is a first-person survival horror game centered on isolation, resourcefulness, and the thin boundary between safety and fear. The experience begins in a quiet, snow-covered forest where you find shelter in a small wooden cabin. But as night falls, something outside begins to move—something that knows you’re there. With limited tools and time, your task is to reinforce your surroundings, manage supplies, and survive what comes before dawn.
Cabin uses silence and stillness to build unease. The forest outside whispers with unseen life, and the cabin’s wooden structure groans under cold wind. You must explore the cabin to find usable items: boards, nails, lanterns, and tools that can strengthen doors or create distractions. The goal is survival—not through aggression, but through preparation and calm decision-making under pressure.
As the night deepens, Cabin transforms from a simple shelter into a battleground of endurance. Strange sounds—scratching, knocking, heavy footsteps—warn of approaching threats. Reinforce weak spots, watch windows, and stay alert. The more noise you make, the more curious the entity outside becomes. Strategic timing and quick thinking can mean the difference between safety and discovery.
Cabin’s horror is psychological rather than graphic. The player’s mind becomes as much an enemy as the lurking presence outside. The game subtly blurs perception through flickering lights, whispered voices, and distorted reflections. Each hour survived reveals fragments of a backstory—journal entries, radio broadcasts, and scattered photographs suggest why the forest refuses to let you leave.
Each session of Cabin plays differently. Weather conditions, item locations, and threat timing vary with each attempt, encouraging players to refine survival strategies. Some paths lead to early escape, while others uncover darker truths about the forest and its influence. Every decision—to light a fire, open a door, or investigate a sound—shapes your ending.
Cabin is a meditation on fear, solitude, and the instinct to endure when safety becomes fragile. Every creak of wood, every breath of wind, and every heartbeat deepens immersion. The question is not whether the danger is real—but whether your mind can withstand the long night inside.