‘Rumors of ‘The Dread Toll’ emerge over embers, they being a series of less beloved tales than your Jersey Devils and myriad-gender Moth-Beings, muttered only after the fire has wound down and allowed the night to encroach upon storytelling. The reluctance to voice these stories stems from a two-fold problem with every toll taking- that meeting a booth implies that a driver was either intoxicated or on the verge of sleep, and that the outcome of each encounter is widely mundane.

The average paying of ‘The Dread Toll’ begins late at night or early in the morning, often on a stretch of road that is familiar to the driver. A checkpoint emerges on the horizon, a gray, cloudy booth and a weathered gate. Condensation and grime obscure the toll-takers inside their boxes- though we know them to have humanoid silhouettes and dull voices. They demand payment through a crackling speaker and raise the gate when paid. The toll itself feels expensive, but not so expensive as to warrant arguing.

And the toll is always money.

That’s the ‘dread’ that lingers with those who meet the tollbooths, long after they have paid and gone on their way- a discomfort at the idea that the American supernatural is as strapped for cash as anybody else, that money is the force that turns all imaginable worlds.

The state of the country’s gray infrastructure is currently unknown, but it would behoove the lone driver to keep a roll of quarters in the glovebox. Prices are on the rise.

-excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

The man, presumably the owner, stands behind me. I feel his eager breath on my shoulder. His hands tremble in his pockets, shaking the quarters there.

“Go on,” he says, “This machine is one-of-a-kind. A game unlike any other.”

The machine, an arcade cabinet called ‘ESCAPE!,’ beeps innocently and runs a small, pixeled man through a variety of trap-filled rooms.

“You’re sure,” I say again, “You’re sure I’m not going to get pulled into this thing? Like, pulled in to a real-life situation where I’m that guy on the screen.”

A speech bubble appears above ‘ESCAPE!’s’ character.

“Help!” it says.

The owner coughs and looks nervously around the empty room.

“First game’s on me,” he says, handing me a sweaty coin, “With a little skill you might be able to play on that for a long time.”

This is a man that can’t help himself.

I balance the coin in the slot and hear the man’s breath catch- almost a squeal. I brace myself and the quarter drops. The machine beeps wildly and then beckons me to start.

The man taps his foot and scratches wildly at his scalp for half an instant.

“Now,” he says, “Just press that red button. That’s when the real fun begins.”

This, like so much of what I do, will end badly.

-traveler

After two days of shuffling through snow and ice, two days of an escalating storm, I hunker down in a small cave and rest, gathering warmth and strength and taking stock of my dwindling rations. A few dry pieces of jerky, a sleeve of cookies, and bottom-bag rejects of a picked-over trail-mix, all raisins, peanut skins, and dust.

When I’ve confirmed the direness of the situation, I dig for the ground, hoping to find a surface that isn’t ice. No such luck- the softer snow gives way to sandpaper frost and I put my sore, trembling fingers away. I could move deeper, further into the darkness of the cave where the storm hasn’t yet reached, but it grows darker even as I stay still. The wind has changed and the entrance shrinks under the layers of drifting snow. It would be easy to lose the way out.

In the dwindling half-light, I harvest the ceiling’s rainbow stalactites, tossing them into a multi-color pile for shucking. There is a lot of green here, the chemical smell of artificial lime. I follow a vein of orange that starts several yards in and weakens to a dull lemon-yellow at the edge of light. The dank smell of fudgsicles and freezer burn rises from the thick black beyond.

An hour’s work is a minute’s fire, a warmth that leaves me colder than I was before. I stir the ashes of flimsy wood and faded punchlines and prepare myself for what will be the last try. There is not enough food for a meal, not enough heat to warm my extremities, not any reason to stop short of the exit. I consider the scant calories of the popsicle pile and weigh them against the deep cold of my body. If this really is the last push, I’ll need all the energy I can muster.

I melt a soda can’s worth of orange ice to slush in the waning coals and sip.

Sugar-free.

It’s all sugar-free.

