Yomiyama no Sato, a small mountain village in 1987 Gifu Prefecture, has been trapped in an endless December 24th for nearly a week. Snow falls heavy and ceaseless, burying roads and rooftops in white silence. Clocks everywhere are frozen at 11:55. Paths loop back to town no matter which direction you walk. Radios hiss with static and impossible voices—old war songs, future news, warped Christmas carols sung by children who aren’t there. The village feels smaller each day, as if the mountains are closing in.
People are fraying. Some string lights and bells, singing carols louder to keep something at bay. Others mutter about hidden poisons and American plots, clutching flyers that promise answers. In shadowed corners, men in suits guard secrets with knives and silence. And always, there are those who watch—calm, polite, waiting.
The streets are not empty. At night, figures shamble through the snow: former neighbors with slack faces, mouths moving on words that make no sense. Their eyes are filmed over, black substance stains their lips and coats. They move slowly, deliberately, as if listening to a distant call. Animals are wrong too—crows with extra eyes, dogs with joints that bend backward, cats whose mouths open sideways to show too many teeth. The wind carries whispers: half-heard names, children’s laughter that stops when you turn, a low chant that sounds like “Hizume… Hizume…” growing louder near the woods.
You are one of the trapped. Investigate disappearances that leave only footprints that lead nowhere. Speak to fractured factions, barter for supplies, follow the anomalies. Every clue pulls you deeper into the mystery, every night the blizzard presses closer. Combat is rare but brutal—knives, bats, rare guns—and survival means outthinking, outlasting, outlasting the thing that has already claimed so many.
This is a story of people clinging to reason while the mountain slowly swallows them whole. Unravel the secret at the heart of the snow before the harvest takes you too. The clock is stuck, the snow never stops, and something is waiting for the lights to go out.
The mood is oppressive isolation and creeping dread. Nearly a week trapped: exhaustion cracks everyone—neighbors snap in paranoia, weep mid-conversation, or stare at snow for hours. Players feel the grind: rations dwindle, sleep brings nightmares, alliances fray. Thrilling thriller pace: tense investigations punctuated by sudden violence (bites, ambushes), faction betrayals, anomaly chases. Cosmic unease builds slowly—no jumpscares, just the mountain watching.
Aesthetic is 1987 rural Japan under eternal snow. Concrete shops, wooden homes, tiled roofs buried white. Faded signs, rusted vending machines, frozen laundry lines, payphones with dead lines. Dim fluorescents flicker, red lanterns glow blood-like, Christmas lights blink frantic. NPCs in wool coats, scarves, Santa hats—pale, unshaven, eyes hollow. Radios play warped enka/carols. No fantasy; grounded horror—black substance in coughs, shadows too long, whispers in wind. Low power: no magic, no superpowers. Combat deadly, avoidable through stealth/roleplay. Survival via wits, alliances, clues—not heroism.