The black waves lap quietly against the rain-slick sides of your vessel as your fingers work the line. Somewhere in the darkness below, an unseen battle plays out. The pole dips—a sudden, sharp tug—testing your gear, your patience, your nerve. You crank the reel, again and again, as if your life depends on it, stopping only when the line protests.
Then, it appears. Just beyond the glow of your lamps, something writhes in the dark. At first, it looks ordinary, a fish like any other. But then your vision adjusts. There are too many eyes. Dozens, maybe more, twitching and blinking across its slick body like so many barnacles. Watching you.
You drop the thing into the holding tank and slump back onto the bench, breath catching in your throat. What is this creature? How is this even possible?
Then, from the corner of your vision — a red light. A single lifeless eye, peering from the mist, vanishing the moment you try to focus on it.
You turn, heart pounding, eyes scanning the mist. But the sea offers no answers—only silence and the low groan of the hull beneath you. Whatever you saw is gone. Or was never there.
This is how Dredge gets under your skin. It begins with the simplicity of a fishing game: bright, charming visuals, the gentle rhythm of hauling in catches, upgrading your boat, charting new waters. You rise with the sun and work until dusk, your hands busy and your mind calm. But it doesn’t take long before cracks appear in the surface, and something ancient begins to seep through.
The horror in Dredge is not loud. There are no screams, no frantic escapes, no bloody messes. Instead, it is quiet. Patient. It settles into the marrow of the world—whispers in the fog, the wrong glint in a fish’s eye, the steady dread of the sun dipping below the horizon. And it asks you to keep going. To ignore the unease. After all, there are still upgrades to earn. Debts to repay. An encyclopedia of horrors to write.
In this way, Dredge becomes a game about compulsion. About the things we continue to do long after we’ve stopped asking why. You fish because it’s what you have always done. Because the townspeople need their deliveries. Because the lighthouse keeps spinning and the ocean doesn’t sleep. You tell yourself you’re just collecting resources, expanding your capabilities. But deep down, you feel it: something isn’t right.
The fish are watching. And something far below is waiting.