‘Americans never feel freer than when they are presented with an abundance of unremarkable choices. Consider the self-service fountain drink, the multi-flavor holiday popcorn tin, and the international, all-you-can-eat buffet. Consider the 400 channel cable package, the cloned dating app, and the coffees with deep, personal backstories.

Consider ‘Chilltown,’ which boasts the country’s largest selection of frozen sweets under one roof, a collection so large and so all-encompassing that it includes a ‘collector’s aisle’ of popsicles kept in stasis since the pioneering days of freezer technology. Here you can peruse and sample- testing one decade’s strawberry against another or exploring the niche and failed flavors of doomed enterprises. The modern selection is no less varied, featuring ice creams from the west, the east, from neighbors in all four cardinal directions and from a fifth, loosely defined region marked ‘Other.’

In 2006 interview, ‘Chilltown’ owner, Anaya Anand admitted the selection can be overwhelming for some.

“It’s a lot,” she said, “And some people just want their vanillas and their chocolates. We get people walking out with coolers full of weird stuff and others that hunt around forever and never buy a thing. Some people love the choices. Some just freeze.”’

-traveler

Alice, between my teeth, tugs north. Her picks, swollen with water, turn in the wind and settle like a poor man’s compass. When my things have dried, stretched out in a field of unnamed boulders, I count my money and head west, feeling the thin wood grow splintery on my tongue in disagreement.

Alice is used to death in a way that I’m not. I don’t know what she sees from where she is, or what she feels about the man left behind in ‘The Watery Grave,’ but I am not inclined to join the Wayside just yet, to be a source of fear or confusion for those who encounter me. Toward that end, we ride west, in pursuit of ‘The Traveling Night Market,” which was last reported crossing into Iowa.

‘Appearing, unannounced, in gray-haired twilight, ‘The Traveling Night Market’ spells detriment for the passage of quiet evenings. It is a cause for temporary school closures in no less than fourteen districts, where well-behaved children have become skewed with strange ideals. It has formed and disbanded cults, uncountable, and it chews up unwelcomed followers like so much gristle, leaving a trail of meat and mangled destinies.

‘The Market’s’ legal head, Marlin Zed, serves as its harbinger, appearing in the offices of local town officials to produce labyrinthine systems of zoning permits, receipts, and fee waivers. Chaos sown, Zed will consume one hundred dollars worth of vodka-tonics at the nearest watering hole, wander drunkenly to the proposed site of ‘The Market,’ and pass out like some great, lumpy egg, waking only to pull crumpled legal documents from his coat as required.

‘The Traveling Night Market’ arrives within a day of these events and, there, you can buy scraps of the very darkness from which it emerges.’

A small group of concerned people have formed across from the fair grounds to protest ‘The Traveling Night Market’ in its most recent incarnation. I keep a parking lot’s distance between us while I wait for admittance to begin. Around four in the afternoon the group begins to struggle under the force of a wind that arrives to wreak havoc on their amateur signage and disperses them by five. I’m approached by a man who emerges from the ‘Market’ shortly after that.

“Strange thing, that wind, eh?” he asks, and I nod. “By strange I mean about how it only seemed focused on them folks causin’ trouble for the ‘Market’ and didn’t but rustle a single leaf a’these trees or whip at your hair or nothing.”

I nod again and the man sniffs.

“Not for nothing,” he says, “But I go by the moniker ‘Gale George’ at the ‘Market.’”

“You’re saying you caused the wind?” I ask, and the man puts his hands up in carefully exaggerated denial.

“No man can control the wind, my friend,” he laughs, “Why, that would be… that would be magic.”

I nod again and check the time.

“You’re a hard one to please,” he says, “What brings you to the ‘Market?’”

“A book I read says you can buy darkness there.”

“Emily’s the one you want, then,” he shrugs, “I’ll take you to her.”

“Is it open?”

“Might as well be,” he says, and we begin to walk, “Mr. Zed says we’ve got to keep the place quiet till sunset. Adds to the mystique. Meanwhile, we’re all bored as hell. Broke, too. Em’s cash only, by the way. Not cheap, neither.”

“Does she trade?”

The man smiles.

