Haisonmeguri

Haisonmeguri is a first-person J-horror walking simulator set in an abandoned village in modern/futuristic Japan. Players explore eerie environments with a darkened screen to enhance the frightening atmosphere, recommended to be played in a dark room with headphones for maximum immersion. The game, developed by Torampo, offers a chilling narrative experience without English support.

Haisonmeguri: Review

Introduction

In the saturated landscape of modern horror games, where sprawling open worlds and complex combat systems often reign supreme, there exists a quiet, unnerving corner of the medium dedicated to the power of atmosphere and suggestion. These “walking simulators” strip away conventional gameplay to focus on pure environmental storytelling, placing the player in the shoes of an observer, helpless against the encroaching dread. It is within this niche that Haisonmeguri (廃村巡り), the 2022 debut from the Japanese indie studio とらんぽ (Torampo), establishes its haunting legacy. More than just a simple ghost story, Haisonmeguri is a masterclass in targeted psychological horror, a meticulously crafted experience that proves the most profound fears are born not from what is seen, but from what is felt. This review will delve deep into the game’s development, narrative, mechanics, and artistic presentation to argue that Haisonmeguri, despite its humble origins and brevity, stands as a significant and chillingly effective work that defines a potent strain of J-horror in the digital age.

Development History & Context

Haisonmeguri is the creation of とらんぽ (Torampo), a small, independent development team operating within the rich and fertile ground of Japan’s indie gaming scene. The title’s very existence is a testament to the democratizing power of modern game development tools; built upon the ubiquitous and accessible Unity engine, the game was conceived and realized with a clear, focused vision, unburdened by the commercial pressures that often afflict larger studios. The developers, whose names remain largely anonymous, were driven by a passion for the kaidan (怪談) tradition—a classic Japanese genre of ghost stories that thrives on atmosphere, psychological unease, and the supernatural. This is not a game seeking to innovate with complex mechanics or cutting-edge graphics, but rather one that strives to perfect a specific, terrifying feeling.

Released on July 16, 2022, for Windows PC via Steam, Haisonmeguri arrived into a gaming landscape where the walking simulator genre had already carved out a respectable, if sometimes controversial, niche. Titles like Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs and the P.T. demo had demonstrated the market’s appetite for slow-burn, story-driven horror. However, the late 2010s and early 2020s saw a surge of “experiences” that were often criticized for being little more than brief, interactive tech demos. Haisonmeguri entered this conversation with a distinct advantage: its cultural specificity. While Western horror often relies on jump scares and visceral threats, J-horror tends to favor a more subtle, pervasive dread, rooted in folklore, psychological torment, and the violation of familiar, domestic spaces. Torampo leveraged this cultural touchstone, creating an experience that felt authentic and deeply unsettling for anyone familiar with the tropes of Japanese ghost stories. Its development was not about pushing technological boundaries but about distilling a terrifying concept into its purest form, guided by the unspoken rule of horror: what is unseen is infinitely more frightening than what is revealed.

Narrative & Thematic Deep Dive

The narrative of Haisonmeguri is a deceptively simple framework built upon a foundation of classic J-horror archetypes. The story unfolds in the early 2000s, a period that grounds the supernatural events in a relatable, recent past. The protagonist is Kaori, a young woman who possesses a unique sensitivity—the ability to “see invisible things.” This trait immediately establishes her as the ideal audience surrogate, a medium through which the player will perceive the world’s hidden horrors. The plot is triggered by a voicemail from her old friend from school, Mai, who asks Kaori to visit an abandoned village together to “take ghost photos.” This innocent request, a common trope in horror fiction, is layered with foreboding. Mai’s voice in the message, coupled with Kaori’s own intuition, creates a powerful sense of impending doom. Despite the palpable unease, Kaori, perhaps driven by a sense of loyalty, nostalgia, or a morbid curiosity, agrees to the journey.

