LIFE BEYOND THE UGLINESS
If depression is colorless, listless, and ugly, few games capture it as precisely as The Cat Lady. This cult classic from Harvester Games is an unusually dark and macabre adventure. Its crude visuals embody the game’s central despair: losing oneself in the ugliness of the world, to the point where life itself becomes a burden.
The story begins at rock bottom. You play as Susan Ashworth, a woman consumed by depression. In the opening moments, she swallows a handful of sleeping pills in her bedroom. She awakens in a barley field beneath a beautiful sunset.
Susan has entered the land between life and death, ruled by an old lady called the Queen of Maggots. Yet Susan is denied passage. Instead, she is sent back to the living world and tasked with confronting five “parasites”—people who, quite simply, deserve to die—in exchange for permission to finally leave life behind. The Queen grants her immortality, ensuring the task will be completed.
The setup recalls DreamWeb, another old cult-classic adventure where murder is carried out on divine command. The Cat Lady, however, is far more mature and reflective. It offers modest puzzles, extensive dialogue, and a strong narrative focus. It nevers linger gameplay complexity—instead it offers deep, compelling characterization. I found myself caring for Susan, doing my utmost to instil some happiness.
She is controlled exclusively via the keyboard, a sluggish scheme I initially resisted, before realizing how aptly it mirrors her emotional paralysis. You control movement directly, toggling between a list of command options—talk, pick up, open, etc.—whenever close to a point of interest.
The narrative is driven by quiet surprises, constantly pulling the player forward through cliffhangers and slow burn. Susan befriends Mitzi, the woman who found her unconscious after her suicide attempt and called for help. Their relationship anchors the game’s most effective scenes. Together, they hunt down the five parasites—murderous figures with no claim to sympathy.
The game is brutally violent and deeply unsettling. This is not the title you demonstrate when a curious grandparent asks about your gaming hobby. Any symbolic reading—where murder represents liberation from a death drive—would be lost on them, and perhaps rightly so.
The puzzles are logical and rarely obscure, but the clumsy controls can frustrate, especially when a misstep triggers lengthy internal monologues from Susan. It remains surprising that the game never received a console release; the interface feels naturally suited to a controller.
The script is generally strong, though uneven. If dialogue bores you, this game is not for you. Conversations often linger longer than necessary, reiterating its themes before allowing scenes to end. Still, many exchanges are genuinely affecting, despite inconsistent voice acting and uneven audio quality. The writing is at its best when used interactively: Susan’s past is shaped through dialogue choices in therapy sessions, and one scene involves discouraging a suicidal person.
Visually, the game is blunt and uncompromising. Its raw, deliberately unattractive aesthetic evokes an almost psychotic atmosphere. Characters and environments resemble crude paper cutouts, animated with minimal effort. The settings are defined by decay—peeling walls, rusted pipes, scattered debris—mirroring Susan’s mental state. At times, the imagery slips into the psychedelic: staring eyes, internal organs and distorted silhouettes.
It is revolting by design. It is also original, steeped in symbolism tied closely to Susan’s backstory. How this unfolds is best left unspoiled. The music—sparse piano notes suspended in silence—conveys grief and longing, occasionally giving way to harsh industrial noise when the game chooses to shock. Several jump scares caught me entirely off guard.
The palette is often entirely black and white. When color appears, it signals danger. Blood-red punctuates moments of violence, while scenes of natural beauty feel no less ominous—death, in Susan’s dreams, is always portrayed as alluring. Color becomes a warning.
Death is omnipresent. From the opening suicide attempt, through Susan’s killing spree, to her friend Mitzi's fragile condition—she suffers from terminal cancer. The game revolves around a single existential paradox: killing in order to save lives—so that one may ultimately be allowed to die.
At first glance, The Cat Lady appears amateurish, an impression reinforced by its rough audio. Give it time, however, and this roughness becomes a strength. The game possesses a distinct voice, a singular style, and something meaningful to say about mental illness. It's a unique, unforgettable experience. It simply demands that you confront its ugliness head-on—and search for the light beyond it.
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