It's 4pm on a Monday afternoon in 2021 and I'm playing Phasmophobia. I shift on the edge of my king-size sofa bed, the centerpiece of this cramped yet expensive studio apartment, with my gaming laptop wedged between my mouse and a bottle of wine. I'll be sitting here for the next eight hours or so, picking through clues in Tanglewood while bullying ghosts with my new friend Andrew as we shriek, laugh, and gripe about life together over Discord. We'd met through my paranormal history podcast. We'd go on spending almost every day together for the next 12 months, trying to forget the outside world exists.
Horror has a funny kind of magic to it, enkindling a sense of community like no other genre. It always has for me, at least, but I never felt its galvanizing power like I did during the COVID-19 pandemic. I credit a large part of that to Phasmophobia, a co-op horror game about teaming up to gather evidence of the supernatural in haunted houses – followed by asylums, prisons, and campsites later in the game's lifetime. During the pandemic, Andrew and I predominantly used Phasmophobia as a virtual meeting ground where we could hang out and have fun from opposite sides of the world. He was miserably lonely in lockdown, and I was deep in the throes of an unhappy career-fuelled depression. Three years later, having teamed up once more for another long-delayed ghost hunt, I'm more thankful than ever for how Kinetic Games captured the convivial essence of the genre to get me and Andrew – and others like us – through a global catastrophe.
Friends on the other side
It's 7pm on a Thursday night in 2024 and I'm playing Phasmophobia. It's a novel treat, not having to work out time differences when I play games with Andrew now that we live in the same country. But as we load into the game for the first time in what feels like decades, a nostalgic warmth and affection washes over me as I remember the pandemic.
That is not a sentence I ever thought I'd write. Who gets nostalgic for one of the darkest times in recent human history? Me, apparently, because suddenly I can almost feel the walls closing in to resemble the studio apartment where I first played Phasmophobia. Of course, it's changed a lot since then, as expected of a game still in Early Access. Last time I played Phasmophobia was during Christmas 2022, when the new ghost hunter HQ was newly implemented, tools had been given full visual reworks, and a leveling system overhaul was on the way. But Phasmophobia has seen a lot of evolution even since then, most notably in its inventory management and store UI.
"What the f*ck is this?" I hiss as I head over to the inventory board. Not only have I been demoted to Level 1, but I'm horrified to find that the best equipment is now level-locked. That means Andrew and I must face our first Phasmo game in years with the weakest flashlight known to gaming history – and we only have one of them. At least the basic items are all free and can't be lost upon death, I suppose.
As we pick up the keys to our first haunted house, me following close behind torchbearer Andrew's character model – the same one used since 2021, I note fondly – we both take a moment to screech and spam-crouch excitedly outside the front door. "Honey, we're home!"
Phasmophobia might have new bells, whistles, and gameplay structures besides, but it's still our sanctuary.
Re-exploring the quintessential Phasmo starter map together is nothing short of chaotic joy. The atmospheric brown noise of the silent house drapes itself over us immediately, a faithful friend ushering us in from the cold. The building itself is largely unchanged, save for the fact that my starter kit EMF meter is a slow and quiet little thing, its imprecise clock arm flickering across the scale with far less urgency than the powerful, digital beeping of its now higher-tier counterpart. Even the basic thermometer has been given a tech downgrade, I note, as Andrew frantically waves the fiddly analog device before asking me to check if the red liquid line is actually moving or not. To no one's surprise, this venture ends in death for us both once our sanity levels dip low enough to trigger a fatal ghost hunting phase. With a mere $25 reward for our time and effort, I huff disappointedly. I still cannot afford my own flashlight.
And yet, we soldier on, chipping away at our rusty ghost deduction skills with each outing. We think we've found a Mimic at the Edgefield Road house (it was a Phantom), but manage to proudly claim victory at Willow Street (this time, it was a Mimic). By the time we steel our nerves to brave one of the larger maps, we're back in business as champion ghostbusters – or at least, Level 4 ghostbusters. That still doesn't stop me from getting lost in the remapped environs of Maple Lodge Campsite, where an irritable, light-sensitive Mare snaps my neck behind the canoe shed. Something about it makes me smile, because after all this time, the ghost choking animation has stayed the same.
When we finally sign off for the night, I make sure to tell Andrew how much the session has meant to me. Phasmophobia might have new bells, whistles, and gameplay structures besides, but it's still our sanctuary. Of course I'm relieved that the stricter years of the pandemic are long past us, and that I'm no longer cooped up in a tiny flat navigating a career crisis on my own. But I'm even more relieved that Phasmophobia exists. It's a time capsule of sorts, a bittersweet reminder that it's possible to find a bright spot of hope in the seemingly unending darkness. And that, my friends, is the power of horror.
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