Escape Room Murder Mystery
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The first time I heard a story about the Escape Rooms Murder Mystery, it was just a few days after they opened in December 2014. It happened while we were all on an overnight field trip to Atlanta and our coach stopped at a gas station outside of town where two teenagers ran across one another in the parking lot as if they knew each other.
One of them told me about the Escape Room Murder Mystery game she’d played in Atlanta with her dad that Christmas day, which is how I learned about this new kind of immersive theater game where you can solve a murder during your escape room adventure.
They didn’t know anyone else would be interested enough to come to play their games in Greenville or Spartanburg when they started out, so they had no idea what they should charge people for playing a mystery game.
They ended up going with $25 per person because they figured everyone could afford it – including families who wanted to enjoy some quality bonding time together without spending too much money.
That’s why he said he thought they needed a bigger space for the second room they built because his plan was for kids and adults alike to have fun learning more about their local community as well as solving a murder mystery. He didn’t know exactly how long that would take them though; only that it would happen sooner rather than later.
And now here we all are, inside his second escape room, searching for clues that will help us figure out who murdered Dr. Henry Wetherington III. Or is it Mrs. Ethel Wetherington? Either way, it’s been two hours since we got locked into the room with the doctor and a dead woman in it.
And I’ve seen enough of these games to know that it’s only a matter of minutes before one of us finds the clue leading to the murderer. So far, we haven’t found anything but junk like old newspapers, receipts, and books stacked against the wall near the exit sign. We’re not even sure the exit exists yet, except to look down from the ceiling above.
“You think he went down the hall?” Benji says.
I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I agree with Benji. It seems to make sense considering what happened earlier today between Doc Henry and Mr. Wetherington. When I say “yes,” one of the guys sitting behind Benji says, “Then we should split up.”
“Yeah, I’m good either way. You know me, I always end up in trouble wherever I go,” Benji replies. “So let’s stick together, shall we? There’s nothing wrong with getting help from friends when we need it.”
“But there is a murder in front of us,” I argue. “And you don’t even know who did it. We might be walking right past him if we split up.”
Benji looks at me and smiles. The sun shines through the skylight overhead and bounces off his teeth. “You know that guy with the beard who works at the bookstore downtown? Maybe we’d better keep an eye on him.”
One of the guys sitting around the table with us snickers and raises his eyebrows. But Benji shakes his head. “I meant someone else altogether.” Then he turns to another kid standing in the corner next to a shelf full of books: “Have you been in the bookroom yet?”
“No,” the boy answers.
“That’s fine,” Benji tells him, “because it’s empty, except for those books.”
It makes sense. Why else would a murder happen somewhere that doesn’t have anything valuable? If the killer has any chance of getting away without being noticed, he probably wouldn’t want to risk leaving a trail for the police to find.
So instead, he’s chosen to hide the body here where we can’t see it unless we walk through the entire house – and maybe even then, depending on what floor we find ourselves on.
“This place is a maze,” Benji says with a grin. He walks back toward the desk at the center of the room, picks up a stack of papers, and sits down at the chair in front of it. “Let’s split up.”
“Split up,” another kid repeats, looking incredulously around at everyone in the room.
The guy with the beard nods. “There are three doors leading out of here, and we don’t know which leads where. Let’s each choose a door and go our separate ways.”
“We don’t even know which way to go yet,” the kid with the glasses says.
He looks at me, asking me for confirmation.
As if to answer his question, Benji reaches into one of the drawers on the desktop and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. With the key to the first set dangling from his belt loop, he places both pairs on the table in front of him and asks, “What if we use these as a way to communicate?”
A couple of the kids nod while I shake my head and stare at the handcuffs. This is just like one of those games, isn’t it? The one where they put you in jail and lock you in with no idea how to get yourself out or how to ask for help. Only this time, I feel trapped. Trapped and scared to death. My heart pounds harder and harder.
“How do you mean?” I finally manage to say.
“You wear a pair of cuffs while your friend wears the other pair,” Benji explains. “If anyone tries to mess with us or tries to stop us, we’ll know right away. And when we’re free again, we can switch the handcuffs and tell each other.”
Someone laughs. I don’t know which person it is, so I look around. A girl stands on the far side of the room; she’s pretty cute. Not as cute as Benji of course, but still very nice-looking. I wonder how old she is.
Twenty? Eighteen? Seventeen? She seems older than most of the people here – more like Benji’s age. I remember thinking that Benji seemed young too. How much younger than me does he really appear?
“Are you serious?” I finally ask.
Benji smiles. “Absolutely.”
***
When Benji takes the last handcuff from its ring, he holds the keys up to me as if making sure I see them. He gives me a wink, and then he walks across the room to the wall next to the door that leads outside.
I watch him leave, and then I follow him. He stops by the doorway on the left side of the room that leads to a large hallway on the second floor. Then he opens another door on the right side and steps into the dark room beyond, closing the door behind him.
The room is empty and quiet.