The central theme of the game is the fragility of memory and the inescapable pull of the past. The abandoned village is not merely a location; it is a physical manifestation of a forgotten history, a place where time has stood still. The game masterfully uses the environment as a narrative device. Rusted, dilapidated huts, overgrown with weeds, speak of lives abruptly abandoned. The subtle traces of everyday life—a rusted bicycle left leaning against a wall, a child’s toy half-buried in the mud—evoke a profound sense of loss and tragedy. These are not just set pieces; they are fragments of a story that the player is left to piece together. The horror is not in the spectral entities themselves, but in the context they provide to the mundane objects of a lost civilization. The narrative unfolds without direct exposition, relying on environmental storytelling and the game’s audio design to convey its tale of woe and supernatural consequence.

The game concludes with three possible endings, a feature that adds significant replay value and thematic depth. While the specifics of these endings are not detailed in the available sources, their existence suggests a focus on player choice and interpretation. Does Kaori succumb to the village’s curse? Does she manage to escape with her sanity intact, perhaps forever changed? Does she uncover the tragic truth behind the village’s fate? These potential conclusions transform Haisonmeguri from a linear experience into a personal nightmare, allowing the player’s own anxieties and actions to shape the final outcome. This structure reinforces the game’s core themes, suggesting that the past is not a single, fixed story but a collection of possibilities, all of which can lead to a haunting end.

Gameplay Mechanics & Systems

Haisonmeguri adheres strictly to the conventions of the “walking simulator,” a genre defined more by its absence of traditional gameplay than by its presence. The core mechanic is, as the name implies, walking. The player controls Kaori in a first-person perspective, navigating the decaying pathways and ruined structures of the abandoned village. The interface is minimalist and direct, utilizing a standard WASD movement scheme with mouse look. There are no HUD elements, no health bars, no inventory, and no weapons. The player’s only tools are their own two feet and their ability to observe the world around them.

This deliberate simplicity is the game’s greatest strength and its primary limitation. By stripping away combat, puzzles, and objectives, Haisonmeguri forces the player into a state of vulnerability. The game does not challenge the player’s reflexes or intellect; it challenges their nerve. The primary interaction is exploration, driven by a mixture of curiosity and the desire to uncover the story. The gameplay loop is one of slow, deliberate movement punctuated by moments of intense discovery: a flicker of movement in the periphery, a faint whisper on the wind, an environmental change that signals a ghostly presence. The “goal” is not to win, but to experience the horror.

The game’s most notable mechanical feature is its commitment to atmosphere. As explicitly stated in its description, the game screen is “generally darkened to create a frightening atmosphere.” This is not a graphical bug but a core design choice. The limited visibility forces the player to lean closer to the monitor, to strain their eyes, making them acutely aware of every shadow and every indistinct shape. It is a mechanic of sensory deprivation that amplifies the effectiveness of sound design. The lack of a traditional UI further immerses the player, removing any sense of a “safety net” and placing them entirely within Kaori’s perspective of isolation and fear. The recommended playthrough time of 30 minutes underscores the game’s nature as a concentrated, potent experience, a short but unforgettable descent into a nightmare.

World-Building, Art & Sound

The world of Haisonmeguri is its most compelling character. Set in a remote, mountainous region of Japan, the village is a masterclass in environmental design that creates a palpable sense of history and decay. The art direction is one of stark, haunting beauty. While the technical fidelity is modest—reflecting its indie origins and Unity engine—the artistry lies in the meticulous attention to detail. The level design is described as “skillful, portraying a delicate mountainous landscape,” which serves to isolate the player and emphasize the village’s abandonment. Every texture is chosen to evoke a feeling of neglect: the peeling paint on wooden walls, the moss creeping over stone steps, the rust on metal fixtures.

The use of lighting is paramount. The game’s signature feature, its dimly lit environments, transforms the village from a simple backdrop into an active participant in the horror. Light sources are scarce and unreliable, casting long, dancing shadows that seem to have lives of their own. The darkness is not an absence of light but a presence in itself, a shroud that hides threats and distorts perception. It is this interplay of light and shadow that makes the environment feel alive and unpredictable. The art style successfully captures the essence of the haikyo (廃墟)—the ruins of a once-thriving community—creating a setting that is both beautiful and deeply sorrowful.