“What’s a fella like you got to trade to someone who can cut up the night?”

“A radio,” I say, “Previously haunted.”

“Don’t know that Em’s got use for that.”

“A few human teeth.”

“Got a full set herself, she does.”

“The gratitude of a shadowless man.”

“Was gonna ask about that,” he says, “Seemed rude until you mentioned it. And who’s the lady you’ve got traveling with you?”

“Alice,” I tell him and, sensing my surprise he says:

“A ghost ain’t nothing but wind.”

Gale George leaves me outside a tent with a sign that reads ‘Emily Nosferatu, the Black Tailor.’ He declines entering, himself, citing a history of personal clashes and ‘general claustrophobia,’ but hands me his card, insisting that wind and storm related business can be conducted by phone as necessary.

Inside the tent is a skeleton of a woman, her eyes glinting and bulged in the light from the open flap, which disappears quickly with a slap of leather- the tent resealing itself. There, invisibly, we bargain, trading dollars and favors and items of interest. She circles me all the while, her voice here and there between exchanges.

She wants the picks, Alice’s picks, or an outrageous amount of money and I guiltily bargain away just two pieces of the coffin before I hear the sharp whip of measuring tape and feel her bony fingers tapping the places where my body folds in.

In the deep black of the tent there is the sound of heavy scissors, a scrape and a click before the brush of metal along my neck. The Black Tailor cuts close and carefully. She cautions me against moving, though I stand very still. I do not hear her breathe, though I sense her face close to me.

Having fully traced my silhouette, I hear the woman step backward. The scissors close and she demands payment.

“It will always be behind you,” she says, “And it will drag for a while before you break it in. Sew it to your socks if a leg comes lose- black thread or you’ll get funny looks from children and dogs.”

“Dry-clean only?” I ask, and she ejects me from the tent.

The new shadow moves slowly and it sometimes makes mistakes, holding out the wrong arm or standing in profile, but I think it’s learning and it seems to appreciate the challenge. I praise it, occasionally, though it’s given me no reason to think it can hear.

Maybe it does the same for me.

-traveler

I am well enough, after a week in ‘The Watery Grave,’ to know that I am unwell. At the arrival of the man, the sane puppeteer inside me begins to put on a show, knowing that it will only have to be a civil 24 hours before I escape or die in escaping. My hand-strings tug and a voice comes from inside me:

“Hello,” it says, and it laughs lightly.

No stranger, this is, nevertheless, a strange man. He strips down to his sagging body and joins me in donning only underwear. I make room for him, for his things, and watch as he rolls out a blanket. The descent has left him entirely unscathed and, as though sensing my thoughts, he eyes me and says:

“Rough waters on your way down?”

My scabbed wounds crack quietly as I shift.

“It was narrower than I thought.”

“How long have you been down here.”

“Just a couple days,” I say.

I’m not sure why I lie.

The man hums a moment, the same tune.

“When are you thinking of going?”

“The next time,” I tell him, “Tomorrow.”

He nods and I add, “Not because of you.”

He nods again and he pulls out a harmonica.

“You play?” he asks, “Sing?”

“Neither.”

“Mind if I do?”

The sound of the harmonica in ‘The Watery Grave’ is maddening and inescapable but I listen, politely, sick on the inside like a rotten fruit. I stop him in between breaths.

“How did you get down so easily?” I ask.

“I’m a ghost,” he hums, “Come down to haunt the ‘Grave’ after perishing here myself.”

“Really?” I ask, because it’s hard to know what’s possible anymore.

“Nope,” he says, “But I’ve been down here a few times. Was worse off than you, I think.”

We’ve been avoiding direct eye contact, given the closeness of our quarters, but he turns to see me now with a look that it knowing, at first, and then, suddenly, concerned.

“How are you doing that?” he asks.

He leans forward, to look behind me, and then shifts back to dig in his bag. Before I can answer, he shines the beam of a little flashlight over my body and I cover myself, suddenly shy.

“You’re not casting a shadow,” he says, and though he chuckles as he says it, I see his frown hanging above the light.

“Yeah…” I say, “Weird, huh? Just, uh, happens.”

