Beyond Midnight - A Night In The Waxworks aka Waxwork

Summary

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Podcast Summary: “Beyond Midnight – A Night in the Waxworks aka Waxwork”

Podcast: Harold's Old Time Radio
Host: Harold’s Old Time Radio
Episode Airdate: March 12, 2026
Featured Story: Beyond Midnight by Michael McCabe
Original Story Title: "A Night in the Waxworks" (also known as "Waxwork")

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Episode Theme & Purpose

This episode revisits a classic psychological horror tale from the “Golden Age of Radio.” It takes listeners into the eerie, claustrophobic world of a wax museum’s Murderers’ Den, focusing on a desperate journalist’s terrifying overnight stay among infamous wax effigies. The purpose is both to entertain with suspenseful storytelling and to evoke the unique atmosphere of classic radio drama.

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Key Discussion Points and Plot Progression

1. Setting the Scene: The Journalistic Challenge

• [03:40] Raymond Hewson, a down-on-his-luck journalist, asks the waxworks manager for permission to spend the night in the notorious Murderers’ Den to write a story.
• The manager describes the long-standing “challenge” and superstitions about staying among the wax figures overnight.
• Quote:
  • “You want to be paid twice, do you? It used to be said years ago that Madame Tussauds would give a man £100 for sleeping alone in the chamber of Horrors. I hope you don't think we've made any such offer.” – Manager [04:06]

2. Undertones of Fear and Superstition

• Though the manager insists the waxworks are just effigies, he admits the atmosphere is uncomfortable even for him.
• Quote:
  • “I can walk about in company downstairs as if I were walking among so many skittles. But I'd hate to sleep alone down there amongst them...they seem to stare so.” – Manager [05:15]
• Hewson insists he is not superstitious, motivated by the need to support his family, yet acknowledges his own susceptibility to “atmosphere.”

3. Tour of the Murderers’ Den

• [07:07] Hewson is led through grisly exhibits, the manager describing each notorious murderer, including Dr. Bourdette—the “star turn,” a French doctor and serial killer never caught by police.
• The realism of the wax figures, especially Dr. Bourdette’s haunting gaze, leaves a disturbing impression.
• Quote:
  • “Look at his eyes…you find the eyes bite into you, don’t you?” – Manager [10:14]
  • “That little figure is a masterpiece.” – Manager [10:21]

4. The Night Begins: Psychological Unraveling

• [13:28] Alone in the den, Hewson tries to maintain composure, repeatedly reassuring himself the figures are mere wax. The silence and his position—sitting with his back to Dr. Bourdette—become oppressive.
• He begins to suspect subtle changes in positioning of the figures, his imagination playing tricks; or is it?
• Senses begin to betray him: imagined movements, sounds of breathing not his own, and the nagging feeling the wax figures are shifting when not observed.
• Quote:
  • “If I turn and look at that dressed up dummy, it'll be an admission of funk. It's because you're afraid that you won't turn and look at him. Rubbish. Not afraid at all. Yes, you are.” – Hewson’s internal monologue [13:28]
  • “Once you take your eyes off them, they move. Not good enough. This isn't I write having ongoing. Not gonna spend a night with a lot of waxworks who move when you aren't looking at them.” – Hewson [approx. 15:30]
• The psychological tension crescendos as Hewson convinces himself he hears one of the figures breathing.

5. The Horrifying Reveal

• Suddenly, Dr. Bourdette steps from his pedestal—it is revealed he is the real Bourdette, not wax after all.
  • Dr. Bourdette recounts how he switched places with his effigy during a fire alarm to escape police attention and has observed Hewson all night.
  • Bourdette, describing himself as a “collector of throats,” coldly prepares to kill Hewson, even mocking him with barber-like formalities.
• Quote:
  • “You cannot move or speak without my bidding, but you can hear perfectly well. Something tells me that you are, shall I say, nervous. My dear sir? No illusions. I am not one of these contemptible little effigies suddenly come to life. I am Dr. Bourdet himself.” – Dr. Bourdette [approx. 18:05]
  • “I collect throats…This is a little French razor. The blade, you will observe, is very narrow. It does not cut very deep, but deep enough…” – Dr. Bourdette [approx. 18:50]

6. Denouement: The Ghastly Aftermath

• [20:05] As morning breaks, the wax figures remain in place. Hewson is found dead, his body untouched except by the icy chill of death, his head tilted as if waiting for a shave.
• The story closes with an eerie touch: Bourdette, once again a motionless waxwork, is incapable of motion—until the next terrified soul enters the den.

