The air was crisp on a cold November night. It swept across the near-empty blacktop outside Hillside Escape Rooms as four friends—Mia, Jake, Sara, and Kyle—walked quickly toward the glowing entrance. Their shoulders bumped with playful excitement, their paper coffee cups offering a meager warmth in their hands.
“I’m calling it now,” Mia declared, stomping her feet with desperate force to ward off the chill. “Jake’s the first to lose it. He’ll find a corner and whimper himself into a fetal position.”
“No chance,” Jake scoffed, shaking his head. “I thrive under pressure. I’m a diamond.”
“You don’t thrive under pressure, Jake,” Sara reminded him, her voice flat. “Last summer you swore the AC was broken because you kept setting the thermostat to ‘Heat’ mode, convinced it meant ‘The room is hot.'”
“That’s a labeling issue!” Jake protested. “It’s deliberately confusing—”
“It’s labeled ‘Heat’ because that’s what it does. It heats,” Kyle cut in, grinning. “Not everything is a conspiracy, man.”
Jake muttered something under his breath about “patterns” and “hidden systems.”
Their laughter, thin and brittle, puffed out in fast, dissipating clouds as they pulled open the door beneath the sign: ESCAPE THE COLD ROOM CHALLENGE. The letters seemed to glow with an almost predatory invitation.
The Host’s Game
Inside was a sudden, jarring shift: deep, almost stifling warmth, the sharp, oily smell of kerosene mixing with the dry scent of old, untreated wood. From hidden speakers, a Phish song played softly—something about stepping into the freezer, “it’s gonna be cold cold cold cold cold.” A small, red-hot kerosene heater glowed near the counter. The Escape Room Host stood behind the counter, a figure of unsettling composure. He was a man in his 50s, with a smile disturbingly serene, like a predator at ease. He wore a tattered, heavily stained Phish hoodie over his wool sweater. He watched them approach, his gaze lingering, dissecting. Next to him, like ancient, furry gargoyles, were his two enormous Bernese Mountain Dogs. The four friends watched, sickened, as one of the dogs slowly lifted its head, a white, suspiciously smooth object—sickeningly like a human femur—gripped firmly between its teeth.
“Phones in the basket, please. That means all of them. No exceptions,” the Host said, his voice a smooth, deep baritone.
“Wait—why no phones?” Jake asked, his eyes narrowing. “What if there’s an actual emergency?”
The Host’s smile widened. “Then you’ll have to solve your way out of it. Won’t you?”
“See, this is exactly how people disappear,” Jake muttered, reluctantly dropping his phone into the basket. “No way to call for help, isolated location—and did anyone else notice the song playing? ‘Step into the freezer, it’s gonna be cold.’? That’s not subtle.”
“Jake,” Mia sighed. “It’s an escape room, not a true crime podcast. The guy’s wearing a Phish hoodie. Of course he’s playing Phish.”
The Host accepted their phones, his fingers lingering over each device. “Once that door locks… you’re truly alone. With the consequences.” He added, his smile revealing perfect, white teeth. “You’ll do fine. Unless you don’t.”
A collective shiver seized the group.
A moment later, the Host led them down a hallway of heavy, riveted steel doors. Fluorescent lights above them flickered erratically, and the very floorboards seemed to creak in complaint. He stopped at one door, simply labeled: ‘COLD ROOM’.
“This one’s immersive,” he said, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “A true fan favorite. It tests… resolve.”
The Host’s smile widened. “You’ll see,” he whispered, pulling the door open with a slow, grinding groan.
The Heat Dies (68°F → 62°F)
They stepped across the threshold into what felt like a preserved tomb of neglect: a worn, avocado-green couch sagged; peeling floral wallpaper revealed damp, stained plaster. In the corner, an ancient, squat oil furnace stood sentinel, a metallic behemoth crusted with rust.
A red-LED timer blinked to life above the door: 60:00.
Then—SLAM. The sound was immediate and final. A metallic latch snapped home, the noise echoing with a chilling finality.
“Okay, so retro 1970s living room,” Kyle said, glancing around. “Not that cold yet.”
“Yet being the key word,” Jake said, walking immediately to the thermostat. “Guys, look at this.”
The low, infrastructural hum of the building—the vibration of distant machinery—died completely. The silence that replaced it was a thick, oppressive vacuum.
Mia stumbled to the wall where Jake stood. The thermostat—an old, beige plastic square—flickered once, displaying 68°, then died, leaving the screen an empty, mocking void.
Scratched crudely beneath it: “Neglect me once, and I’ll go silent forever. And you will feel it.”