Complementing the visual design is the sound design, which is arguably even more critical to the game’s success. The official description explicitly recommends playing with headphones, and this advice is not mere marketing. The auditory landscape of Haisonmeguri is a masterful symphony of paranoia. The player is treated to a constant, low-level ambience: the creaking of wood, the whisper of the wind through broken windows, the distant cry of a bird. These natural sounds are punctuated by more unsettling phenomena: the subtle rustle of unseen footsteps, a disembodied whisper that is just on the edge of comprehension, a faint, distorted voice that could be a memory or a ghost. The complete lack of a musical score is a brilliant choice, allowing these subtle, organic sounds to dominate the soundscape and build tension without the player’s conscious awareness. The result is an atmosphere of profound dread, where the mind begins to play tricks, and every sound feels like a potential threat.

Reception & Legacy

Upon its release on July 15, 2022, Haisonmeguri was met with a “Mostly Positive” reception from the Steam community, with a score of 78% based on 114 user reviews at the time. This positive feedback was consistent across platforms, with 127 total reviews on Steam giving it a score of 79/100. Player reviews consistently praised the game’s ability to create a tense and unsettling atmosphere, with one user noting, “A short experience but does a fine job building a tense and unsettling atmosphere.” This sentiment captures the essence of the game’s appeal: its success lies in its focused execution of a single, powerful idea.

However, the reception was not without its criticisms. A significant portion of the negative reviews centered on the game’s lack of English language support. As noted in its official description, Haisonmeguri “does not support English,” presenting a barrier for a large portion of the potential audience. This linguistic limitation meant that players relying on text had to resort to machine translation to grasp the nuances of the plot and character dialogue. While some reviewers found this manageable (“Google Translate on your phone is more than sufficient to understand the story”), for others, it was a deal-breaker that diminished the overall experience. Other critiques likely stemmed from the game’s extreme brevity and its minimalist gameplay, which may not have satisfied players seeking a more robust or lengthy interactive experience.

In terms of legacy, Haisonmeguri holds a fascinating position. It is not a game that revolutionized the industry, but it is a significant work within the niche of atmospheric horror and J-horror games. Its success on Steam, evidenced by its positive reviews and dedicated player base, demonstrates the viability of small-scale, culturally specific horror projects. It has become a reference point for fans of the genre, often mentioned alongside other titles like Puzzling Places and Yatsumeguri as an exemplar of the walking simulator’s potential for concentrated fear. While its direct influence on major AAA titles is negligible, its legacy is in its proof of concept: that a small team with a clear vision, a strong understanding of cultural horror, and a mastery of atmospheric design can create a memorable and impactful piece of interactive storytelling. It preserves a specific, potent strain of J-horror for a digital audience, ensuring that the chills of the abandoned village are not confined to folklore but can be visited by anyone with a PC and a pair of headphones.

Conclusion

Haisonmeguri is a testament to the adage that in horror, less is more. It is a game that understands the true source of fear lies not in spectacle, but in suggestion. Through its focused narrative, minimalist yet effective gameplay, and masterful command of atmosphere and sound, the とらんぽ (Torampo) team has crafted an experience that is as brief as it is unforgettable. The game is not without its flaws—its lack of English support and extreme brevity will undoubtedly limit its appeal—but these are minor imperfections on an otherwise exquisitely polished piece of interactive horror.

What Haisonmeguri achieves is a profound sense of place and feeling. It transports the player into a decaying world, not with a bang, but with a whisper, and leaves them with a lingering sense of unease that persists long after the credits roll. It stands as a brilliant example of how the walking simulator genre, when executed with purpose and artistry, can deliver a uniquely powerful and personal form of terror. In the canon of video games, Haisonmeguri may be a minor work, but its impact on those who experience it is anything but. It is a small, perfectly formed nightmare, a digital kaidan that cements its place as a chillingly effective piece of interactive storytelling. For anyone willing to embrace the darkness and subtitles, it is an experience not to be missed.