Your own rooms
Hallway, kitchen, room, bathroom, balcony, photographed as they look in the evening. Two are enough; a room you don't have is crossed out and its marks go next door. The photos never leave the phone.
Stillcraft / Apps / Lodger
You photograph your rooms with the phone's own camera. Every evening someone leaves a mark in them: dusty shoe prints across the hallway, breath writing on the glass, a handprint on the mirror, a dark shape by the sofa that is only in the picture. Notes arrive in the evening, words come through the static of an old radio, clues pin themselves to a cork board with red thread. After fourteen nights the story comes together, and there is one real thing to do so the lodger can finally go. Free, no ads, no account, no internet; the photos never leave the phone.
Android 9.0+ · Free · English & Русский
Hallway, kitchen, room, bathroom, balcony, photographed as they look in the evening. Two are enough; a room you don't have is crossed out and its marks go next door. The photos never leave the phone.
Shoe prints with a tread, wet steps, a cat's paw trail, frost in October, eyes under the sofa, a shadow standing where no one stands. Each is painted into the photo itself, on its darkest corner, its glass or its floor, and develops slowly when you open the room.
The lodger writes: grumpy, frightened, polite, seven years old. Notes arrive as an evening notification; one written at three in the morning still waits for the evening.
Turn the dial through live static. Near a voice the hiss thins and letters come through; hold there and the word is caught. Every couple of nights a new one, and together they make one sentence.
Photographs, letters, tickets, records and objects pin themselves to a cork board, tied with red thread. With every clue and every word, the story of who they were comes closer.
After fourteen nights there is a real task: play a nocturne at seven, post a handwritten letter, invite someone round, look at the sky for ten minutes, name a nameless cat. Do it, tap “Done”, and they go.
The flat stands empty for three nights, then someone else moves in. Ten lodgers, from a music teacher and a house spirit nobody invited along to the whisperer in the ventilation shaft and a cat who was never named.
Candle is quiet. Lantern brings the odd knock and photos that waver as if the lamp were failing. Full moon may show you, for a blink, whoever stands there. Whatever you pick, the phone is silent at night.








| Level | What happens | At night |
|---|---|---|
| Candle | Marks, notes and the radio, nothing more | Silence |
| Lantern | The odd knock; photos waver as if the lamp were failing | Silence |
| Full moon | For a blink, a photo may show whoever stands there | Silence |
Lodger is a quiet story, not a jump scare: nothing sounds at night, and Candle keeps it gentle. The marks are painted only into the copies of your photos inside the app.
JDK 17+ (Android Studio's bundled JBR works) and the Android SDK. Kotlin, Jetpack Compose, DataStore, WorkManager; the marks are painted in code and the static, knocks and creaks are synthesised.
git clone https://github.com/bigdevwhale/lodger.git cd lodger ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest assembleDebug ./gradlew assembleDebug -Pdemo # app.lodger.demo: the first lodger ten nights in, drawn rooms for photos ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest -Prender --tests '*RenderArt*' # screens and every mark to PNG
As much as you choose. Candle is a quiet mystery; Full moon can make you look twice at your own hallway. Either way the phone is silent at night, and a note written at three in the morning waits for the evening.
No. The app has no internet permission at all; the photos and the marks painted on them stay on the phone.
Cross the room out. Two rooms are enough, and the marks meant for a missing room turn up next door.
Their page goes into the house register. The flat stands empty for three nights, then the next of ten lodgers moves in.
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Photos and clips struck into pixel-art treasure in a dragon's cave.
A film camera for the family: shoot now, see the prints tomorrow.
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A merry app about death and growing old, in the spirit of the Day of the Dead.
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A museum for what you want to remember: dig it up, clean it, put it on show.
Race your own ghost at everyday tasks: splits, medals and the Games.
Intrusive thoughts as ships: the lighthouse beam, the evening watch, forecasts checked.
A magic lantern deals the glass; parent and child make up the bedtime tale.
A date night for two on a night train: a conductor's questions, the phone as the table between you.
