I'm too scared to play it, so I read a reviewl
Have the fright of your life at Hotel 626
By Jed-Angelo Q. Segovia
Philippine Daily Inquirer
Last updated 22:36:00 04/24/2009
MANILA, Philippines – Hotel 626 is an interactive website where you play the occupant in a desperate race to escape dark forces haunting the hotel. Shot with disturbingly smart cinematography and nerve-wracking sound, it’s one of the best immersions of horror in any format. A friend claims to have had three sleepless nights after entering Hotel 626.
The game lands you in the center of a supernatural maelstrom that puts the fate of your avatar in your hands. To escape the hotel, one must progress through increasingly terrifying scenarios.
Accomplish a scenario, and you land in the next, until you escape the hotel. Fail, and you get the scare of your life. Then you have to do it again.
Stunningly, it turns out to be a marketing site for Doritos. To celebrate returning two flavors “from the dead,” Doritos marketed it with a freakishly scary game.
Yes, a famous junk food is selling itself by making people soil their pants.
If I would do this right, I would have to go the whole nine yards. I’d watch it alone, in my room, with the lights out, the door closed, and the volume at full blast—at 3 am.
My only tools for survival—a mic, earphones and a laptop. The first two are recommended to enhance the site’s experience. But for full immersive terror, I needed a webcam, which I didn’t have. The cam’s optional, but what followed next was still beyond previous levels of terror I’ve ever experienced.
First night
I turn off the lights. I set my laptop on my mat, headphones on. I gaze at the site, mocking me to come in. No turning back. I glance at the clock and await the witching hour.
2:40 a.m. The hair on my neck stands as a demonic face emerges and growls from the hotel wallpaper. I sign the registration for my soul—er, name and e-mail address—on the form for Hotel 626.
2:47 a.m. I take down the statuette of Mother Mary and the wooden bust of Jesus from my bookcase and place them next to my laptop.
3 a.m. The screen is engulfed by darkness, a heart-catching beat comes on, and a disturbing message surfaces. “You’ll need all the help you can get.”
3:01 a.m. I wake up in a room, delirious and hyperventilating. Somewhere, a woman screams. I have to get out. I step out in a corridor, my footsteps muffled on the carpet. I stop in the corridor, staring at a living darkness at the very end, baffled. Then it swallows me whole. Death count: 1.
3:04 a.m. I am smart enough to make it to the safety of a bathroom. I hear the dripping of leaky plumbing, rusty from disuse. I see a vague shape in the claustrophobic dark. For some reason I have a digital camera. Oh well, might as well take some souvenir shots. Click—OH S*** WHAT WAS THAT?!
I am not alone in this bathroom. Whatever it is, I am forced to take a photo of it to move on. Hesitantly, I snap—and jump as a streak of blonde races by. With each frantic snapshot it eludes me, stumbling against the wall, toilet and bathtub, shrieking in protest. I finally capture the fleeting shadow’s face—and what I see in the light makes my inner child pee in its pants.
3:06 a.m. I make it out. I race down a dark stairwell. Oh crap, there’s darkness waiting at the end. I step into the nearest door. Safe. Wait, I’m in a room. And I have to sing into my mic to a restless—oh God, is that a baby? I sing “Rock-a-bye-baby,” as softly as I can. The child-thing stirs with each loud note. In my delirium, I sing as loud as I can to agitate it. “Rock-a-bye ba—AAAAAAGH!!!!” Death count: 2.
3:09 a.m. I sing softly enough to placate the “child” in the crib. Now to get out. I take care, each step of my bare feet on the creaking floor, not to make any noise. The wood creaks, excruciatingly loud. I whip around to check the child. Asleep. I return my gaze to the floor.
It creaks! Too loud! The floor is red with blood! The child—OH S*** Death Count: 3.
3:10 a.m. I am dragged down a corridor. There are shadows in the doorways. Help me, please, someone help! Then my browser crashes.
3:12 a.m. Suffering a heart attack from sheer terror, the laptop hangs and grinds to a spastic halt. I cry out in anguish. I am forced to do everything up to this point over again. Then the laptop logs off. Oh, no.
3:39 a.m. After restarting the laptop, and entering all over again, it still gags up. This site is so intense it has made my laptop crash.
3:40 a.m. Twice.
After rushing through the previous terrifying scenarios, I’m back in the baby room. My skin is all goosebumps. But all sorts of stuff happen to the laptop. Even the sound disappears for no reason. I almost consider that the supernatural entities of Hotel 626 have gone to haunt the laptop. Either that, or it refuses to play the rest in mortal fear.
4 a.m. Frustrated by a second crash, I retire for the night—only to return the next day to finish my deranged stay.
Second night
1:54 a.m. Death count: 12. An ambitious coup to start again at 3 a. m. peters to a 1 a.m. restart. By now, after being dragged through the corridor, I find myself locked in a room with a sinister strait-jacketed madman chanting, “Spider, Tree, Hands.”
There is a keypad. I need to listen to the madman to figure out the code to get out. He is eyeing me grimly.
1:57 a.m. I enter the wrong code three times. I whirl around to the madman. He is—out of his straitjacket. Oh s***—Death count: 13.
2 a.m. Out of room. Must get out. Must get out. Must get out of Hotel 626.
2:07 a.m. Listen to the voice. No, it’s lying. No, it isn’t. Listen. Listen. Run. Run. RUN!
2:10 a. m. I run towards the light! I make it to a stairwell! I open the door! I see a driveway! It’s my car! I’ve escaped! It’s over!! Or... is it?
3 a.m. I am still awake. I hate you, Hotel 626.