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Notable Quotes & Moments

• On atmosphere and fear:
  • “If you’re susceptible to atmosphere, I warn you—you’re in for a very uncomfortable night.” – Manager [05:50]
• Subtle foreshadowing of horror:
  • “You’ll have more than one optical illusion before the night’s out, I’m afraid.” – Manager [12:51]
• Final chilling irony:
  • “His previous employers were wrong in having him credited with no imagination. Dr. Baudette, on his pedestal, watched the dead man unemotionally. He did not move, nor was he capable of motion. But then, after all, he was only a waxwork.” – Narrator [approx. 21:30]

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Timestamps for Key Segments

• [03:40] – Hewson proposes his journalistic challenge; arrangement is made for his overnight stay in the Murderers’ Den.
• [07:07] – The detailed and sinister tour of the waxworks, including Dr. Bourdette’s history.
• [13:28] – Hewson’s solitary descent into fear and hallucination among the wax figures.
• [18:00–20:05] – The reveal of Dr. Bourdette as living among the waxworks; Hewson’s hypnotized death.
• [21:20+] – The chilling conclusion as the morning guests find Hewson dead, his murderer hidden in plain sight.

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Tone & Style

The episode retains a chilling, suspenseful tone, tightly wound as the story shifts from skepticism and bravado to paralyzing dread. Dialogue is clipped, clever, and laced with gallows humor, while the narration delivers atmospheric detail worthy of Poe or Dickens. The voice acting and sound design deepen the sense of claustrophobia and lingering horror.

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Engagement for New Listeners

This episode is a must for fans of vintage radio horror, offering both masterful storytelling and a study in psychological terror. For those who haven’t heard it, the summary above covers not only the plot’s spine-tingling twists but also the subtle mix of humor, atmosphere, and insight that make “Beyond Midnight” a radio classic.

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Transcript

[A]

From Geico Subconscious News, I'm Tammy. Racing thoughts tonight. You just left for work and had a non specific feeling that something was happening to your place and it wasn't good, Dan.

[B]

Exactly, Tammy. It could be smoke damage, theft or just too much caffeine, but you can't stop thinking about it.

[A]

But with renters insurance through geico, your stuff is covered so you don't have to worry.

[B]

And that's great because the weekend is coming up and it's chock full of social obligations that are ready to fill that void.

[A]

Oh boy, will they, dad. It feels good to worry less. It feels good to Geico.

[C]

Past nine, The last strike were leaving Mariners Waxworks. The uniformed attendants, glad that another day's work was over, were locking up on the second floor of the old grey building. The manager, a stout blonde man of smart appearance, was talking to one Raymond Hewson, who looked anything but smart. His clothes, although good once, were showing distinct signs of their owners losing battle with the world.

[B]

There's nothing new in your request. In fact, we defuse it to many people. Young bloods have often made bets, but

[C]

we don't play ball.

[B]

We've nothing to gain and something to lose by letting people spend a night in our murderer's den.

[C]

A night in the murderer's den. That's what Raymond Hewson, the man in the shabby clothes, was after. Why? You'll find out. The waxworks. I must earnestly beseech you not to listen to this. Beyond Midnight Alone. Biotechs the new Soak and Pre Wash powder presents Beyond Midnight by Michael McCabe

[D]

I had a letter recently from Mrs. V.P. head of 7th Street Parkmore to Hunnesburg. And she said, I cannot fully describe my utter delight on returning to the washing to find the stubborn stains of 2 months standing completely removed. I am so glad I discovered your product, BIOTEX. And now Mrs. J. Longman of Cambridge, West East London wrote to say just a word of thanks for your new soak and wash powder, Biotex. I find it almost too good to be true. I've just finished my first packet and I washed all my baby's woolens with it and they really do stay white. And what is more, they keep their shape so well too. Once again, thanks for a wonderful product. I'm just hoping you won't wait too long before putting a large economy size packet on the market. Well, thank you Mrs. Head of Parkmoy and Mrs. Longman for your endorsement. I too can endorse biotechs by making certain claims to you ladies. The most important of which is that with biotext, the stubbornest, the very stubborn stains just vanish merely by soaking.

[B]

Well, we certainly have nothing to gain. If I allowed it and let some young idiot lose his senses, what would be my position? Well, of course, your being a journalist. Somehow that alters the case, I suppose.

[C]

You mean that journalists have no senses to lose?

[B]

No, no, no, no. But one imagines them to be sensible, responsible people. Besides, here we have something to gain. Publicity and advertisement.

