Nothing quite compares to the dread of sleep paralysis, and it's something that never seems to get better.
I can't make my body budge; my voice is stuck, and there's always that creeping sensation that something is in the room with me, just out of sight. It's the sort of fear that makes me second-guess whether what I saw was real or just my mind playing tricks on me.
When I came across Silent Still, a horror game by Solitary Studios claiming to recreate the experience, I knew I had to give it a try. The unsettling thoughts it might bring weren't enough to stop me, though I figured I'd hold off until daylight to dive in.
Before diving into the game, it's worth understanding what sleep paralysis actually is. This happens in the in-between state of sleep and wakefulness, where the brain is conscious, but the body remains temporarily still. During REM sleep, our muscles go into a state of atonia to keep us from physically acting out our dreams.
In most cases, our brain "releases" our body from this state before we wake up. However, with sleep paralysis, the release is delayed, so we remain fully conscious but stuck in place.
Hallucinations are another terrifying part of the experience. Studies suggest that sleep paralysis-related hallucinations fall into three categories: intruder hallucinations (seeing figures in the room), incubus hallucinations (feeling pressure on the chest or body), and vestibular-motor hallucinations (out-of-body experiences). For me, it has always been the first two: dark silhouettes in the doorway and the feeling of something pinning me down.
The game starts off simple. I come home after a long day, go through my usual nighttime routine, and eventually settle in for some much-needed sleep. Everything seems harmless for now. As soon as the screen goes dark, that's when the real terror starts. Suddenly, I'm awake, but not really. I can't move. I can't speak. And that uneasy feeling of being watched starts creeping in.
What this game gets right is the buildup. At first, there's nothing explicitly terrifying. Just the ambient noise of a quiet house, the flicker of a hallway light, the unsettling realization that my body refuses to respond. It's that slow descent into fear that makes it effective. If you've gone through sleep paralysis, you'll instantly feel that same helplessness.
In my sleep paralysis episodes, I hallucinate. I catch glimpses of shadows in the doorway, hear hushed voices, and an unsettling dread washes over me. The game makes everything feel even more intense. One moment, the room looks empty, and then (just barely) I see movement in the corner of my eye: a figure, not quite human, just standing there, watching. Then the lights flicker.
The sound design really does the work here—creaks, distant breathing, and a low hum that gets closer. It taps into that primal fear that sleep paralysis creates: knowing something is wrong but being completely powerless to stop it.
What makes it worse is the unpredictability. In my experience, I never know what my mind is going to conjure up. The game mimics that by keeping me on edge. One night, my tormentor might appear at the foot of my bed. Another night, they're right next to my face the moment I blink. The real panic in sleep paralysis comes from my desperate attempt to move. My brain is awake, but my body won't cooperate. I try to wiggle my fingers or toes as a way to snap myself out of it.
The game implements this by giving me limited control. I start by rapidly clicking buttons, trying to break free. But the game doesn't make it easy. It simulates that frustrating disconnect, where I think I'm moving, but nothing is actually happening. This is where the game earns its horror stripes. Just when I think I'm about to wake up, something lunges at me. The screen distorts. I gasp for air. And then—just like real sleep paralysis—I snap out of it, drenched in sweat, heart racing.
Sometimes, my sleep paralysis episodes lead to out-of-body experiences, where I feel as though I'm floating above my own body. The game explores this in a way that is both fascinating and terrifying. At one point, I leave my body entirely, drifting through my apartment as an unseen observer. But I'm not alone. Something else is there, watching me watch myself. This was one of the most unsettling moments in the game because it played on that fear of losing control entirely.
In reality, my out-of-body experiences feel surreal but not necessarily that scary. Here, however, the game twists it into something nightmarish. My floating form sees things my physical body didn't. Shadows in the kitchen. Figures crawling up the walls. And when I finally wake up, I'm left wondering—was any of it real?
The most horrifying part of my experience, though, comes near the end. After multiple nights of torment, I try to take a relaxing bath to ease the stress. But exhaustion wins. I drift off. And just like before, I wake up unable to move. Except this time, I'm submerged in water. It's a horrifying scenario: struggling to move, struggling to breathe, but unable to do anything as the water slowly rises. It brings to life that terrifying sensation where I can fully comprehend the danger, but my body stays motionless. It's no longer just about fearing the supernatural. It's about the dread of sinking into my own reality.
So, does Silent Still really capture sleep paralysis? Yes and no.
It gets a lot of things right: the sensation of being trapped, the terrifying hallucinations, and the desperate struggle to wake up. The slow-building dread, the flickering lights, and the unsettling presence in the room all felt eerily familiar.
But at the end of the day, it's still a game. Real sleep paralysis is far less cinematic and doesn't always come with a monstrous entity waiting to jump-scare me. Sometimes, it's just the weight of dread pressing down on my chest, the feeling of a presence I can't see, or the frustration of being unable to move no matter how hard I try.
Another thing to note is the lack of control. The game lets me eventually break free when I choose to, while real sleep paralysis traps me until my body finally lets go. It's not a flawless reflection of my time, but it's close enough to make me never want to relive it.
Would I play it again? Maybe. Would I want to experience the real thing again? Absolutely not.