He puts down the keyring and the handcuffs on a desk near the door picks up a flashlight on top of a bookshelf near it, and turns it on. When he returns to the open doorway, I stand beside him and try to figure out why there are no lights coming from anywhere around us. We’re on a single floor of an enormous building and have somehow ended up in complete darkness. It’s weird.
“Is someone going to come and show us which way to go?” one of the girls asks.
Benji nods. “Sure, soon enough.”
But I’m not sure about Benji’s claim. I thought all the rooms on this floor had been cleared out and made ready for our use; that we were supposed to be using them as a part of our scavenger hunt. But there doesn’t seem to be anyone around – no teachers, no students.
The only sounds I hear are the ones that come from Benji’s flashlight beam shining into the corners and onto the shelves lining the walls on either side of us.
“So let’s take a vote,” the bearded man says from behind his desk. His voice echoes through the room.
“Okay,” Benji replies.
The bearded guy picks up his phone and calls over the loudspeaker system. “This is Mr. Givens, calling as headmaster at St. Andrews School. As requested, the students of class seven-one-five have gathered in Room Seven to participate in a special activity for their history project. All students please proceed to Room Seven. Thank you.”
After hanging up, Mr. Givens says to Benji, “I’ve arranged for the rest of the students to meet at the end of the hallway, but if you’d like to wait until they arrive, that would be fine.”
Benji shakes his head no. “Let’s make this quick, shall we?”
Mr. Givens nods, and Benji heads back into the empty room and shuts the door. Once the click of the deadbolt is heard, everyone turns toward it, waiting to find out what’s going to happen. The kids stare at me, but it’s hard for me to focus on any one group in particular.
They all seem too young and too eager to give away my secrets. Some even smile – including that cute girl standing alone at the front of the room.
I look up at her again, hoping she might help me out here. That maybe some good luck will turn up and bring the kids together instead of tearing them apart. Maybe she can tell me something that will get them talking to each other rather than focusing on me, but all she does is shrug and point at me and then at the doorway leading to Room Seven.
After a moment, she points to Benji too. Then she looks to the right, then to the left, and finally straight ahead. When she makes no effort to explain anything else, I shake my head, turn back to Benji, and head back into Room Seven.
“Okay,” I say once the three of us are inside. “Why don’t we all sit down on these two couches against the wall?”
I walk to where the couch is closest to me and stop. Then I turn to Benji and say, “You take the couch over there, I’ll take this one, and then the rest of you kids can sit wherever.” I think for a moment about asking whether there are enough seats in Room Seven and whether the rest of them should just move down to that room or maybe even go home.
But I decide not to bother asking because it doesn’t matter. None of this is happening, so why waste time explaining anything when it won’t change things?
Instead, I reach into my pocket and pull out the cell phone, but before I can hand it to Benji, he snatches it out of my hands.
“What’s this?” he says, holding the phone up.
“My phone.”
“How did you get it?”
“I stole it from Mr. Givens’ office.”
Benji takes off his leather jacket, tosses it to the side, and throws himself down on the couch. He puts his arm behind his head and stares up at the ceiling. He seems completely unfazed by all this.
As he lies down, I notice another small black backpack sitting next to him on the floor. It contains some notebooks, a pair of sunglasses, a couple pens, and a few more items that aren’t much bigger than a cell phone.
One of the other boys walks over to it and pulls out the black backpack. “Hey, who’s this belong to?”
Everyone starts shouting for a while, but then they settle down after Mr. Givens appears in the doorway with a few others – teachers or security guards, I assume.
Mr. Givens holds up both palms toward the crowd of kids as if he wants to ask them to be quiet, which isn’t easy considering how many there are – forty, fifty, maybe even a hundred kids packed in tight as they stand against the walls, leaning against the furniture, and sitting along the baseboards lining the floor. Most of them stare at me, but some look to Mr. Givens for directions.
When Mr. Givens speaks, most of the kids stop and listen intently.
“This morning,” Mr. Givens begins, “Mr. Smith received a call from someone claiming to be the president of a major corporation called Aces and Eights. The caller asked Mr. Smith if the school had been contacted about an emergency involving me.”
A murmur of voices rises, though it doesn’t last long. No one wants to admit to being part of such a conspiracy.
“The caller said he was going to pay me $1 million dollars to kill Mr. Smith,” continues Mr. Givens. “But that was only the beginning.”
Someone calls out to the president about this, but Mr. Givens silences this person by raising his finger up toward him. He does this several times until everyone is paying attention again.
“The caller claimed that the first step toward killing me would be for me to die in this class today,” Mr. Givens explains. “He gave me three hours to plan the assassination and told me to meet the caller in the parking lot near the front gate at noon.
At exactly twelve o’clock, a gunman wearing a mask of Mr. Smith’s face walked into the classroom. There were two other guys who jumped onto my table and started shooting.”
More shouts come forth from the students, and some of the younger ones cry out for Mr. Givens’ protection. One girl yells, “Mr. Givens!”
