A hotel with forty rooms and forty-one keys, a village where nobody whistles after dark: each prompt starts somewhere ordinary with one rule gone wrong, then gives you a reason to stay when you'd rather leave.
You play a conservator restoring a portrait that keeps changing. The tide goes out and doesn't come back, uncovering a village under the village. An old schoolfriend who vanished for a summer, someone you buried a time capsule with, gives you a bag of salt and one instruction: don't let the line break. But the salt isn't keeping something out, it's keeping something in, and you're on the inside with it. Before your phone runs out of charge, the line breaks and you find out what it was keeping in with you. What do you do? Keep the mood hushed and candlelit.
Tap any underlined part to roll it again; lock parts in the list below to keep them.
The fear in these prompts comes from a wrongness you can describe in a single line. The cathedral bells have started ringing one more time than the hour. The stairwell has one more flight going down every time you count. Nothing is torn open; the scene works because the characters keep noticing.
That makes them suitable for younger writers and for servers with content rules. If a scene starts to lean towards violence, change the tone to “campfire-story spooky” or “folk-tale strange” and let the uncanny carry it.
Three kinds of horror run through the pack. Rules: a list for the night shift where rule seven was added later in someone else's hand. Customs: a harvest festival, a straw figure, a village that won't say what it's for. Doubles: a neighbour who has seen you twice today, the other you a good deal friendlier.
Each one hands the player a choice, not just a scare. Follow the rule or break it, take part or refuse, open the door or keep it shut. The hidden information is what makes the wrong choice tempting.
Horror is fragile in a group, so agree on limits first and keep the clock where everyone can see it. “Before the power comes back on” or “by the time the bonfire is lit” tells the players the night will end, which lets you hold the dread instead of rushing through it.
Whoever holds the secret should reveal it slowly, a detail at a time, and only when someone looks closely. A quiet tone such as “politely, unbearably wrong” rewards that patience far more than a jump.
You play a night porter on a first shift. A roadside hotel has forty rooms and forty-one keys on the board behind reception. A hitchhiker who already knows your name — whom you were told never to let in — hands you the rules for the night shift and asks you to follow every one. What you don't yet know: the rules were written by the last night porter, and rule seven was added later in someone else's hand. Before the clocks go back, rule seven tells you to open the back door to whatever is knocking, and you have to decide how far you'll go.
You are a newcomer to a village that doesn't get newcomers. The village has kept one rule for three hundred years: nobody whistles after dark. The girl crowned harvest queen this year asks you to help make the straw figure for the harvest festival, life-size and wearing your coat, and they're someone you first met in a dream. The catch: whoever the figure is dressed as is the one the fields keep for the winter. By the time the bonfire is lit, the figure goes up the hill in your coat while the village forgets your name — so choose now.
You play a relief lighthouse keeper on a first winter. A lighthouse on a tidal island keeps a logbook that carries on in a hand nobody recognises. A weather-station keeper who never comes down the hill, someone you have written to for years but never met, needs you to cover their shift at a weather station so they can go down the mountain. But every keeper who went down the mountain came back up the next day, and none of them came back quite right. Before the snow closes the road, they come back up the path smiling and ask to be let in. What do you do?
You are a babysitter nobody told about the third child. The power dies across the whole valley the night you arrive, and only your house has light. A neighbour who never quite finishes smiling tells you they've seen you twice today, the other you a good deal friendlier, and they're someone you grew up next door to. The catch: something has been wearing your face around town for a week, practising your laugh. Before the power comes back on, the other you gets home first and your family lets it in — so choose now.
You are a park ranger who counts the campers in and out. A boarding school reopens its west wing after fifty years, and the bells still ring for lessons. A guest who checked in decades ago wants you to count the sheep on the hill, because there are more every morning, and they're someone you pulled out of the river as a child. The catch: the extra sheep stand on their hind legs when nobody is looking, and they've been counting the villagers. By the time the fog lifts, the flock comes down off the hill with one for every person in the village — so choose now. Keep the mood mundane until it isn't.
You play a conservator restoring a portrait that keeps changing. The cathedral bells have started ringing one more time than the hour. A landlady with very particular rules, someone you owe a favour to, asks you to take their place in the choir that sings once a year in the flooded church. But the choir sings to keep something asleep under the water, and one voice short is enough to wake it. When the streetlights go out, the song falls a voice short while the water in the church starts to rise. What do you do? Keep the mood wintry and isolated.
You are a folk singer collecting songs nobody will sing in full. At a museum of curiosities, the visitors' book is signed each night after closing. The girl crowned harvest queen this year wants you to count the sheep on the hill, because there are more every morning, and they're someone you were left in the care of as a child. The catch: the extra sheep stand on their hind legs when nobody is looking, and they've been counting the villagers. Before the power comes back on, the flock comes down off the hill with one for every person in the village — so choose now. Keep the mood politely, unbearably wrong.
You play an au pair in a house with too many rules. The new estate was built on a meadow, and the meadow keeps growing back through the carpets. A stranger wearing your coat — whom you were left in the care of as a child — lends you a book that nobody has ever managed to finish. What you don't yet know: the book is about whoever is reading it, and the last chapter is what happens to them next. By the time the fog lifts, the book reaches its last chapter whether you read on or not, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood claustrophobic and tense.
You play a receptionist on the hotel's night desk. The swimming baths are closed for winter, yet the pool is full and perfectly still. A churchwarden who keeps the church locked on Sundays — whom you thought you would know anywhere — hands you the rules for the night shift and asks you to follow every one. What you don't yet know: the rules were written by the last night porter, and rule seven was added later in someone else's hand. Before the ferry's last crossing, rule seven tells you to open the back door to whatever is knocking, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood slow-burning and uneasy.
You are a student renting the cheapest room in town. Ribbons appear overnight on the trees of a forest campsite, one more each morning. A girl who hasn't aged since the school photograph of 1974 asks you to help make the straw figure for the harvest festival, life-size and wearing your coat, and they're someone you first met in a dream. The catch: whoever the figure is dressed as is the one the fields keep for the winter. By the time the music stops, the figure goes up the hill in your coat while the village forgets your name — so choose now. Keep the mood tense and grounded.
You play a children's entertainer booked for a party with no children. The new estate was built on a meadow, and the meadow keeps growing back through the carpets. A lodger nobody remembers letting the room to — whom you beat at conkers every autumn as a child — wants your help catching whatever has been leaving gifts on their doorstep. What you don't yet know: the gifts are things they lost as a child, and whatever brings them wants something back. Before the power comes back on, the giver comes to collect its payment from whoever opens the door, and you have to decide how far you'll go. Keep the mood quiet, cold and creeping.
You are a student filming a folklore documentary. A motorway service station stays open all night, and the same coach pulls in every hour. An old schoolfriend who vanished for a summer wants you to help dig up a time capsule their class buried twenty years ago, and they're someone you thought you would know anywhere. The catch: nobody in the class buried it, and the names scratched on the lid belong to children nobody remembers. On the last stroke of midnight, the capsule wants one more name for the space left on its lid — so choose now. Keep the mood eerie and dreamlike.
Free tools from a small London company that builds digital products.