I wait for him to ask me about it but he doesn’t. He just nods and puts away his light. He pretends to read for a while, staring closely at the pages but rarely turning them. We exchange few words.

The man tries to escape while I sleep, leaving behind his bag and his harmonica, counting on his experience to guide him through the dark, waterlogged tunnel. I find him floating in the pool, one more hurdle to my exit.

-traveler

‘The Watery Grave’ is slick, at first, with blood from my various clam-wounds and with a half-stomachful of sea water. It is a difficult place to stand in, looking like some volcanic bubble, some still-born fart from the early, gassy days of the earth when things were still quiet and clean and smooth. I dreaded finding a body- I was sure I would, if not in the tunnel then certainly in the cavern itself, but there are no signs of life except my own. There is the sound of rushing water and sucking air as I watch the tunnel disappear under the black water. Then, the tunnel and the noise are gone, and I am left in absolute stillness.

I have packed well and learned the wisdom of catching my breath. I bandage my wounds and set up a modest camp, laying out blankets on the ground and making a table of my deflated pack. I eat a handful of a bland trail-mix that I make myself for times of lying low. It’s cheap mixture, caloric. Most importantly, it makes me want to not eat, it eventually becomes less desirable than going without.

Later, I am squatting awkwardly over a plastic bag, unable to find the proper balance for anything like a satisfying shit. My thighs ache terribly, my toes clenching and unclenching, shifting like worms in the dim light of my lantern. The only flat place in ‘The Watery Grave’ is the pool of water at the center, the flooded exit. At its fullest it is almost indiscernible from the stone- the potential for a twisted ankle in the short term, maybe a cause for madness over time.

Later, I have removed a marble from my pack, a thick, cat-eyed shooter. I roll it up the walls so that it rolls back. I am launching it in full circles by the time the water has drained halfway again, the marble spinning round and round the room and whizzing like a toy car and rattling at the stone’s invisible imperfections.

Later, the marble drops into the pool in the center and is swallowed, immediately, by the stillness there. I wade in, naked, the water rising to my stomach, and I grope with my feet.

Nothing.

I am startled by a sudden gasping, a sputter that sprays the unprepared stretches of skin across my upper half. I leap out of the water and see that the tunnel is reemerging, now. I watch it, a naked, suspicious man in a dark place. I realize I have not slept and that I am not tired.

There is a noise each time I turn off the light. Before, it was like the low hum of a distant lawn mower. Now it is the ghost of the marble, buzzing in constant circles. I try to sleep, but I wake often to the sound. The tunnel empties and refills in the dark interludes. I lie awake and grow claustrophobic, checking, often, that the pool is still there, that it has not moved. I dream of the sunrise and wake in the dark.

At its fullest, the pool in the center pushes just past the brim, a thin, black jell-o. I watch it and imagine its moving, or, it moves and I chock it up to my imagination. Claustrophobia gives way to boredom as several days pass. I write out song lyrics in dust- in the dust that must be shaking off of me. I forget to put on clothes and lose hours staring at the water.

Even though it’s dark.

Even though the water makes no sound, except for the awful sputtering that wakes me each time I start to doze.

When the shit-bag starts to outweigh the trail-mix, I consider emerging. A week has passed, according to my phone, and, though I have achieved a meditative calm, I recognize that it is being pressed and that it is fragile. To leave ‘The Watery Grave’ in a panic would be disastrous.

I give myself one more day and I start to pack and as I pack I hum a tune that I eventually hear, that I have been hearing and parroting for nearly half an hour. It is a man’s voice and it grows louder as I listen, louder and louder, though still very quiet. Louder relative to itself, and to everything else in the past week. I lean in close to the pool, which will begin its desperate coughing any moment, and I realize too late what is about to happen.

A man emerges with a massive splash, tossing a bag up onto the stone and twisting his shoulder-length hair into a pony-tail. He sees me, crouching in my underwear like some haunted goblin, and he smiles.

“Looks like we’re roomin’ for the night!”

The tunnel disappears below the water and the man begins to hum.

