Quarantine any intake presenting vital signs. Do not open the bag. Do not speak to it.

You are the new night clerk at a municipal morgue in a city that produces more bodies than it can explain. A bell rings. Paperwork comes through the hatch. Behind the glass, a covered gurney rolls into the intake bay.

Your job is simple and it is written down: confirm that the paperwork and the body are the same thing.

PLEASE CONFIRM THE DECEASED is a gatekeeper horror game about procedure — about a form that is nearly right, a weight that is nearly correct, and a rulebook that keeps growing pages you would rather not have read.

The desk

• Read the file. Death certificate, transfer manifest, personal effects, a polaroid. Names, weights, causes, signatures — one of them may be lying.
  
• Examine the body. Scale. Measuring tape. Thermometer. UV lamp. And a stethoscope, for the nights when you need to be certain.
  
• Consult the rulebook. Three pages on your first night. More every shift. The newest page always overrules the older ones — which is how a rule you learned on Monday quietly becomes wrong on Thursday.
  
• Sign. ACCEPT and assign a drawer. QUARANTINE. REJECT. Or call your supervisor, if you still have a call left.

It remembers

A mistake does not end when the shift does. Accept something you should have turned away and the room notices — the lights, the drawer wall, the thing you were told not to speak to. And on a later night, the hatch opens, the file comes through, and the name on it is a name you have already processed.

Each intake is processed once. If you have seen the name before, you have not.

The wage

Correct signatures pay. Wrong ones cost. Between shifts you spend what you earned on the equipment the job does not provide: a UV lamp that reveals marks the eye cannot, a bolt for the door that holds exactly once, a spare fuse for when the lights die. You are always short of something, and the rulebook does not care.

What's inside

• Seven nights of intake — roughly two and a half to three and a half hours, written in advance and procedurally dealt so no two clerks work the same shift.
  
• A rulebook that grows — every night adds a page, and last page wins.
  
• Five instruments, each one a different way of finding out that the file is wrong.
  
• Anomalies that stage themselves in — the first night teaches you what normal looks like precisely so the second can take it away.
  
• Three to four endings on an axis of compliance, curiosity, and how much of your humanity you were willing to file.
  
• Endless Shift — unlocked when the campaign ends: the bell keeps ringing, the rulebook keeps growing, and the only thing that stops is the story.
  
• An adaptive score that escalates while you are still deciding whether anything is wrong.

No faces

This is horror made of objects and records: paper, stamps, fluorescent tubes, a covered shape behind observation glass, a reading you take twice because the first one cannot be right. Nothing is ever uncovered. The worst thing in this game is a number that does not match.

PLEASE CONFIRM THE DECEASED is written and designed under one author's direction: its narrative, rules and case files are human–AI co-written and human-edited, and the design is the author's. Its background plates and props are pre-generated with AI image tools under human art direction; every document, form, stamp and interface element is drawn in code. Music and sound are produced with AI assistance under the author's direction. Nothing is generated while you play.