“That’s a threat,” Jake said quietly. “This isn’t just a puzzle. This is a warning system.”
“It’s a game, Jake,” Sara said, already rifling through drawers.
The temperature dropped to 62°F. Subtle, but present—like stepping from sunlight into shade.
(62°F → 55°F)
“Anyone else feel that?” Mia asked, rubbing her arms.
“The vents,” Jake said, pointing up. “They just switched direction. Feel that? It’s not neutral air anymore—it’s actively pulling heat OUT of the room.”
“That’s not how vents work,” Kyle said dismissively.
“Actually, it is if the system’s in reverse or if something’s broken,” Jake pressed. “My point is—this isn’t random. Every element in here is connected. The thermostat dies, the heat source stops, the room responds. It’s a chain reaction.”
“Jake, focus on finding clues, not explaining HVAC systems,” Mia said.
The overhead lights shifted to a harsh, unforgiving blue-white. The temperature dropped more noticeably—now to 55°F. Breath became faintly visible.
Sara pointed to a cracked, rust-colored oil gauge near the furnace, its needle quivering on EMPTY. A small tag hung below it: “Those who guess will freeze. Those who plan… stay warm. Those who fail… are forgotten.”
“Okay, that’s our first real clue,” Sara said.
“Second,” Jake corrected. “The thermostat was the first. Everything’s numbered, labeled—look.” He pointed to faded inspection stickers on the furnace. “There’s a maintenance schedule that was ignored. See? The last service date is three years ago.”
“So someone didn’t maintain their furnace. Great. How does that help us escape?” Mia asked, her tone sharp with frustration.
Jake opened his mouth, then closed it. His shoulders slumped slightly.
(55°F → 48°F)
Mia tore through a dusty side table drawer. Inside: outdated electric bills, marked with alarming red overdue stamps; budget envelopes; a fuel bill marked in aggressive, blood-red ink: “Spread your costs evenly, or the cold will claim you. The debt must be paid.”
The temperature plummeted to 48°F. Now the cold was undeniable—invasive, creeping under their clothes.
“My hands are getting stiff,” Sara said, flexing her fingers.
A deep, guttural groan echoed from the depths of the furnace. It sounded like a dying animal.
“That’s not good,” Kyle muttered.
“No, it’s not,” Jake said, crouching by the furnace. “This thing is empty and neglected. And look—” He grabbed a half-empty bottle with an orange label. “TankGuard additive. This prevents fuel from gelling in cold weather. But it’s only half-used, and the tank’s bone dry.”
“So we need to… fill it? How?” Mia asked.
“I don’t think we can,” Jake said slowly. “I think the point is we’re seeing what happens when you DON’T prepare. This whole room—it’s not about fixing the problem. It’s about recognizing it before it’s too late.”
“That’s great, Professor Paranoid, but it doesn’t open the door,” Sara snapped, her breath clouding heavily now.
Jake stood up, his jaw tight. “Fine. Keep looking for a key that doesn’t exist.”
(48°F → 40°F)
A shimmering sheet of thick, unnatural frost climbed the rusted metal exterior of the oil tank, consuming it. The walls themselves began to weep, condensation freezing into delicate, crystalline patterns.
The temperature hit 40°F. Fingers fumbled. Lips turned pale. Shivering began in earnest.
“This isn’t fun anymore,” Mia said, her voice shaking. “This is actually dangerous.”
“I’ve been saying that,” Jake said, his frustration finally breaking through. “This entire room is designed to show you what happens when systems fail. The thermostat failed—warning ignored. The fuel ran out—maintenance was ignored. The additive wasn’t used—prevention was ignored. Every single thing in here is a consequence of neglect.”
“Okay, fine, we get the metaphor!” Kyle shouted. “But how does that GET US OUT?”
“I’m working on it!” Jake shot back.
Stage Five: Dangerous (40°F → 35°F)
The blue light flickered violently. Frost raced across the baseboards like living veins.
35°F. Just above freezing. Their breath came in thick, ghostly plumes. Teeth chattered audibly, uncontrollably.
“My fingers are going numb!” Sara cried, stamping her feet uselessly. “Jake—if you know something, NOW would be the time!”
“There has to be something we’re missing,” Jake said, scanning the room desperately. “Another clue, another—”
“WHAT?” Mia yelled. “We’ve looked everywhere!”
Kyle slammed into a shelf, and it shifted. Behind it: a dusty, portable record player and a stuffed Bernese Mountain Dog wearing a Hillside scarf.
Jake froze, staring at the plush dog.
“A dog toy?” Sara asked. “That’s our clue?”
Jake’s eyes went distant. His mouth opened slightly.
