Over the past few days, Sheng Mian had pored over her history books multiple times, yet facing the multiple-choice questions now, every option looked like the right answer. She eventually gave up and followed her gut. Doing well or
poorly didn’t matter much to her; it wasn’t as if it would change her life.
That evening, Qin Heng started a group chat and sent over a few promising escape room themes. “These all look pretty good. Which one should we pick?”
Most were horror-themed. They finally settled on the one with the best reviews: Bride of the Netherworld—a classic piece of Chinese folk horror.
“It’s a five-person room,” Qin Heng noted. “Should we look for a random player to join us?”
“Teaming up with a stranger might be a bit awkward,” Sheng Mian replied.
Since the venue strongly recommended this specific theme, Sheng Mian thought for a moment and added, “How about I bring my brother?”
No one objected; they all preferred a private session over a public one.
Sheng Mian rapped on Sheng Yichen’s door and leaned against the frame. “We’re one short for an escape room tomorrow. You in?”
Yichen looked up. “What kind of theme?”
“Horror.”
Yichen’s expression shifted slightly. “No.”
Sheng Mian stepped inside to coax him. “It’s not like you have plans. It’s on me, my treat for the whole thing.” She looked at him expectantly, but Yichen still shook his head.
“I still haven’t forgiven you for that misunderstanding last time,” Sheng Mian said, crossing her arms and tapping her fingers against her sleeve.
Resigned, Yichen sighed. “Fine. I’ll go, alright?”
“I’ll wake you up tomorrow.” Getting her answer, Sheng Mian turned and left before he could change his mind.
The sky was crystal clear, a vast expanse of cloudless blue. In the daylight, street vendors called out and cars roared by. Sunlight filtered through the dense foliage, casting irregular shadows across the road.
A tall, lean Alpha dressed in a plain black t-shirt stood in one of those shadows. His sharp profile was partially hidden beneath the trees, a cool black stud glinting in his ear. He stood with a lazy, roguish posture.
Sheng Mian and Sheng Yichen hopped out of their car and greeted Qin Heng.
Sheng Mian looked at Qin Heng with surprise. “You actually look pretty sharp when you dress up.”
Qin Heng tilted his head proudly, then noticed Sheng Yichen, who stood a head shorter. “You must be Sheng Mian’s brother. I’m Qin Heng.”
“Sheng Yichen.”
Qin Heng raised an eyebrow. Kid doesn’t talk much.
A moment later, Yi Chi arrived. Only Shen Zhilin was still missing.
When she finally appeared, her shoulder-length hair was half-tied back, resting like a small black puff at the back of her head. Her outfit was simple: a soft, loose white t-shirt and light gray cargo pants. She looked incredibly clean and sharp.
After signing the safety waivers, the staff led them into the room.
“For a better immersive experience, the character names will be replaced with your own. Your personal tasks and identities are on the wooden plaques in your hands. The game begins now.” The voice echoed through the room. It was pitch black. The five of them placed their hands on each other’s shoulders and slowly shuffled inside.
The plaques were small enough to fit in a pocket. Each one listed a role and a mission:
• Sheng Mian: The Bride
• Shen Zhilin: The Groom
• Yi Chi: The Butler
• Sheng Yichen: The Maid
• Qin Heng: The Taoist Priest
The door slammed shut behind them with a heavy thud, making Sheng Mian jump. She felt a mix of adrenaline and genuine fear.
Dim lights began to glow. As they opened their eyes, red candles bathed the room in a bloody hue, and eerie, festive music began to play. Long strips of white cloth hung from the rafters. Directly ahead were ancient-style tables and chairs arranged like a funeral, yet a large, red “Double Happiness” character was pasted in the center of the hall. On the altar sat two candles emitting a sickly green light and a vanity mirror.
Sheng Mian walked to the left and found a door with a combination lock. “Come look at this.”
The group moved toward Yi Chi, who had picked up a candle from the altar to examine it. “There’s writing on the candle.”