[C]

Exactly. And there I thought we might come to terms.

[B]

Oh, I know what's coming. You want to be paid twice, do you? It used to be said years ago that Madame Tussauds would give a man £100 for sleeping alone in the chamber of Horrors. I hope you don't think we've made any such offer. Now, what's your paper?

[C]

Well, I'm freelancing at the moment, Working on space for two or three papers. Well, I don't think I'll have any trouble in getting this story published, do you? Morning Echoed. Use it like a shot. A Night with Mariners. Murderers. No live paper could turn it down.

[B]

How do you propose to treat it?

[C]

Well, make it gruesome, of course, but with just a saving touch of humor.

[B]

I see. All right, Mr. Houston. Get your story published in the Echo and be a five pound note waiting for you here. Would you care to come and call for it? I'd. I'd like to be sure about you, though. And I'd like you to be sure about yourself. I must confess that I wouldn't spend a night in murderer's den. I've seen those figures dressed and undressed. I know all about their process of manufacture. I can walk about in company downstairs as if I were walking among so many skittles. But I'd hate to sleep alone down there amongst them.

[C]

Why? I don't know.

[B]

There isn't any reason. I mean, I don't believe in ghosts. Even if I did, I'd expect them to haunt the scenes of their crimes or. Or the place where their bodies were laid. Not a cellar which just happens to contain their waxwork effigies. It's just that I couldn't sit alone among them all night.

[C]

They.

[B]

They seem to stare so. After all, they do represent the lowest and most appalling forms of humanity. Now, I wouldn't admit this publicly, of course, but the people who come to see our murderers aren't generally charged with the highest motives themselves. No, the whole atmosphere of the place is unpleasant. And if you're susceptible to atmosphere I warn you, you're in for a very uncomfortable night.

[C]

Well, sir, I'm imaginative. I think I am. Probably susceptible to atmosphere, as you put it, but it's a good idea. And I have a wife and family to support. Been a bit unlucky lately in the job stage, you know, and, well, we're living on my savings. Which aren't great. After all, they are only waxworks, aren't they?

[B]

You're not superstitious?

[C]

No, I don't think so.

[B]

But you've just said that you have an imagination. As a journalist you'd need a reasonably strong one after all.

[C]

The editors I've worked for have often complained. I haven't any. All right.

[B]

I think the last of the people have gone. Now, wait a minute. I'll give orders that the figures happen to be draped. I'll let the night people know you're going to be there too. One condition. I'm afraid I must impose on you. I must ask you not to smoke. We had a fire scare down in the murderers den this evening. I don't know who gave the alarm, but whoever it was, it was a false one. Fortunately, there weren't very many people down there at the time or there might have been a panic.

[C]

All right.

[B]

A night with mariner's murder as you want. A night with mariners murder as you shall have.

[C]

In the passage at the bottom of the stairs were a few preliminary horrors. A rack taken from a medieval castle, relics of the Inquisition, branding irons, thumb screws. Beyond was the passage into the murderer's, The waxworks Fertel, the murderer of Weir, stood as if frozen in his diabolical act. Within five yards of him, said Mrs. Thompson, there was Lefroy, who killed for gain so that he might ape the gentleman. And Charles Peace sneering across a gangway at Norman, Thorne, Brown and Kennedy, the two most recent additions dug between Mrs. Dyer and Patrick Mahon. Oh, now that's cr.

[B]

I expect you recognize him.

[C]

Insignificant little beast.

[B]

Looks as if he couldn't play on a worm. Oh, there's Armstrong. Looks like a decent, harmless country gentleman, doesn't he? And of course, who's this? Oh, yes, I was coming to him.

[C]

He's our star turn. He's the only one of the bunch who hasn't been hanged. The figure Hewson had indicated was that of a small, slight man, not more than five feet in height. It wore little waxed moustaches, large spectacles and a caped coat. There was something so exaggeratedly French in his appearance that it reminded Hewson of a stage caricature. Who. Who is he? That is Dr. Burdick. Oh, don't think I've. Well, somehow the name's familiar, but I forget.

[B]

Well, you remember better if you were a Frenchman. For some long while, that man was

[C]

the Terror of Paris. He carried on his work of healing

[B]

by day and of throat cutting by night.

[C]

When the fit was on him, he killed for the sheer devilish pleasure it gave him to kill.

[B]

And always the same way, with a razor.

[C]

After his last crime, he left a

[B]

clue behind him which set the police on his track.

