You're sitting at a table. There’s a bowl of soup. That’s it. Or, well, that's what developer Silly_Silly wants you to think when you first boot up the indie horror title There Is a Secret in My Soup. It’s a game that thrives on the mundane. It’s weird. It’s short. Honestly, it’s one of the most effective examples of "micro-horror" currently floating around the itch.io and indie scene.
Most people find it because of the title. It sounds like a joke, right? Like something out of a children's book or a bad sitcom. But once you start clicking, that humor curdles into something genuinely upsetting. There is a secret in my soup, and by the time you figure out what it is, you’ll probably wish you’d just ordered a salad.
The game belongs to a specific subgenre of lo-fi, PS1-style horror that uses limited visuals to force your imagination to do the heavy lifting. You aren't running from a chainsaw-wielding maniac in a 4K forest. You're just staring at liquid.
The Mechanics of Discomfort
What makes this game work isn't a complex physics engine. It’s the pacing. You have a few basic interactions—mostly involving eating or investigating the contents of the bowl. Every spoonful feels heavy. The sound design is intentionally wet and unsettling. It’s gross.
Games like Cooking Companions or Iron Lung have already proven that claustrophobia and domesticity are goldmines for scares. There Is a Secret in My Soup takes that a step further by focusing on the most intimate act possible: consumption. You are putting something unknown into your body.
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There’s a psychological concept called "the uncanny" that really applies here. It’s the idea that something familiar—like a home-cooked meal—becomes terrifying when just one small thing is "off." In this case, the "off" thing is hidden beneath the surface of the broth.
Why the "Secret" Actually Works
Early on, you might think the secret is just a bug. Or maybe a finger. Classic horror tropes. But the game plays with your expectations. It uses a branching narrative structure where your choices—how much you eat, how you react to the "surprises"—dictate which ending you get.
- The Psychological Layer: The game isn't just about the soup. It's about the narrator's state of mind. Are you actually eating something horrific, or is this a manifestation of guilt?
- The Visual Style: The grainy, dithered textures hide details. Your brain fills in the gaps. This is a technique used by masters of the genre like Puppet Combo, though this game is much more stationary.
- The Subversion: Just when you think you’ve reached a jump scare, the game pulls back. It lets the silence sit.
Decoding the Ending Variations
If you’ve played through it once, you haven't seen the whole picture. There are multiple ways this "meal" can end. Most players hit the "standard" ending first, which leaves a lot of questions.
One ending focuses on the idea of cycle. You finish the soup, only to find yourself back at the start, or perhaps in a position where you are now the one providing the "secret" for the next bowl. It’s a bit of a "Sweeney Todd" vibe but stripped of the musical numbers and replaced with existential dread.
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Another path involves total refusal. What happens if you don't eat? The game doesn't just stop. The environment begins to react to your stubbornness. The walls might seem tighter. The lighting shifts from a warm, domestic glow to a sickly, institutional green.
It’s important to remember that indie horror often uses these tiny environments as metaphors for mental health or trauma. While the developer hasn't explicitly stated that There Is a Secret in My Soup is a metaphor for a specific condition, the community has pointed out the similarities to disordered eating or the feeling of being "fed" lies by society. It’s deep stuff for a game about broth.
The Rise of "Small Room" Horror
We are seeing a massive surge in games that take place in a single room. 60 Seconds!, Please, Don’t Touch Anything, and now There Is a Secret in My Soup. Why?
It’s partly because of development constraints. One room is easier to code than an open world. But it’s also because it mirrors our modern lives. We spend so much time staring at small screens in small rooms. Having a game take place entirely at a dinner table feels uncomfortably relatable.
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The "secret" in the soup represents the things we ignore in our daily lives. The mold in the corner of the room. The weird sound the car is making. The unsettling feeling that your dinner isn't quite right.
How to Find Every Secret
If you're trying to 100% this thing, you have to be meticulous. Don't just click through the dialogue.
- Watch the Steam: Sometimes the patterns in the steam rising from the bowl change based on your previous choices.
- Listen to the Background: There are faint whispers or domestic sounds—clinking silverware, distant sirens—that trigger at specific intervals.
- Vary Your Pace: Eating too fast triggers a different set of internal monologues than eating slowly.
The game is currently available on platforms like itch.io, often for "pay what you want." It’s a low barrier to entry for a high-impact experience.
Actionable Steps for Horror Fans
If you’ve finished the game and you’re looking for more, or if you’re just getting started, here’s how to get the most out of this specific niche of gaming:
- Play with Headphones: This is non-negotiable. The directional audio and the "wet" Foley work are half the experience. Without them, it’s just a grainy slideshow.
- Look Into the "PS1 Aesthetic" Movement: If you liked the look of this, check out the Haunted PS1 Demo Discs. They are curated collections of games that share this visual DNA.
- Document Your Findings: The game is short enough that you can replay it three times in an hour. Take notes on what changes. The community is still piecing together some of the more obscure lore triggers.
- Support the Devs: Indie creators like Silly_Silly rely on word of mouth. If the "secret" got under your skin, leave a review or share a clip.
Ultimately, There Is a Secret in My Soup succeeds because it takes a universal experience—sitting down to eat—and violates the safety of that moment. It reminds us that horror doesn't need a massive budget; it just needs a good hook and a very, very dirty bowl. Check the corners of your screen and don't ignore the flavor text. You might find something you didn't expect.