Dial M for Mothman
At ten past nine every evening he sends you out into the darkening world.
He’s the presenter ofKrypta FM- pronounced with the chopped staccato of every good radio announcer as Kryp!
- and you are his eager listener and hopeful protege.
Sniff the evening air.
The small town world that lies sleeping all around you is just teeming with cryptids, surely.
Anyone seen a mothman lately?
Grab a camera and get out there - but be safe, okay?
Because of this, Krypta FM is several things at once.
It’s sinister and nostalgic.
It’s creepy and often oddly sweet.
So each in-game day, you get nudges towards what you should be investigating.
What’s been savaging cattle?
Who’s sending up smoke in the forest?
Someone on the Krypta FM forums is talking about Tarot cards.
Someone else wants you to get a picture of a statue in a graveyard… And these places provide the game with its most evocative moments.
A railway station that’s currently padlocked and out of reach.
There’s that graveyard out there somewhere, but where exactly?
You’ll explore all these places and get to know them well.
But you’ll linger in this haunting world far longer than it takes to just grab some photos.
It’s a hand-drawn affair that you gotta hold up in front of you and read by torch.
And as you work it out, you start to realise that this map is defined by its abstractions.
And it might be really, really dark.
Can you even find your way back from here?
the hovering intent of the game’s designers?
- was out there with me.
So rather than shocks, this is a game most commonly punctuated by moments of relief.