The same questions to your child, yourself or a grandparent, year after year, laid as a mosaic.
Your mind is a kite on a string. A few soft tugs a day bring it back to here.
There is too much music. One album a week, a whole side at a time, on a turntable or a tape deck.
There's too much to watch. So nothing gets watched. Your watchlist as a nineties video rental store.
Every date is a quest. The two of you are a party of heroes, and the phone is your game master.
A cosy lucid-dreaming trainer. In a dream, the top never falls.
A cosy pixel-art meditation tracker. Sit still, and shy animals come out.
A valve radio for falling asleep: tune into made-up stations of rain, sea and night trains, and let it drift off the air.
Five pots for everything you've never tried: sow a seed from a catalogue of new things, water it each time you go back, and when it blooms it's yours.
A fridge door for two: the shopping list, whose turn, notes, worries face down and envelopes that open only together. The phones sync at home, with no server.
A pedometer where your steps carry the village post. You are the new postman of a small village by a river, and its letters, stories and seasons go on for years.
Befriend a real tree. Every meeting is a ring: the friendship grows only from visits to the tree itself, and over a year they build up into a sawn cross-section.
Let your wishes age before you buy them. Every urge to buy goes into a bottle on the rack; when it's ripe, you open it without guilt or pour it into the barrel of your real dream.
Every walk is an assignment from the district paper. The editor wires one ordinary thing to shoot, with a twist; you bring back a frame, it's printed as a halftone, and on Sunday the week comes out as an issue.
A diary, index cards, telegrams and letters typed on a typewriter. There's no backspace that erases: a mistake is struck out or painted over and stays on the sheet, so you write slower, and more honestly.
Every shopping trip is a run. You keep a courier office of one: the household orders on the waybill, each shop learns its own shelf order, and every delivered waybill pays in brass tokens for a sign, a bicycle, a van one day.
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A little movement all day long instead of an hour twice a week. Nine pixel-art tin toys on a shelf, each a family of movements; a minute or three of squats, balance or breathing winds one up for two hours and puts a pin in the day's music-box drum.
Make friends the way it actually works, and keep them for years. An old sea chart of your people: small sorties of courage to meet them, bridges that grow with every hour together, and fog that rolls in when you stop.
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Over a thousand evidence-graded protocols for a longer, calmer, happier life. Your body is a blueprint with eight systems; every protocol is a mod you try on yourself for 14 days, and the lab shows whether it moved anything before it enters your firmware.
A small present every day, from your past self. You can't surprise yourself unless you forget: fill a capsule machine with little presents for future days, let the words seal, and turn the crank for one a day.
A budget kept like a detective's case file. Spending is evidence, categories are suspects with police photos, and when the clues show a pattern, a case opens: you name the motive and hand down the verdict.
A pilgrim's pass: come to a place of power, a church, a mosque, a synagogue, a spring or an old tree, sit there ten minutes without the phone, and the book gets a stamp nobody else has.
A book of hours for your own practices: the day divided into hours by the sun, a bell for each, and whatever you put into them written into an illuminated manuscript.
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Enamel pin badges for the small deeds of a day, each with an order typed out, a rubber stamp and a fanfare. Nothing to plan and no streaks: in the evening the commission asks what happened.
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A pet that lives under your bed and eats fear. Horror films and books feed it, anxious news is fast food, and your own fears it guards at night.
A bookshop of books that don't exist. Every day a customer asks for one, and you find it on the shelf by writing its title, first line and blurb.
Tarot with no bad cards. The Auntie finds the good even in Death, gives you an omen for the day and asks in the evening whether it came true.
A pocket field guide to the spirits of your real houseplants. Catch them with the camera; they live by the real sun over your town, ask you to touch the soil, grow, hatch from cuttings and fight real pests.
A talk by the fire with the people close to you: hold your stones together, and sparks bring the questions.
A diary of the cafés you keep coming back to: each gets a page and a sugar packet, and every cup leaves a coffee stain on the page.
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