Then I hear Mr. Givens say something like, “That’s what happened… Now can you please keep it down?”
Several people begin to clap, and even more join in.
“… And now here I am,” Mr. Givens finishes, “standing among you all without any bullet holes, no blood, and no bulletproof vest.”
With this announcement, I’m surprised to see Mr. Givens’ eyes welling with tears.
“So I want to know one thing: Who do you think is responsible for planning this stunt and setting up this elaborate trap to make us believe Mr. Smith is dead?” asks Mr. Givens.
Some of the kids start yelling and screaming at once. They’re calling out names – their own names, and some of the others’ – and demanding to know where they stand. It looks to me like the entire population of this school wants to jump out of their seats and point fingers at each other, which is fine with me since I don’t feel compelled to tell anyone that I planned it.
But Mr. Givens silences this idea before it gets too far, telling them that he knows who orchestrated the scheme, and he doesn’t care who tells him, because the person will have to deal with the consequences later.
After a few minutes of arguing and shouting, Mr. Givens steps up to the podium and addresses everyone in the room. “Can we please stop all of this for one minute and think about the real issue at hand? This wasn’t just some elaborate prank.”
His tone has grown serious now, and I’m relieved.
“No, this was someone trying to take Mr. Smith’s life,” says Mr. Givens. “And they succeeded for a little while until Mr. Smith survived by using a bulletproof vest as a shield.”
Several of the girls are crying, and a few boys are sobbing. Some kids rush over to console them, but they’re not interested in any comfort from anyone else. They want answers right away, so they can find out who did it, why they did it, and how the hell they managed to pull off something like this when nobody knew a thing about it beforehand.
“This is important,” Mr. Givens says. “We need to figure out who’s behind this and how we can prevent anything like it from happening again. If anyone thinks it might be someone on the football team, then say so now.”
I’m shocked to hear him bring up those names, but I guess it’s possible. It sounds like they were involved somehow… But I’ve never heard of such a thing.
“If there is someone on the team who is responsible, I’ll be sure to inform them that you’ll be looking into that,” Mr. Givens promises. “Now, let’s talk about the elephant in the room…”
He glances toward me and nods.
“I know you know more than you’re letting on, Mr. Givens,” says the headmaster. “You must realize that you’re asking questions no one could answer if they weren’t complicit in the plot. You need to tell us what happened so we can get ahead of this kind of thing before it happens again.
The safety of our students, faculty, and staff is too important for us not to be fully aware of any threats coming at us.”
Several of the students look around nervously after hearing the term “threats.” Most of the kids don’t seem convinced that this incident isn’t going to lead to the same kind of chaos as before, but I sense a new resolve in them to solve the problem, and that makes me happy. Maybe the adults really are starting to learn from past mistakes.
“I appreciate your concern,” Mr. Givens says quietly.
The students are quiet, waiting for him to continue his speech, but he doesn’t. He seems reluctant to speak up, although there is some relief coming through the noise of the crowd.
But I can read Mr. Givens’ face. There is something here he doesn’t want to discuss, but he knows that someone has to. So instead of saying anything aloud, he takes out his phone and pulls up photos and video clips from the locker room.
As he shows the images of the locker room and the hallway outside of it, I watch as the color drains from the kids’ faces. A few of them try to hide their reactions, but most are completely frozen.
“… Then they shot him,” Mr. Givens continues, “but he used my gun as a shield and lived… Now you can see why the police asked me to stay behind.”
It hits me like a wave of nausea.
“Oh my God,” whispers one of the teachers sitting nearby me.
Mr. Givens turns back to the class. “They also made a point to tell us they’d shoot you guys first.” He pauses for a moment, and his expression changes. His eyes go dead, and he appears lost in thought. When he speaks again, his voice is low.
“They said they would be able to get away cleanly, or they’d be back for more. And they threatened to hurt some of us if Mr. Smith didn’t die.”
A few kids glance at me, but most are silent. One girl looks like she wants to jump out of her skin and run out of the building as fast as she can, but she won’t leave without telling anyone where she’s going. She’s still clutching that piece of paper to her chest as though it might protect her from the horror that just unfolded in the classroom.
“When I confronted them,” says Mr. Givens, “they seemed confused. I think they didn’t understand that they had missed their chance. Or maybe they figured there would be another victim later today…”
That’s what I feared, and it makes me sick.
“So, I went ahead and told everyone what they had done.”
He glances in my direction again, and this time I meet his gaze.
“And then, to my shock, I found out who the perps were. Two students in our own school, and apparently members of the football team. This was the plan all along.”
He stares out over the sea of horrified faces before him. “It wasn’t about Mr. Smith being killed,” he says. “Or even about the football team taking over campus. They wanted to make sure that no one else would dare cross their boundaries.
That they could rule with fear and terror while making sure they didn’t have to do anything dangerous for themselves… I couldn’t let them get away with that, and I took steps to stop them. We’re going to find these people, and we’ll hold them accountable. The law will take care of everything.”
The End