“Jake?” Mia pressed. “What?”
“The Host…” Jake said slowly, pieces clicking into place. “The Bernese Mountain Dogs at the front desk. They were wearing scarves!”
“So what?” Kyle said through chattering teeth.
He grabbed the plush dog, turned it over frantically.
“Jake, we’re freezing!” Sara yelled.
Beneath the dog was a vinyl record: Bob Marley — “Don’t Worry (Bout a Thing)”
Jake’s eyes widened. “Don’t Worry. WORRY-FREE.”
He lifted the plush dog. Taped securely to its belly was a business card.
His hands were shaking—from cold, from adrenaline, from the sudden clarity of it all. He read aloud, his breath clouding the print:
“Worry-Free Winter — Call 302-738-4144. Hillside Heating & Cooling.”
Everything clicked.
“My grandma,” Jake said, his voice sharp with certainty. “She has this plan. Every fall, she tells me about it—how she never worries about her heat going out in winter because Hillside has this service. Worry-Free Winter. The Bernese dogs, the Phish hoodie, the song about the freezer, this record, this card—it’s all pointing to ONE thing. Making the call BEFORE you need it.”
“Your grandma’s heating service is the answer to an escape room?” Mia asked, incredulous.
“YES!” Jake nearly shouted. “Don’t you see? The Host SHOWED us! The dogs wearing the scarves, the song warning us about the cold—he was telling us from the beginning! This whole room isn’t about finding a key to escape. It’s about facing what happens when you DON’T prepare!”
They all froze—not from realization, but from the cold seizing their muscles.
(35°F → 32°F)
The timer: 00:12.
The temperature hit 32°F. Freezing. Literally freezing.
“Guys, listen to me,” Jake said, his voice cutting through their panic. “This entire room is about facing the consequences of not preparing your home for winter. Every clue—the dead thermostat, the empty tank, the unpaid bills—it’s all what happens when you ignore the warnings. We don’t escape by finding a key. We escape by making the call we should’ve made BEFORE winter hit.”
“You’re serious?” Sara asked, her voice small. “We have to call a heating company?”
“Not just any heating company,” Jake said, holding up the card. “Hillside. The Worry-Free Winter plan. That’s the answer.”
“But we don’t have phones!” Mia said desperately. “They took them!”
Jake’s eyes widened. “Then there has to be a phone in here. There HAS to be.”
The Call
Jake rushed to the side table—hidden in the deepest shadow, beneath scattered papers, was a black rotary phone.
“There!” he shouted.
The timer stood at 00:7, its red glow pulsating.
He cranked the dial with stiff, aching fingers. RING. RING.
Then—”Hillside Heating & Cooling,” a calm, professional voice answered.
“Our heat’s out—and it’s freezing!” Jake stammered. “We need heat! Can we sign up for your Worry-Free Winter Plan?”
“Don’t worry,” the voice said, utterly unshakeable. “We’re on our way. Your worry-free winter is starting right now.”
CLICK.
The line went dead.
The Warmth Returns
A second later—an explosive roar. The ancient furnace ignited with a guttural growl, a blast of powerful, yellow-orange flame surging behind the metal grate.
Warm, humid air blasted through vents, smelling faintly of oil and relief—and life.
The temperature began climbing immediately: 35°… 40°… 45°…
🎵 The dusty record player automatically dropped the needle onto the vinyl: 🎵 “Don’t worry… about a thing…” 🎵
Color instantly, dramatically, returned to their faces. Feeling flooded back into their fingers.
“You… you actually did it,” Mia breathed, her voice full of genuine awe.
“I can feel my toes again!” Sara cried, nearly laughing.
“Jake,” Kyle said quietly. “Man, I’m sorry. You were right. The whole time.”
Jake just nodded, still shaking from the cold—and the adrenaline. “No worries, man. Literally.”
00:00
CLICK—the metallic latch on the door released.
The door swung open.
The Host stood there, his serene smile now undeniably genuine.
“Looks like someone made the right call,” he said.
They walked back outside into the falling snow—the cold felt less scary now. Manageable. The business card glinted beneath the soft, safe lights:
Worry-Free Winter
In the now-empty escape room, the record spun softly…
🎵 “Don’t worry… about a thing…Every little thing… is gonna be all right.” 🎵
The Hillside puppy sat proudly, scarf fluttering near the gently glowing vents.
A business card gleamed:
Hillside Heating & Cooling
📞 302-738-4144 (DE & PA)
📞 410-398-2146 (MD)
www.HillsideHVAC.com
Don’t wait until the heat’s gone & time’s running out. Worry-Free Winter starts here.