Avoid www.hotel626.com at all costs. Never go there. Ever.
Philippine Daily Inquirer
Last updated 22:36:00 04/24/2009
MANILA, Philippines – Hotel 626 is an interactive website where you play the occupant in a desperate race to escape dark forces haunting the hotel. Shot with disturbingly smart cinematography and nerve-wracking sound, it’s one of the best immersions of horror in any format. A friend claims to have had three sleepless nights after entering Hotel 626.
The game lands you in the center of a supernatural maelstrom that puts the fate of your avatar in your hands. To escape the hotel, one must progress through increasingly terrifying scenarios.
Accomplish a scenario, and you land in the next, until you escape the hotel. Fail, and you get the scare of your life. Then you have to do it again.
Stunningly, it turns out to be a marketing site for Doritos. To celebrate returning two flavors “from the dead,” Doritos marketed it with a freakishly scary game.
Yes, a famous junk food is selling itself by making people soil their pants.
If I would do this right, I would have to go the whole nine yards. I’d watch it alone, in my room, with the lights out, the door closed, and the volume at full blast—at 3 am.
My only tools for survival—a mic, earphones and a laptop. The first two are recommended to enhance the site’s experience. But for full immersive terror, I needed a webcam, which I didn’t have. The cam’s optional, but what followed next was still beyond previous levels of terror I’ve ever experienced.
First night
I turn off the lights. I set my laptop on my mat, headphones on. I gaze at the site, mocking me to come in. No turning back. I glance at the clock and await the witching hour.
2:40 a.m. The hair on my neck stands as a demonic face emerges and growls from the hotel wallpaper. I sign the registration for my soul—er, name and e-mail address—on the form for Hotel 626.
2:47 a.m. I take down the statuette of Mother Mary and the wooden bust of Jesus from my bookcase and place them next to my laptop.
3 a.m. The screen is engulfed by darkness, a heart-catching beat comes on, and a disturbing message surfaces. “You’ll need all the help you can get.”
3:01 a.m. I wake up in a room, delirious and hyperventilating. Somewhere, a woman screams. I have to get out. I step out in a corridor, my footsteps muffled on the carpet. I stop in the corridor, staring at a living darkness at the very end, baffled. Then it swallows me whole. Death count: 1.
3:04 a.m. I am smart enough to make it to the safety of a bathroom. I hear the dripping of leaky plumbing, rusty from disuse. I see a vague shape in the claustrophobic dark. For some reason I have a digital camera. Oh well, might as well take some souvenir shots. Click—OH S*** WHAT WAS THAT?!
I am not alone in this bathroom. Whatever it is, I am forced to take a photo of it to move on. Hesitantly, I snap—and jump as a streak of blonde races by. With each frantic snapshot it eludes me, stumbling against the wall, toilet and bathtub, shrieking in protest. I finally capture the fleeting shadow’s face—and what I see in the light makes my inner child pee in its pants.
3:06 a.m. I make it out. I race down a dark stairwell. Oh crap, there’s darkness waiting at the end. I step into the nearest door. Safe. Wait, I’m in a room. And I have to sing into my mic to a restless—oh God, is that a baby? I sing “Rock-a-bye-baby,” as softly as I can. The child-thing stirs with each loud note. In my delirium, I sing as loud as I can to agitate it. “Rock-a-bye ba—AAAAAAGH!!!!” Death count: 2.
3:09 a.m. I sing softly enough to placate the “child” in the crib. Now to get out. I take care, each step of my bare feet on the creaking floor, not to make any noise. The wood creaks, excruciatingly loud. I whip around to check the child. Asleep. I return my gaze to the floor.
It creaks! Too loud! The floor is red with blood! The child—OH S*** Death Count: 3.
3:10 a.m. I am dragged down a corridor. There are shadows in the doorways. Help me, please, someone help! Then my browser crashes.
3:12 a.m. Suffering a heart attack from sheer terror, the laptop hangs and grinds to a spastic halt. I cry out in anguish. I am forced to do everything up to this point over again. Then the laptop logs off. Oh, no.
3:39 a.m. After restarting the laptop, and entering all over again, it still gags up. This site is so intense it has made my laptop crash.
3:40 a.m. Twice.
After rushing through the previous terrifying scenarios, I’m back in the baby room. My skin is all goosebumps. But all sorts of stuff happen to the laptop. Even the sound disappears for no reason. I almost consider that the supernatural entities of Hotel 626 have gone to haunt the laptop. Either that, or it refuses to play the rest in mortal fear.
4 a.m. Frustrated by a second crash, I retire for the night—only to return the next day to finish my deranged stay.
Second night
1:54 a.m. Death count: 12. An ambitious coup to start again at 3 a. m. peters to a 1 a.m. restart. By now, after being dragged through the corridor, I find myself locked in a room with a sinister strait-jacketed madman chanting, “Spider, Tree, Hands.”
There is a keypad. I need to listen to the madman to figure out the code to get out. He is eyeing me grimly.
1:57 a.m. I enter the wrong code three times. I whirl around to the madman. He is—out of his straitjacket. Oh s***—Death count: 13.
2 a.m. Out of room. Must get out. Must get out. Must get out of Hotel 626.
2:07 a.m. Listen to the voice. No, it’s lying. No, it isn’t. Listen. Listen. Run. Run. RUN!
2:10 a. m. I run towards the light! I make it to a stairwell! I open the door! I see a driveway! It’s my car! I’ve escaped! It’s over!! Or... is it?
3 a.m. I am still awake. I hate you, Hotel 626.
Avoid www.hotel626.com at all costs. Never go there. Ever.
... time to break out Caramell Dansen.
