(If you haven't played Anatomy, don't read yet!)

Surprises me how nobody mentions that this game works perfectly as a representation of trauma, which I think was Kitty's intention. And considering it does so using a house as an analog, it's done really well.

The House lashes out violently at you, its "Intruder", in a fit of rage so strong that the House's own reality begins to distort. We never know if the part you play is one of malicious intent, but the House thinks so, and so it hurts you. I think the reason it does is revealed in the epilogue, where it mentions the House being abandoned by its builders once it was no longer of use. In its lonesome, ever-wondering why that was and if it was its fault or theirs, the House builds a toxic mental place by building "shadow puppets" molded by its experiences, reliving the past and hurting itself over its own memories. I think the man that's "breaking and upsetting things", that the House leaves down in the basement (never to be dealt with) is one of those puppets. Feeling wrong, and wronged at the same time, makes it grow bitter and violent, and so it lashes out at subsequent occupants, the people that try to get close to it ("if my own builders were capable of hurt, then what it awaits me?"), creating a cycle of self-harm and self-hatred that in its mind validates the decision of the builders of hurting it because it's evil. Succumbing the House into its dark thoughts, and corrupting it more and more.

Admittedly, I wasn't expecting much from this game, mostly because of watching a few playthroughs of Kitty's works and them not impressing me, but this was incredible both as an artistic experience and as a horror game. Amazing.

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I'll leave the epilogue here if you want to read it again:

"What happens to a house when it is left alone? It becomes worn and aged. And its paint peels and its foundations begin to sink. It goes for too long unlived in. What does it think of? What does it dream? How does it regard those creatures who built it? Who brought it into existence only to abandon it when its usefulness no longer satisfies them. It may grow lonesome. It may stare for long hours into the darkness of its empty halls and see shadows. Its heart may jump as it thinks, "here, here is someone again, I am not alone." Each time it is wrong. And the hurt starts over. It may haunt itself, inventing ghosts to walk its floors, making friends with its shadow puppets, laughing and whispering to itself at the end of some quiet cul-de-sac. It may grow angry. Its basement may fill with churning acid like an empty stomach. And its gorge may rise as it asks itself, through clenched teeth, "what did I do wrong?" It may grow bitter. It may grow hungry. So hungry and so bitter that its scruples dissolve, and its doors unlock themselves. While a house may hunger, it cannot starve. And so in fever and anger and loneliness, it may simply lie in wait. Doors open. Shades drawn. Hallways empty. Hungry."