They chanted his name around the fire—Ezekiel Hobb, Ezekiel Hobb, Ezekiel Hobb—and now the bastard with the carved face has followed them home. Inside the Jacobs house, blood slicks the stairs, and the walls echo with steel scraping drywall. Pumpkinface doesn’t stalk—he hunts, vanishing and reappearing in flashes, his rusted knife always one breath ahead of your scream. The only way out is through him… and he doesn’t leave survivors.

Welcome aboard the Willi, where jazz once flowed as freely as gin—and now only screams echo through the smoke. It's the height of the Roaring Twenties, but this steamboat party never ended... it just sank, dragging its crew into a looping reel of ink-drenched death. Captain Pete still stalks the sepia-soaked halls with a cartoon smile rotted into bone, while ghostly vaudeville dancers twitch to the scratchy beat of a record that hasn’t stopped spinning since 1927. The walls drip with old animation, the passengers don’t blink, and every step you take draws you deeper into a cursed cartoon that’s still rolling… long after everyone inside died.

You descend into a festering 1950s bunker melting under its own radiation, where rust drips like blood and the walls breathe heat. Born in fallout and fed on fear, the Hive spreads through meat and metal alike, mutating what it touches into screaming biomass. The deeper you go, the hotter it gets—your skin blisters, the lights pulse red, and something massive slithers behind the walls. This isn’t infection… it’s assimilation.