The town of Warramboo, a dusty relic in the red
centre, had long been a place where time bent.
The old railway station, now a tourist trap,
housed a converted escape room called The Echo
Chamber. Its owner, a reclusive exmusician named
Jack Holloway, had built it on the site of an
old bushranger hideout, convinced the land held
secrets.
Mara Kowalski arrived with a guitar case and a
booking confirmation. She was a 24yearold from
Melbourne, chasing a music grant, but she’d
heard stories—of people who entered and never
left, of voices whispering in the dark. She
didn’t believe them. Not until the door locked
behind her.
The room was a replica of a 1920s speakeasy,
complete with flickering gas lamps and a jukebox
that played only one song: The Last Waltz, a
mournful tune once performed by a doomed jazz
band. The walls were lined with photographs of
men and women in period dress, their eyes fixed
on the viewer.
Rule one: No phones. Rule two: No leaving until
the final chord is played.
Mara found a note tucked inside the jukebox. It
read: “They’re still waiting for you.”
She discovered a hidden drawer beneath the bar,
containing a faded newspaper clipping from 1923.
It detailed the mysterious disappearance of the
Warramboo Jazz Collective, a group of musicians
who vanished during a tour through the outback.
Their instruments were never found.
The room changed as she explored. A mirror
showed her face aging, her skin cracking like
desert clay. A gramophone played snippets of
conversations—halfheard arguments, laughter,
then silence. The air grew thick with dust and
the scent of old wood.
At midnight, the lights went out. When they came
back, the jukebox was playing live, though no
one was near it. Mara saw a ghostly figure at
the bar—a woman in a flapper dress, holding a
violin. She stepped closer, and the room filled
with sound. The ghost played, and Mara felt
something inside her stir, a melody she hadn’t
known she carried.
She began to play her own guitar, mimicking the
ghost’s notes. The walls trembled. The
photographs fell, revealing a map etched into
the plaster. It led to a cave beneath the
station.
Rule three (unspoken): The room does not let go
unless you give it something in return.
In the cave, she found the remains of the jazz
collective—bones, instruments, and a single
sheet of music. The final chord was written in
the margin, incomplete. Mara finished it, her
fingers trembling. As the last note rang out,
the room shuddered. The door unlocked.
She ran out, breathless, the guitar case now
heavier. The station was empty, the jukebox
silent.
Back in Melbourne, Mara played the final chord
at an open mic night. The crowd stilled. Some
wept. Others remembered.
The Echo Chamber remained, but no one ever
entered again.