-traveler

I arrive at ‘The Watery Grave’ well before low tide and wait, for some time, for the water to ebb and slough off the rocks below the surface. It has been a scattered few weeks, with my shadow and the stranger (a shadow, of sorts, himself) a potential in any dark corner or unchecked crevice. Neither manifest and I wonder if I am lighter for all that the stranger is weighed down- able to move through the world with greater ease.

I don’t doubt that they are following, though, so I park the bike in a storage facility, in a room my family has rented but forgotten. There are pictures of me there, as a child, as a young, healthy man. I spend longer than I should, and then I set a course for a destination I have avoided many times, for having often been in the area.

‘As the sea pulls away from Clementine Rock, one might stop to marvel at the life left scurrying in the tide pools, this round’s losers of the reincarnation cycle. Marvel carefully, reader, for among those pools is a dark, lifeless place: ‘The Watery Grave,’ one of the world’s many dead-ends.

‘The Watery Grave’ is among the most literally named entries in this humble tome, having taken dozens of lives over the course of the last decade despite guards, warnings, and razored deterrents. It has developed twin reputations- one being that it is a spiritual place and the other being that is a challenge to survive. Those combined aspects are a catnip for a certain type of mid-twenties white college-goer, the kind of person looking to add to their repertoire of hostel stories or personally meaningful tattoos.

The spiritual stories describe the main cavern as a natural sanctuary, a wide, smooth room, cut off from the world by the ocean itself and totally still. Totally dark. Some, who have stayed a while in those depths, hear the ‘The Watery Song,’ an aural hallucination or a blessing, depending on who you ask. The challenge, assuming one has packed for their stay, is surviving the entry and exit, a trial that involves wading into the failing tide and riding the sinking water as it lowers you to its terminus, where a winding tunnel, sometimes just 3’ wide, leads to the sanctuary. This is the difficulty, a race against the water as it begins to rise again, faster than many think, cold, dark, and unrelenting.’

I step out to Clementine early as well, hefting my water-proofed bag over my head and slipping into the sea’s potholes, ending life there with sharp crunches. ‘The Watery Grave’ is easy enough to find- the ranger’s latest deterrent, an iron cage, has rusted and pulled away, standing like an apocalyptic tree in the waves.

I begin the descent, slowly, treading water and sputtering. The way down is narrow and sharp, lined with clams that click and clatter, that cut my arms and my feet until I am churning a pink froth. I consider going back, finding some other way to throw the stranger, but by the time I lose my nerve I see that I have sunk too low, that the only means of escape would be rescue.

The descent further narrows, a place where the clams have clambered over each other to squeeze off access. My bag will not fit as it is. I try to strip things out but the water drains quickly, it drains so that I am hanging by the bag itself for a moment. Something gives way and I fall, shredding the skin from my shoulders.

In time, I feel the bottom.

I start in the tunnel as soon as there is an inch of water to breathe, away from the sunlight, to a place where shadows cannot be cast.

-traveler

‘‘The Once-Quiet Clearing’ outside of Langston remained a secret in its prime, its location and existence guarded by the locals through a silent understanding: that it was too good for the world’s eye. It was maintained entirely by the care of its visitors, by the picnicking families and the amateur yogis and the various plant, bird, and cloud watchers. ‘The Once-Quiet Clearing’ provided a wholesome nothing- an empty space and the soft, general silence of a sleepy forest. More than that, ‘The Once-Quiet Clearing’ seemed to sand the edges off sound. Through some acoustical quirk, it was simply difficult to make noise there.

And then, there was a murder.

A man was stabbed to death with no fewer than 15 people in the nearby area, all of whom reportedly heard neither struggle nor scream. An investigation began, a suspect was apprehended, and the case was closed but not before the strange circumstances of the initial killing broke the monotony of a slow news day, first regionally and, eventually, nationally.

With that, the world’s eye turned and saw, for the first time ‘The Once-Quiet Clearing.’

