The Widow's Séance
Tier IIA grieving spiritualist has summoned you to raise her husband. The planchette moves on its own. So, eventually, does the door — but only for those who let the dead finish their sentence.
[ Est. MCMXI · four rooms · one way out ]
Oubliette is a live-theatre company that builds rooms you have to earn your way out of. Sixty minutes on the clock. No hints unless you beg. The lock beside this is the only invitation we hand out — pick it, and the room that isn't on the menu is yours.
— inscribed on the stone —
The liar's lamp that swells then wanes,
the tooth the gaoler keeps on chains,
the only warden never still,
the black wing waiting on the sill.
Drag a dial · or focus it and use ↑ ↓. Set each to the thing its line names, in order.
— the latch gives —
The oubliette opens.
You picked us before we picked you. Whisper CANDLEWICK to the doorman on the night you come, and the fourth room — the one not on the menu — is yours. Tell no one. Least of all the rest of your party.
[ The rooms ]
Every room is a full set with a story that watches you back — practical effects, a live actor when the night calls for one, and a lock that never opens the way you expect. Book the whole room; we never mix parties.
A grieving spiritualist has summoned you to raise her husband. The planchette moves on its own. So, eventually, does the door — but only for those who let the dead finish their sentence.
The room that named the company. A forgotten cell, a warden who stopped coming, and a single mistake in the stonework the builders never fixed. Ninety minutes. Twelve percent get out. You will not be told which mistake.
A mapmaker charted a street that was never built — and now it exists, and you are standing on it. Find the seam where his map and the world disagree, then step through it before the map corrects itself.
A night train that departed on time and has not arrived in forty years. Six carriages, one missing passenger, and a conductor who insists it's your stop next. The largest room we run — bring reinforcements.
[ The puzzle ]
Most companies sell you a ticket. We hand you a lock and watch what you do with it. The dials on the door aren't decoration — they carry a combination we never write down, and the only clue is a quatrain cut into the stone. Read it properly and the last room opens for you specifically. Read it lazily and you'll pay full price like everyone else.
Six faces to each dial — candle, key, moon, hourglass, raven, skull — and every line of the verse names exactly one of them. The order is the order they're written. That's the whole secret, and it still stops most people at the threshold.
[ The descent ]
Pick your level honestly. The escape rate beside each tier is the fraction of parties who got out with time to spare; the bar is how hard the room pushes back. There is no Tier VI. There was, once.
A door, a candle, one gentle lie. Built for first-timers and nervous birthdays. You will get out — that's the promise, and the only one we make.
Now the walls start keeping secrets. Two puzzles run at once and the clock stops feeling generous. Most people's first taste of a room that fights back.
Someone in the room is lying. It might be a prop. It might be the room. It might be the member of your party we quietly took aside before the door closed.
Bring a clear head and a steady hand. One wrong artefact in the wrong slot and the whole room resets against you. We keep a chaplain on call. Mostly for the actors.
Named for a hole you're dropped into and forgotten. No live actor — no one is coming. Just you, the stonework, and the one mistake the builders left. Good luck. You'll need more than that.
[ Book a room ]
Tell us the room, the night, and how many souls you're bringing. We'll hold the whole room for your party alone and send the briefing by candle-lit email. Come thirsty; leave changed.