Nightholme's game preview was absolutely terrifying for all the right reasons

1 day ago 3

Published Apr 1, 2026, 12:30 PM EDT

Unlike anything I've done before

A player in Nightholme standing beneath a gloom heart.

I hear a voice in my ear: "You can remove your blindfold now." I'm in almost complete darkness. In front of me is a staircase that bends to the right, while behind me is an open doorway into what looks like an abandoned apartment. Next to that is another door, slightly ajar, and a descending staircase with an ominous red light at the bottom. "Do not pass through red lights until I tell you it's okay," comes the voice, originating from an MP3 player around my neck with earbuds attached. After listening to the explanation of a few more rules, I'm told I can move. And move I must, because the voice stresses urgency: "They're here, and they're coming for you. Find the answers and escape."

I choose the slightly ajar door — they clearly want me to go into the open room, so wondering what was hiding in the one that appears closed was my motivation — and turn on the only thing I had on my person: a handheld blacklight. The voice spoke up again: "You must find both the numbers and the serum."

Inside the bathroom, a baby doll was face down in the tub. On the bed, a dusty plastic bag laid next to a black nylon sheet, with an anonymous-esque mask underneath. I heard a terrifying shriek come from the next room and flashed my blacklight back toward the door I had just entered, holding it there for what felt like minutes, but was probably 15 seconds at most. "Don't you fucking dare," I say out loud, cursing to help me overcome my sheer terror.

Nothing came through the door, so after feeling like I'd combed every inch of this pitch black, creepy apartment, I went back through to check out the other, open door I "spawned" next to. I peer inside and spy a figure on all fours crawling through one of the doorways within. Knowing I have no choice but to also enter, I creep inside, following the creature's path slowly, under the assumption it won't turn around. I misclick my blacklight and turn it on by mistake. The monster spins around.

"It knows you're there," remarks the voice in my ear. Yeah, no shit. "It's blind, so find the nearest chair and sit incredibly still." There's an armchair behind me, so I lower myself into it as quietly as possible while the monster crawls into the room, eyes seemingly fixated on my position. It approaches me slowly, clicking noises emitting from its mouth every few paces, before sniffing around my feet. As it loses interest, it takes off through the door I entered. Definitely not the last I'd see of it.

This might sound like a video game. It was not — at least not literally. This was real, in Lisbon, Portugal, where developer Studio Ellipsis had invited me to play its debut game, Nightholme. At this point, I hadn't even had a whiff of a gaming set up yet, because the team had whisked me, along with five content creators, off to an old convent in the middle of the city. They simply told us we were partaking in an "immersive experience," but that was an understatement. It was the most petrifying 30 minutes of my entire life.

After searching the other apartment and having a couple more close calls with the monster — which was actually an actor trained in horror experiences for the public and dressed for the part — I was told it was safe to descend the stairs and pass the red light. At this point, I'd accumulated two leaflets, both of which were info sheets for Nightholme, revealing details about the game's mechanics, world, and enemies.

In Nightholme’s universe, the foes are known as grimspawn. "Their presence has always been with us, though rarely in forms we could properly name," reads a pamphlet I have since received at my home, post-trip. "They survive in folklore, in recurring archetypes, in religious iconography, in old wives' tales, in recurring dreams, and in the oldest human intuition of all: that something watches from the dark."

At the bottom of the stairs, I encountered one of the content creators I was on the trip with, looking equally as rattled as I was. We exchanged our found knowledge in the form of those Nightholme leaflets, then headed through an archway into an open courtyard. It was late at night, so it was dark outside; the night sky helped a little, but we could barely see ten feet in front of us.

As we exited, I turned around to make sure nothing was following us, and lo and behold, two grimspawn were clambering down the steps on all fours, grimacing as the blacklight lit them up in a blue hue. The 1v1 had turned into a 2v2. We entered a library to the side of the courtyard, after the voice in my ears — and presumably hers too — told me it was safe. After taking a few minutes to search the library, I poked my head through an adjoining doorway and looked to the right. Nothing. My eyes scanned the room ahead. A table was in the middle, and I could see a grimspawn crouching behind it.

Something caught my eye in my periphery and I glanced to the left, before jumping out of my skin and almost falling backwards. The other grimspawn had clambered through a window and was sitting on the ledge, looking poised to pounce. As I staggered backwards, it came closer, and right as it had almost backed me into the corner, the voice in my ear told me to get the heck outta dodge and cross the courtyard.

Leaving the library, walking at a brisk pace, I looked to my right. A huge, nine-foot tall, hulking black shadow of a monster — the sort of thing you wouldn't touch with a twenty-foot barge pole — came around the corner. Alongside my ally, the hurried walk turned into an almost-sprint, heading for the only light source in the courtyard. As we approached, I looked back to see the larger-than-life creature chasing, with both grimspawns from before advancing on either side, like two animalistic bodyguards.

We reached safety in a long, architecturally beautiful hallway, almost Hogwarts-esque, with six safes at the end. The other four creators turned up a minute or two later — they'd all been through similar experiences elsewhere in the convent — and we used keys obtained from the monsters, essentially representing in-game loot, to open them. We were rewarded with more leaflets to complete the game's manual. We headed through the final door to be greeted by bright lights, the entire dev team recording us and clapping, and six PCs set up to finally play Nightholme.

An illustration of two Wraith Hollows crouching in an alleyway in Nightholme.

I've been working in games media for almost a decade now, and I've often heard stories of what the "old days" of press trips were like from longer-serving colleagues — back when the industry was a much more lawless land. This experience reminded me of that, both for better and worse. On one hand, I'm not going to be forgetting this in a hurry, because it was genuinely one of the most terrifying (yet thrilling) experiences of my life, and the fact this curated event was only ever for the six of us makes me feel incredibly privileged.

That said, there's no ignoring the elephant in the room: experiences like this can sway opinions of the things they're designed to promote. I'm a journalist, not a content creator, so I cannot let my opinions be influenced by how cool of a time I had. I explain in my Nightholme preview that the game, in the build I played, is still very early doors and as such, is quite buggy. There is definitely potential there and the foundation is solid so I think it has a future, but as it stands, I'd be surprised if it garnered hundreds of thousands of players on launch. However, as studio head Alexandre Amancio told me in an interview, that isn't what he wants anyway.

Maybe this is what games need to do to stand out these days, though. Not necessarily private, wild events for press and influencers, but wild, wacky marketing that thinks outside the box. We're seeing it happen sparingly: the Big Walk devs are letting the public play the game early at their Portland office inside a bespoke themed room, for example. In a world where initially promising, big-budget live service games such as Highguard and Concord follow typical marketing beats only to effectively die within minutes, what's the harm in trying?

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