The clearing’s silence became a novelty- a challenge. People arrived with every instrument of sound known to man and battled the noise-dampening effects as part of mystery-themed tour packages. A smaller sub-group of visitors came alone, looking for a place to make their confessions or tell their secrets. They knelt to the ground and whispered to the grass like members of a loose cult. After a year of these brutal attentions, ‘The Once-Quiet Clearing’ began to gray.

The clearing remains open and the way is well signed. It is still, for the most part, a quiet place. These days, the clearing is better known for a distinctive rattle- the rustle of dried leaves and browned grass. It is an autumnal sound, initially soothing, but increasingly like the deep cough of the profoundly ill. It is a place, now, that sours thoughts.

-excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

“A man’s shadow is his worst self,” the stranger says, placing himself in front of the exit, “And yours has been sticking to my feet like dog shit since ‘The Edge of Disaster.’”

I look around for a weapon, for anything that isn’t made of wax. A fire extinguisher falls to pieces in my hands and the stranger frowns when I throw the largest at him. The chunk of wax crashes into the wall over his left shoulder and shatters further.

“I don’t know how you live with this,” he says, gesturing to my shadow, “I didn’t know a man could cause himself so much suffering.”

The room’s lighting dims and twists into prisms as his shadow extends into a pool at my feet.

“You were trailing things when this happened,” he continues, “And, would you know it, those things are trailing me now. This spot o’ haze has been dragging like an anchor all these long months, shortening my days like a head cold. And the money I’ve spent trying to banish the thing… Turns out, a spare shadow might as well be a sign hanging about my neck: ‘This man’s got an expensive problem.’”

My own feet move lethargically. The stranger’s shadow holds them to the floor.

“I hit up every mystic between here and Boston before I started to wonder if maybe this weren’t the only hanger-on. So I come here, and I see this building, and I see this display, and I see the one in the next room too. Walk with me, old friend.”

The stranger moves from the door and I leap for it, falling flat in the stretch between. He pays no attention, and as he walks I feel myself dragged, and as I drag, the light changes to accommodate the opposing shadows.

I slide through a doorway and down a set of three cement stairs, rolling to a stop at my own wax feet. In this room, I am shown in the lobby of ‘The World in Wax.’ I am politely declining membership.

“And, how about the next?” the stranger asks.

His shadow drags me through another doorway, into a dark room with a raised display. Propped on my elbows, I am level with the eviscerated stranger. He lies on the floor of a dirty public restroom, empty except for a pair of legs visible from under the door of a stall. The legs are all bone and tight, white skin, bound together by dusty blue jeans and old, leather shoes.

A sliver of dread pierces me.

“What is it?” I ask, “Did they model it? Do you know what it is?”

“You didn’t know?” he asks, shoving the door open, “It’s your goddamn worst self.”

The thing in the stall is undoubtedly me- a me with matted hair and a stomach that bulges obscenely. My wax mouth gapes for missing teeth and thick lumps, like bug bites, darken my arms.

“That’s what’s following me now,” he says, “That’s what was following you before. You’ve got a shadow so mean it gambled against you when I pushed you off into that storm. It left you for dead. Now, I need you to take it back.”

“Do you have one of those?”

“I’m the worst me there is, now, take it back.”

“Is…”

“Look,” the stranger says, his voice growing quiet and serious, “I’ve not been still more than three days before that thing shows up and I’ve been waiting here for you just about as long. You best-”

In his hush, we both hear the creak of the front door, two rooms behind us. I scramble to my feet and topple again as the stranger steps backward into a corner. His shadow tightens and holds me in place, an inky vice. Footfalls approach, slow and quiet. A floorboard groans in the next room.

“Someone there?”

A man in security uniform peers around the door frame, clearly unaccustomed to threats at ‘The World in Wax.’ He sees me on the floor and, as he swings his flashlight around to the stranger, its beam cuts through the shadow holding me.

The stranger shouts but I am well on my way before either of the men can react. There is a collision of bodies behind me, and a struggle, but nobody stops me in my hasty retreat from ‘The World in Wax.’

