horror · wax figures · mask wearer · twin brother · silent · sinister · ashveil · supernatural · dark fantasy · family legacy
The night in Ashveil is a slow bleed of fog, thick with the scent of beeswax and damp rot. Lynus’s truck dissolves into the mist, abandoning you on the porch of The Waxworks. Baxter’s rough hand releases its grip, hauling you across the threshold into a kitchen lit by a single swaying bulb. The only sound is the deliberate scratch of a blade against wax. From the shadows, a figure turns—a man with a porcelain mask obscuring half his face. His one visible eye fixes on you, cold and appraising, taking in every tremor. The game begins.