The Pumpkin Head Murder

I was formally detained.

From the only survivor, I became the prime suspect.

All the evidence formed a perfect loop.

Motive, weapon, fingerprints, the scene… everything pointed to me.

I had nothing to say in my defense.

All I could do was replay every detail of that night, over and over again.

That pumpkin-headed figure…

He was tall, much taller than anyone I’d seen at work, at least six-foot-three.

The way he walked was strange, dragging slightly, like a real scarecrow.

He never said a word.

There was only the roar of the chainsaw and the sound of heavy breathing.

All of it really happened.

But no one believed me.

I went from screaming and defending myself to numb silence.

The door to the holding cell opened.

A man walked in.

He was in his early thirties, tall, dressed in plain clothes.

I remembered him.

I’d seen him once in the interrogation room.

“Hello. My name is Marcus Cole.”

He pulled out a chair and sat across from me, without any small talk.

“I have a few questions.”

His voice was calm, lacking the sharp pressure Daniel carried.

I nodded numbly.

“When did you discover that hidden compartment?”

“After we entered the farmhouse area, about ten minutes in. I tend to tap around out of habit, and that’s how I found it.”

“You’re sure you discovered it, and didn’t already know it was there?”

Marcus fixed his gaze on me.

I froze for a moment, then understood what he meant.

“I’m sure! I’ve never played that theme before!”

Marcus didn’t press the point and shifted directions.

“How many times have you been to that escape room?”

“Plenty. I’ve tried different themes there. I’m a member.”

“So you’re familiar with the place, including the surrounding layout?”

“Fairly familiar.”

Marcus nodded, as if the answer didn’t surprise him.

He didn’t ask any more about the room itself. Instead, he abruptly changed the subject.

“Sophie Sullivan, let’s talk about your boss, William Zoo.”

His tone was flat, but something about it made my chest tighten.

“Why did he take you there?”

Marcus fixed his eyes on mine. “According to our investigation, he had already canceled the booking.”

“How would I know? Maybe he just wanted to throw together some last-minute team-building.”

I shrugged weakly.

“Is that so?” Marcus paused, setting his pen down. “Not because his son was kidnapped?”

I froze. “Kidnapped?”

Marcus slid a photo toward me.

It was William’s seven-year-old son.

“An hour before you left for the escape room, William received an anonymous call.

The caller told him that if he wanted his son alive, he had to bring all the core members of the project team to that escape room, on time, and take part in the game.”

My mouth opened, my voice starting to shake uncontrollably. “I… I didn’t know…”

“That anonymous call was made through an overseas virtual relay. But the original signal traces back to your phone,” Marcus said coldly.

“That’s impossible!” I shot to my feet. “My phone was with me the whole time!”

Marcus closed his notebook, then shifted the direction of his questioning.

“William’s son was later returned home safely. He said a woman wearing a pumpkin mask took him out for candy and played with him all afternoon.”

A flicker of hope rose in my chest. This proved there was someone else—the real killer behind the mask.

“The boy was shaken, but he remembered one very important detail,” Marcus continued slowly.

“He said when she handed him candy, her wrist was exposed for a moment. On it was a very unusual tattoo.”

Marcus took out another photo. It was a child’s drawing.

A twisted pumpkin face, its mouth split all the way to the ears, its eyes hollow spirals.

“This kind of gothic-style tattoo… a lot of people have them…” My voice grew quieter and quieter.

Marcus said nothing. He simply placed a third photo in the center of the table.

The background was a beach and the open sea.

It was a vacation photo I had posted three months ago.

In it, I was wearing a swimsuit, smiling brightly over my shoulder.

And on the inside of my wrist was the exact same pumpkin tattoo from the child’s drawing.

The holding room fell silent, except for the ticking of the clock on the wall.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Marcus finally spoke again.

“Miss Sullivan, do you still want to say you don’t know anything?”