The Premise

The roadside wax museum off Route 12 is easy to miss until a storm forces a stop — dusty carpets, rows of forgotten figures, and an attendant who says only one thing on the way in: keep moving, don't stand still too long in front of any of them. It sounds like the kind of warning a tired old museum gives for atmosphere, nothing more. Then a raised hand shifts a few inches when nobody's looking, and a pair of painted eyes tracks slowly across the room. Nobody explains why the warning matters — but by the time it's clear it does, leaving isn't as simple as walking back out the front door.