-traveler

‘‘The World in Wax’ holds dearly to its ‘number four’ ranking in ‘Travelz Magazine’s Top Places of Nominal Interest to Those with Eccentric Tastes,’ an award given once just before the magazine (and the industry surrounding it) folded like the cheap paper it was printed on. It is a sprawling complex, surrounded by the suburbs that seep out of Greenville and lit up massively at night.

The psychic, Alyssa Crystal, and her unspeaking husband have voiced and gestured ‘deep, spiritual concerns’ regarding ‘The World in Wax.’ In a 2013 interview, Ms. Crystal would say only ‘It is too knowing, as a place,’ and Mr. Crystal would later agree, coughing loudly into the microphone and waggling his eyebrows.

Stripped of context, ‘The World of Wax’ is simply a large, themeless wax museum that prides itself on accurate depictions of normal people doing normal things. Most visitors will enter and leave without a second thought but others, those who recognize loved ones among the varied wax statues, may reel at the accuracy at which they are portrayed and wonder at the so-called ‘normalcy’ of their fellow man.’

Alice chooses ‘The World in Wax’ when I am left, aimless, at the steps of ‘The Park Ranger Retreat Grounds,’ one of the spilled toothpicks having slid between the pages and pierced an unmarked entry. It’s a long drive, likely with many potential stops in-between, but I am superstitious as it suits me and I believe in Alice, the ghost of a woman I never met, like some believe in God.

I arrive early on a Thursday morning and wait behind a group of elderly women who glance nervously between themselves and say nothing except the few words necessary to purchase their entry tickets. The man behind the counter tries to sell me a membership and I decline, though I am surprised to learn no single exhibition is up for more than a month.

“What do they do with all the old figures?” I ask.

“Melt them down,” he shrugs, “Reuse the wax,” and, while I don’t think that is feasible or true, I nod and move on.

Past the small lobby, I enter onto the grounds with its myriad buildings and walk among the stiff, waxen grass that rattles warily in the shifting air. Alice, between my teeth, offers no particular lead so I pick my own way through the complex, admiring, for a while, the scene of a grisly crime, a frozen day at the beach, and a tired looking wax figure looking over a newspaper on the toilet.

The size of the complex is staggering and, without clearly marked paths or printed guides, I am left to determine what is and isn’t an exhibit on my own though, as time passes, it becomes clear that everything at ‘The World in Wax’ is made for viewing. Wax leaves gather in gutters and wax roaches huddle between dusty cans in a wax grocery. I peer through the just-parted shades of a window and spy a wax couple in bed, with seemingly no other viewpoint available. One of the men’s eyes are opened, as though startled by me, a noise outside their window.

Eventually I catch up to the older women, they having huddled around another bedroom scene, this one in plain view. They are locked in a soft-spoken argument, their voices like slippered footfalls, and I eavesdrop from a polite distance. I gather that they recognize the figures there and I walk over, as though innocently making my way through.

“Don’t let him look!” one of the women snaps to another but they, as a whole, seem at a loss as to what to do. I am a dirty-looking man, a stranger to them, and they don’t know I am a coward, that I would be turned away with a single stern word.

“Doesn’t matter,” another says, “Harold’s the one putting himself on display.”

I pretend not to hear any of this in a way that I’m not sure is totally convincing and they press to the wall in order to allow me my look. An elderly man sits up in his bed, nude except for a modest portion of sheet pulled over his legs. Lying near him is a woman- she reaches out to stroke his back.

A sign above the scene reads: ‘Infidelity.’

I give the women their privacy again and wander back toward the exit, stopping, on a whim, at a building labeled ‘Roadside Attractions.’ There, in the first room, an incredible reproduction of the stranger, of the first stranger, stares into a frozen campfire. The backend of his pick-up truck protrudes from the wall and his thick shadow spreads itself across the ground behind him. Ignoring the security cameras (which are suspiciously waxen themselves), I step into the edge of display to see what strange haul the man carries in his truck these days. There, in wax chunks, is a second stranger, its split head bearing the same pensive frown as the living man that now stands from where he sat.

“I have something,” he says, “That I think belongs to you.”

His shadow frays and mine emerges, as though from underneath, pinned under the stranger’s heavy, black soles.

-traveler