Midnight at the Museum

Ben “Benny” Wharekawa was not having a good day.

First, he’d forgotten his lunch—again—and had to trade his last bag of pineapple lollies for half a soggy sandwich from his mate Kahu. Then, his maths teacher made him stay back after school to finish that stupid graph about rainfall in Invercargill (which, let’s be honest, is just rain with extra steps). And now? Now he was standing in the middle of Te Papa Tongarewa, heart thumping like a drum at a kapa haka competition, because he and his little sister Marama were officially locked in.

“Marama,” Ben whispered, voice cracking like a snapper bone underfoot, “you said you checked the doors.”

Marama, all ten years old and full of sass, crossed her arms. “I did check! That security guard just… vanished!”

“He didn’t vanish. He went home. Because it’s after closing time.”

They’d been waiting near the café for their mum, who’d popped out to grab kai from the night market. Ben had dared Marama to sneak into the earthquake house “just for five seconds,” and somehow those five seconds turned into twenty minutes of pretending to be shipwreck survivors while dodging fake falling ceiling tiles. By the time they came out, grinning and covered in dust, the lights were off, the halls were empty, and the big glass doors were firmly locked.

“Well,” Marama said, hands on hips, “we can’t stay here all night. Mum’ll kill us. And Dad’ll make us eat boiled cabbage for a week.”

Ben groaned. “Right. So… we find a way out. Quietly. No alarms. No waking up the Colossal Squid.”

Marama’s eyes lit up. “Ooooh, do you reckon it actually wakes up?”

“No! It’s a squid. A dead one. In a tank. With lights.”

“But what if it does?” she pressed, bouncing on her toes. “What if it’s like… guarding the museum? Like a taniwha but with tentacles?”

Ben rolled his eyes. “You’ve been watching too many episodes of Myth Hunters Aotearoa.”

Still, as they tiptoed past the giant moa skeleton toward the main atrium, Ben couldn’t help glancing at the dark hallway leading to the natural history wing. The one with the Colossal Squid exhibit. It loomed there like a silent, gelatinous ghost.

Their plan was simple: get to the staff entrance near the gift shop. Ben remembered seeing it when he’d done a school trip last year. All they had to do was cross the earthquake house (again), slip past the squid, and avoid the motion sensors that blinked red every few seconds near the Māori taonga gallery.

Easy.

Famous last words.

The earthquake house was worse the second time.

For starters, someone—probably Marama—had left a plastic pounamu pendant on the floor, and Ben stepped right on it. His foot shot out from under him like he’d hit black ice on the Desert Road. He crashed into a fake bookshelf, which wobbled dramatically before toppling over with a sound like a thousand dinner plates smashing.

“Shhh!” Marama hissed, even though she was giggling so hard she snorted.

“I’m trying!” Ben whispered back, rubbing his elbow. “And stop laughing—you did this!”

“I did not! You’re just clumsy like Pōpō’s old sheepdog.”

They crept forward, hearts pounding. The exit door of the earthquake house was just ahead—but it was one of those automatic ones that only opened when it sensed movement. Which meant…

“It’ll think we’re intruders,” Ben realised.

“Not if we move real slow,” Marama said.

They shuffled forward like two penguins on ice. The door stayed shut.

“Maybe if we wave?” Marama suggested.

She gave a tiny, polite wave.

Nothing.

Then, with a sudden whoosh, the door slid open—right as Ben tripped over his own shoelace and face-planted onto the polished floor.

“Smooth,” Marama said, helping him up.

“Shut up,” Ben mumbled, cheeks burning.

They were now in the corridor leading to the squid. The lights were dimmer here, casting long shadows that danced like spirits. At the end of the hall, a soft blue glow pulsed from the exhibit room.

“That’s creepy,” Marama whispered.

“Yeah,” Ben agreed. “But it’s our only way through.”

They edged closer. The Colossal Squid floated in its massive tank, eyes like dinner plates, tentacles curled like sleeping eels. It looked… peaceful.

Until the lights flickered.

Both kids froze.

A low hum filled the air. Then—a click.

From the ceiling, a tiny red light blinked on.

“Oh no,” Ben breathed. “That’s a motion sensor.”

“And it just saw us,” Marama finished.

Suddenly, a recorded voice boomed through the speakers: “Unauthorised presence detected. Security protocol initiated.”