Qin Heng took one, his fingers tracing the uneven carvings on the wax. He squinted to read the verses aloud:
“The funeral gong strikes at midnight’s breath; the ghost-matchmaker lights a path for death. The dowry chests are filled with whitened bone; the wedding wine is seeped in Styx alone.”
“The living must hide, never turn your head; the puppet strings are pulled by the dead,” Yi Chi finished the eerie poem, her soft, melodious voice making the atmosphere feel even colder. “If the palanquin cries with a sorrowful sound, burn spirit money to the smoke on the ground.”
Sheng Yichen looked around warily, his brain already shutting down from fear. “What does that even mean?”
“It sounds like a ‘ghost wedding’ theme.”
The mournful music suddenly spiked in volume. A chilling, ghastly female voice repeated the four verses as a frigid wind swept through the hall. The five of them huddled closer together.
A figure in a red cheongsam emerged from the shadows. Her mouth was stretched unnaturally wide, taking up nearly half her face. Her eyes were huge and round, tiny black pupils glinting amidst a sea of white. Two large circles of rouge were painted on her cheeks.
She let out a grotesque laugh. “The guests have arrived. It is time for the ceremony.”
The mistress of ceremonies walked straight to Sheng Mian. “The bride, please.”
Sheng Mian stepped out from behind Shen Zhilin, nervously following the woman to the front. Suddenly, something dropped from the rafters.
“Ah!” Before Sheng Mian could see what it was, a shrill laugh and the sound of hurried footsteps echoed behind her.
Another “Ah!” rang out. In just a few seconds, Sheng Mian had been spooked twice.
The footsteps stopped on either side of her. Like a puppet, Sheng Mian was quickly swaddled in a long outer robe. She looked down; it was a bright red wedding dress with intricate embroidery.
The thing that had fallen from above slowly stood up. It was a life-sized paper effigy of a man. Its expression was exaggerated and bizarre; Sheng Mian didn’t dare look at it for too long.
As the mistress of ceremonies shouted, “First bow!” the paper groom bowed with the jarring, stuttering movements of a broken machine. Sheng Mian raised her hands to her chest and bowed slightly.
Curious, she lowered her hands a fraction to look at the paper effigy. She was met with a pair of horrifying eyes; though the paper groom was bowing, most of its face was tilted up, staring directly at the bride.
It was deathly pale and grotesque. The grin on the effigy’s face widened unnaturally. Sheng Mian let out a soft cry and immediately looked down, covering her eyes with her hands.
Once the “three bows” were completed, the voice announced: “The bride shall now prepare her makeup.”
Sheng Mian sat slowly at the vanity. Her own face was reflected in the mirror. She picked up the wooden comb, her fingers trembling as she ran it through her hair.
Suddenly! A woman’s face—pale and streaked with fresh blood appeared in the mirror.
“Oh my god!”
Sheng Mian scrambled to her feet and backed away. The ghostly face vanished instantly, followed by a click as a small box dropped from the mirror.
She grabbed the box and sprinted back to her friends. They opened it to find over a dozen torn scraps of paper. They pieced them together to form a wedding contract dated September 15, 1917.
Shen Zhilin entered the numbers into the combination lock as the others crowded behind her.
“You’re crowding me.” Ever since they entered, Sheng Yichen had been sticking to Qin Heng like glue, making the latter feel uncomfortably warm.
“I’m not crowding you, I just want to see better,” Yichen retorted stubbornly.
Suddenly, a wooden door swung open. “Looks like this is the bride’s boudoir.”
Inside the room stood a bed, a vanity table, and four large chests containing the betrothal gifts.
“I wonder if we can open these,” Yi Chi said, attempting to lift the lid of one.
It opened effortlessly—no key required. Yi Chi pushed the lid all the way back, revealing a pair of greyish-blue, decaying prosthetic arms.
Without a change in expression, Yi Chi proceeded to open the remaining chests with clinical efficiency. Shen Zhilin stepped in to help with the last two.
The three subsequent chests contained a pair of legs, a torso, and one that appeared to be empty.
Zhilin knelt to examine the interior of the chests. Scrawled in crimson across the inner lining was a single phrase: “The harvest turns to bone; what lies beneath the leaves unknown?”