[C]

Now, one clue led to another, and

[B]

before long, they knew they were on

[C]

the track of the Parisian equivalent of Jack the Ripper.

[B]

They had enough evidence to send him to the madhouse or the guillotine on a dozen capital charges.

[C]

And they caught him then? No, they.

[B]

And our friend was too colorful, even then.

[C]

When he realized the net was closing, he just vanished.

[B]

Disappeared off the face of the earth. Ever since the police have every civilized country been searching for him.

[C]

Where can he possibly gone to? I mean, with such a hunt on for him? Oh, there's no doubt about that.

[B]

Did himself in. Obvious, but in such a way prevented his body coming to light. Now, one or two crimes of a smaller, though similar nature have taken place since he disappeared, but he's believed to be dead.

[C]

The experts think the crimes a sense

[B]

are, you know, the actions of imitators.

[C]

Look at his eyes. Yes.

[B]

That little figure is a masterpiece. You find the eyes bite into you, don't you?

[C]

Sort of, yes.

[B]

Well, that's excellent realism then.

[C]

What do you mean?

[B]

Mesmerism.

[C]

Pardon?

[B]

Burdett practiced mesmerism. He was supposed to mesmerize his victims before

[C]

dispatching them. Oh, indeed.

[B]

Had he not done so, it's difficult to believe how so small a man could have done his ghastly work.

[C]

He's very small, isn't he? Doesn't look very strong or anything.

[B]

Well, there were never any signs of a struggle. There's an armchair here for you, Mr. Houston. It's the best we can do for I'm afraid. I hope you'll be able to get some sleep, Mr. Houston.

[C]

Mr. Houston, you know, thought. Yes? Well, I thought just in. Well, I thought I saw the Dr. Bodetta. Silly, but I thought I saw him move. Keep your home sweet with country, fresh atmosphere in every room. Keep Airwick handy. Airwick is the air freshener that actually knocks out as well, right out of the air. It doesn't just mask them with heavy scent. Airwick Is the modern air freshener in economical bottle or a smart aerosol. Get Airwick. It makes breathing a little nicer. That's all you have to do. Soak, soak. Just for an hour or two. You fine. It's the best photos You. When you use your biotics with amazing new biotechs, the stubbornness stains will vanish. Yes, vanish clean away. Just by soaking your laundry overnight in cold water. Or for an hour or two in warm water. Or by pre washing it quickly in your washing machine. Get amazing new biotechs today. There's imagination. Silly, but. Well, I could have sworn just in. Just for a second.

[B]

You'll have more than one optical illusion before the night out. I'm afraid they won't be locked in. You can come upstairs when you've had enough of it. There are watchmen on the premises, so you'll find company. But don't be alarmed if you hear them moving about. I'm sorry I can't give you any more light. But all the lights are on. For obvious reasons we keep the place as gloomy as possible.

[C]

Yes.

[B]

And now I think you better return with me to the office for a tot of whiskey before your night's vigilant.

[C]