“Run!” Ben yelled.

They bolted past the squid exhibit, ducking under velvet ropes and leaping over a display of fossilised shark teeth. Behind them, an alarm began to beep—soft at first, then louder.

“We’ve gotta hide!” Marama gasped.

They skidded into the Māori taonga gallery, where carved poupou lined the walls and cloaks shimmered under glass. Ben spotted a storage cupboard near a replica waka. “In here!”

They squeezed inside, pulling the door shut just as heavy footsteps echoed down the hall.

Peeking through a crack, they saw a tall figure in a security uniform—Mr. Hemi, the night guard! He carried a torch and moved slowly, scanning the room.

Marama clapped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from squeaking. Ben held his breath.

Mr. Hemi paused right in front of their cupboard.

Then—he sneezed.

“Achoo!”

He pulled out a tissue, blew his nose loudly, and muttered, “Stupid dust.”

He walked away.

The kids exhaled in unison.

“That was close,” Ben whispered.

“Too close,” Marama agreed. “We need a better plan.”

Ben thought hard. “What if… we use the emergency exit near the café? It’s got one of those bars you push to open. No sensors.”

“But it’s got an alarm that rings if you open it without a code,” Marama countered.

“Unless…” Ben’s eyes gleamed. “Unless we don’t open it. What if we climb out the window above it?”

There was a small service window—meant for ventilation—that led to the loading dock outside. They’d seen it during their school tour.

“Brilliant!” Marama grinned. “Operation Window Wriggle is go!”

Getting to the café wasn’t easy.

They had to dodge a Roomba-like cleaning bot that kept chasing Marama’s shoelaces (“It thinks I’m a dust bunny!”). They hid behind a giant inflatable penguin when another guard walked by chatting on his phone about rugby scores. And at one point, Ben accidentally leaned on a button that started a recording of whale songs, which echoed through the whole building like a watery choir.

“Note to self,” Marama said, “don’t touch anything that looks like a button.”

Finally, they reached the staff corridor behind the café. The window was high up—about head-height for an adult, but way too tall for them.

“We need a boost,” Ben said.

Marama spotted a stack of empty cardboard boxes marked “KŪMARA CHIPS – HANDLE WITH AROHA.”

“Perfect!”

They dragged the boxes under the window and stacked them carefully. Ben went first, climbing like a possum up a rātā tree. He pushed the window open—it creaked like an old gate—and stuck his head out.

Fresh night air! Freedom!

He turned to help Marama up—

CRASH!

The boxes collapsed. Marama yelped and landed in a pile of foam packing peanuts.

“Are you okay?” Ben whispered urgently.

“Yeah,” she groaned, spitting out a peanut. “But my dignity’s gone walkabout.”

Ben reached down. “Grab my hand!”

She jumped, caught his wrist, and he hauled her up with a grunt. Together, they wriggled through the window, scraping knees and elbows, and tumbled onto the concrete dock outside.

They lay there for a moment, breathing in the cool Wellington air, listening to the distant honk of ferries in the harbour.

“We made it,” Ben said, grinning.

“We’re legends,” Marama declared.

Just then, headlights swept across the dock. Their mum’s car pulled up, tyres crunching on gravel.

“BEN! MARAMA!” Mum called, jumping out. “Where have you two been? I’ve been looking everywhere!”

They scrambled to their feet, brushing off dirt and peanuts.

“Uh… we got locked in?” Ben offered weakly.

Mum stared at them—then burst out laughing. “Oh, you two! I saw the security feed on my phone—they called me when the system flagged movement. I was about to call the cops!”

“You watched us?” Marama asked, horrified.

“Every bit,” Mum said, still chuckling. “Including the part where you tried to ‘befriend’ the squid by waving.”

Marama groaned and hid her face in her hands.

Ben just shrugged. “Worth it.”

As they drove home, munching on leftover dumplings from the night market, Ben looked out the window at the glowing museum in the distance.

“You reckon the squid missed us?” Marama asked.

“Nah,” Ben said. “But maybe next time, we’ll bring it a snack.”

Marama giggled. “Only if it shares.”

And somewhere deep inside Te Papa, in a tank of icy blue water, the Colossal Squid drifted peacefully—dreaming, perhaps, of two cheeky kids who’d given it the most exciting night in decades.