Qin Heng scanned the contents. “We’re missing a head.”
He looked around the room, but there was almost nothing related to “leaves.”
Sheng Mian walked over to the bed. There was nothing on top, and the space beneath was pitch black. She didn’t dare look.
“Yichen, come here a second.”
Sheng Yichen walked over, feeling a chill from the way Sheng Mian was looking at him. “What do you want?”
Sheng Mian pointed to the dark void under the bed. “Take a look. See if there’s anything there.”
“Why don’t you look?”
Sheng Mian admitted quite frankly, “I’m scared.”
“I.” Yichen bit his tongue. As a “stalwart” Alpha, he couldn’t exactly announce that he was terrified too.
“Go on, look,” Sheng Mian urged. Watching his conflicted expression, she asked suspiciously, “Wait, are you scared too?”
“Of course not!”
With that, Yichen bent down, squinting his eyes and praying he wouldn’t see anything horrific. As his face leveled with the floor, a massive, ghastly face appeared inches from his own. He barely managed to stifle a scream.
It was just a mannequin. Yichen let out a long breath, his body breaking into a cold sweat. He scanned the area; aside from the mannequin, there was nothing else.
As he shifted his gaze upward, it landed on the side of the bed frame. “There’s a strange circular indentation here.” Sheng Mian leaned in to look.
Remembering something, Yichen pulled out his prop—a jade pendant. It was the “bride’s pendant,” which he, playing the role of the maid, had been carrying since the start. He compared the patterns. They were identical.
He pressed the jade into the slot on the bed frame. A faint mechanical click echoed, followed by the sound of an object thudding onto the floor beneath the bed.
Yichen shoved the mannequin aside and retrieved the fallen item. It was a locked box. “The bride’s head must be in here.” He pushed the box toward the center of the room.
But where was the key?
Zhilin scanned the room. On the vanity sat three wine cups that looked entirely out of place. What lies beneath the leaves?
The cups were filled with a dark, opaque liquid. “The key is likely hidden in one of these.”
Yi Chi gave each cup a light shake. Aside from the sloshing of the liquid, there was no sound, and they all weighed exactly the same.
“We could just pour the liquid out. Then we’ll see where the key is immediately,” Qin Heng suggested.
Sheng Mian shook her head. “I don’t think so. If we pour the wrong one, it might trigger a ‘jump scare’ or a penalty.”
“There’s writing on the bottom,” Yi Chi noted, lifting a cup.
Zhilin inspected the base of all three. They read: “Peach Blossoms Bloom,” “The Bride Returns,” and “Holy Wood Ash.”
After a moment of thought, Zhilin picked up the cup marked Holy Wood Ash and poured it out.
“Wait!” Sheng Mian gasped, her movement too slow to stop her. The group watched the surroundings tensely.
Qin Heng felt a warm body press against him again. He glanced sideways to see Yichen standing with a stiff neck, his eyes darting around in panic.
A long moment passed, but nothing happened. Zhilin reached into the empty cup and pulled out a brass key taped to the inner wall.
Sheng Mian asked curiously, “How did you know it was that one?”
“Listen.”
Sheng Mian listened closely. Beyond the mournful background track, there was a faint, melodic chanting.
“Since we entered, the music has been looping a nursery rhyme,” Zhilin explained.
“Peach blossoms bloom, white as snow; to her husband’s house the bride shall go. A hollow promise of a home so sweet; a blade is drawn, the knot’s retreat.
The harvest fruit turns to whitened bone; beneath the leaves, a ghost’s dark throne. Who says red silk brings a long life’s thread? Only paper offerings for the lonely dead.”
Sheng Mian listened again. The rhyme was chanted in a heavy local dialect, making it easy to overlook as mere atmosphere.
“The first two phrases are in the lyrics and seem to symbolize the tragic fate of the bride,” Zhilin continued. “Combined with the fact that ‘Holy Wood’ is another name for Peach Wood—known for warding off evil, I decided to take a gamble.”
Zhilin unlocked the wooden box. Inside was a decaying prosthetic head. She placed it into the empty betrothal chest, completing the set.