He was standing in a windowless room; it was completely dark, a pitch, molten dark, the kind that seemed to have a solidity to it, like he were standing at the bottom of a deep ocean. And then, pop, a flicker of light, a flame, a circle of orange and red shadows; a candle had suddenly burst into life.

That is not suspicious at all, Bob commented under his breath, arms full of apples, tribal loincloth chafing against his business. Bob waited a few moments, just in case something else was about to happen. When nothing did, he gingerly approached the light.

Ouch! He’d smacked his foot against something hard and all his apples cascaded out onto the floor; the whole room started to shake as the candle tottered on its stand a moment before regaining its balance. Bob sighed loudly, trying to calm himself, his big toe throbbing angrily. How he wanted to howl, but fear is the mother of all motivations.

This was why mankind invented shoes, Bob grumbled, I’ll come back for the apples. Stepping around the obstacle, he made it to the room’s center, the flame glowing just in front of him. He reached out and lifted up the candle: a long, thin pillar of white wax, decorated with spiraling patterns and held up by a silver candlestick.

> Challenge Two (2/4):

>

> Escape the Room!

The candle had been standing on a little side table (his enemy in the darkness), beside a brown leather armchair. On the table was a wooden box. The box was filled with candles, all neatly arranged in rows, but of varying heights. Half-used, Bob thought, judging from the lips of melted wax on their heads. Had other people already cleared the room? It seemed unnatural somehow. He counted five candles in the box, so six in total if he included the one in his hand.

The side table had a little drawer built into it. Inside there were a few yellow pencils, a rubber, a ball point pen, a little plastic ruler, a small bottle of super glue, some sellotape, a protractor and compass, a screwdriver and a pair of heavy-duty scissors. Next to the pencil case was a tin of crayons. The name, “rainbow crayons,” was written in large multi-colored letters across the front over a picture of nine-colored crayons.

He flicked open the tin. Of the nine cylindrical slots, the first five were empty. The remaining four were filled with neatly sharpened crayons. Another curious coincidence. Underneath the tin was an exercise book. Bob picked it up: squared paper with a page for a name at the front; he flicked through the pages looking for some clue, but they were all blank.

Bob replaced the exercise book and closed the drawer. He moved over to the armchair, candlestick in hand. Brown, faded leather, it looked comfortable, fancy even, the kind you might see in an old-fashioned public library. He patted the seat bottom. It was soft and plump, just the kind to slump down into.

A sizable portion of Bob’s mind argued, quite reasonably, that he ought to sit down and have a rest, regain his strength, steady his nerves; he’d earned at least that much. But the smaller, more rational part of Bob’s mind protested that he had yet to find even an exit from the room, let alone a way of escaping. Somehow, rationality won out. Bob groaned and resigned himself to the inevitable.

Bob first swept the small area around the table and chair. He knelt down and examined the floor. It was all grey, stone tiles. Nothing out of place. Next Bob poked his head under the side table. He swept his arm underneath the armchair. He stood up. He pulled out the chair’s cushions. He searched in the corners. He looked everywhere he could think of. There was nothing to find.

Bob knew what came next. Into the darkness, dun, dun, dun… Was Bob afraid? He’d seen worse. He’d faced worse. He was a survivor of the first challenge, slayer of the mighty boar, heaven-anointed “Mud Monster”, so of course, Bob was afraid, very afraid. Escape rooms don’t usually have traps do they?

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Bob had come upon the table and chair from the side. If he called his starting position south, the chair faced east. He decided to head west (see they'd expect him to go east, to discover what the chair was facing). He took a few hesitating steps and after a couple paces he reached a stone wall. It was formed of irregular stone blocks held together by grayish mortar. He made a quick search of the wall. He didn’t exactly know what he was looking for, but he expected he would know it if he saw it. He saw nothing so either his assumption was bad or it was just a blank wall. Time would tell.

He followed the wall north, keeping one hand against it, while the other held the candlestick out in front of him. The candle was burning merrily. There's something hypnotically beautiful about a live flame. Bob soon arrived at a corner and turning with the wall, he made his first real discovery: a heavy, oak doorway reinforced with iron bands. Not the kind of door you force open.

To make matters worse, a thick metal bar was stretched across the door. Where a handle ought to have been, there was an iron case chained shut with a thick padlock. Bob would have to unlock the chain, open the case and then unbar the door. After that, it should be as easy as walking through. On that note, Bob gave a hopeful tug on the chain. The clink of reinforced steel rings. Nope, that was not coming undone anytime soon. What? You don't know if you don't try.

Well here was the way out. Progress. Bob lifted up the padlock and examined it. It was a bulky brass body attached to a steel loop. The keyhole was a narrow slit, thinning at the end. Conclusion: he was looking for a traditional, pin-tumbler key. Roger that.

Bob kept moving along the north wall. The wall cornered and he turned with it. If his mental map checked out, he should now be on the east wall. That would mean the chair and table were a couple paces directly behind him. He stayed close to the wall as he explored forward. He arrived at a big stone hearth.

Bob nodded to himself. That made sense. A comfortable armchair belonged in front of a fireplace. He leaned down. A metal grate was positioned on the hearth floor. Under the grate were what looked to be the remains of an old fire. White ash was smeared around and there were a few, misshapen pieces of partially burnt wood.

The candle flickered suddenly; a cold draft had swept down the chimney. Bob hurried to shield the sputtering flame. The light steadied. Phew… He might have been stuck here in that pitch darkness. His imagination ran ahead of him: to be trapped alone in this room, these stone walls, cold and voiceless, swallowed by the impenetrable darkness, only waiting for death, without hope, but unharmed, untouched, alive and waiting for death; he shuddered; what was this new chill he felt in the air? He looked with wide eyes at the fragile candle-flame. He had burned down half the stick already. Half the stick! There were only five more left. He was running out of time.

He finally noticed the trap. It was so obvious, so blindly obvious and he was walking around like a fool. You couldn't muddle your way to the answer. You weren't allowed to try and try and try again. Six candlesticks. Only six. Six measly pillars of wax. How long was that? How long had he already been here? Three minutes. Five minutes. Less, more. How long did he have left? And every moment, his precious seconds were burning away, melting down and evaporating into a trail of indifferent smoke. The darkness seemed to push against the feeble candle light, eyeing Bob with a devouring hunger, a prowling, predatory gleam, a monster waiting to pounce. He was wasting time. He had to hurry. He needed to act.

Bob felt panic growing inside him. Panic, blind and all-consuming. Bob hadn’t been claustrophobic before, but now the walls seemed to press on him. He felt strangely dizzy, though he’d been fine a moment ago. He put a hand on the wall to steady himself. He was hyperventilating. He couldn't catch his breath, even as his lungs heaved and pumped. He shivered with a sudden cold and then his head was on fire. He was wasting time. He didn't have time to panic. He had to hurry. He needed to act.

There had to be a way out. A shortcut. The fortress door was a distraction. He'd never make it through in time. Up the chimney. Jealously guarding the candle, Bob ducked his head under the mantlepiece and looked up. It was narrow and there was no sky on the other side. He squeezed in deeper. Could he shimmy through? Could he get out that way? No, no, no. The air was thick with old dust and cobwebs. It stuck to the back of his throat and suddenly he was coughing and choking. It all just brought up more ash from the grate below in a vicious cycle. Bob quickly pulled his head back; too quickly as he got a nasty jolt on the top of his head from the mantelpiece and the candle fell to the floor.