Yes, well, for a start, I don't think the level of my armchair facing friend board dead. Yeah. I think I like him a lot less than the others. The dim unwavering light fell on the rows of figures which were so uncannily like human beings that the stillness and the silence seemed unnatural, ghastly. Even Houston missed the sound of the reading, the rustling of clothes. 101 minute noises 1 hears when even the deepest silence has fallen upon a crowd. The air was as stagnant as water at the bottom of a standing pool. Not a breath in the chamber to stir a curtain or rustle a hanging drapery or star to shadow. Must be like this at the bottom of the sea. Have to work that into the story somehow. Like the bottom of the sea. Sinister not. I must say, even Armstrong doesn't look quite such a harmless country gentleman now. Still your only wax works. All would be well, thought Hewson. Yet somehow what prevented him most of all from feeling absolutely comfortable was the knowledge that Dr. Burdett was directly behind him. He knew in fact that the little Frenchman's waxen stare was directed at the back of his neck. He itched for the desire to turn around. Come on, my nerves have started already. If I turn and look at that dressed up dummy, it'll be an admission of funk. It's because you're afraid that you won't turn and look at him. Rubbish. Not afraid at all. Yes, you are. Rot. Complete nut of rot. Afraid a lot of waxworks. Not of a lot of waxworks, just one. Dr. Bourdette. French fool. Not so healthy now, is he? Look at his eyes. Don't want to see his eyes. All the same, he had to eventually have a quick look round at Dr. Gaudette. Only a wax work, like a rest on. They're all only waxworks. All the same. He took another quick look behind him. Now, it did not worry Hewson too much, because it was, after all, only his imagination. But there seemed to be a subtle change in the grouping of the figures around Dr. Burdett. Or was it Dr. Burdett himself? Huh? Looking to the front of him, he looked at Crippin again. He had the slight feeling that something somewhere was a bit different. Crippin seemed, for instance, to have turned one degree to the left. Must have been move my chair a bit. Not Crippin. It was me you moved. And just then, the waxwork of gray moved a hand. At least, Houston thought the hand moved. Just for his own peace of mind, Raymond Houson gave the waxen figure a little poke. Wax. No more, no less. Lifeless, lifelike wax. And they tell me the editors have no imagination. But like some notes, Deathly silence. Yeah. Unearthly stillness. Other figures. Then he turned suddenly and looked over his right shoulder. He had neither seen or heard a movement, but it was as if some sixth sense had made him aware of one. He looked straight into the vapid countenance of Lefroy, which smiled vacantly back, as if to say, it wasn't I. Course it wasn't you. Wasn't any of you. And then he looked back, and Crippin seemed to have shifted his position slightly. Mmm. Can't trust that little beggar. Can't trust any of them. Once you take your eyes off them, they move. Not good enough. This isn't I write having ongoing. Not gonna spend a night with a lot of waxworks who move when you aren't looking at them. No, Houston, please. They can't move. What are you thinking of? He encountered the mild, baleful stare of poor debt. Almost got you that time, Crippen. All the rest of you, too. I do see one of you move off, I'll smash you to pieces. Smash you? Experienced enough already to write my story. Ten stories, for that matter. Morning Echo. Wouldn't know how long I'd stayed if I cleared out now. As long as the story's good. Yes. That watchman up there, he pulled my leg all right. And perhaps the manager wouldn't give me the five or two. Find out all right how long I was here. From the watchman. Rose will laugh about this. I'd tell her. You asleep, Rose girl? Or awake thinking of me? Can't have Rose laughing at me. Kids will pull my leg too. Yeah. Nothing worse than. Worse than having someone's breathing. Someone was breathing. It wasn't me. They knew I was listening. Then they. And then they stopped. Here. It's the dead. This is too much. Bad enough when they move when I'm not looking. But I'm not having the viggers breathing too. No, it won't do. I am Raymond Hewson, unsuccessful journalist, but a living and breathing man. And these figures grouped around me are only dummies. Dummies. What does it matter if they're lifelike wax and sawdust for the entertainment of morbid sightseers and orange sucking curry. Then the gaze of Dr. Burdette urged, challenged and finally compelled him to turn. Huh? Hewson stared into those dreadful hypnotic eyes. His own eyes were dilated and his mouth at first set into a grin of terror, lifted at the corners into a snout. You moved blasty. Yes, you did. I saw you. I saw you. Doctor Baudette's movements were quite leisurely. He stepped off his pedestal with the mincing movements of a lady alighting from a bus. I needed to do that. Not until I overhead the conversation between yourself and my worthy manager of this establishment did I suspect that I should have the pleasure of a companion here for the night. You cannot move or speak without my bidding, but you can hear perfectly well. Something tells me that you are, shall I say, nervous. My dear sir? No illusions. I am not one of these contemptible little effigies suddenly come to life. I am Dr. Bourdet himself. Pardon me, but Steve, let me explain. Circumstances with which I did not fatigue. You have made it desirable that I should live in England. I was close to the building this evening when I saw a policeman regarding me. Thought too curiously, I guess, that he intended to follow me and perhaps ask him parising questions. So I mingled with the crowd and came in here. Inspiration showed me a certain means of escape. I raised a cry of fire, and when all the fools had rushed to the stairs, I stripped my effigy of the caped coat which you will be wearing, donned it, hid my effigy behind the platform at the back there and took its place on the pedestal I own. I have spent the most fatiguing evening. The world is divided into collectors and non collectors. The collectors collect anything according to their own individual tastes. I collect throats. And the doctor regarded Hewson's throat with interest, mingled with disfavor. My activities of late have been curtailed. I am glad, though, of the pleasant opportunity of gratifying my somewhat unusual whim. I should never have selected you from choice, of course. No, I like men. Thick necks. Thick red necks. This is a little French razor. The blade, you will observe, is very narrow. It does not cut very deep, but deep enough in just one little moment. You should see for yourself. I shall ask you the little civil question of all polite barbers. Does the razor suit you, sir? You will have the goodness to raise your chin a little. Thank you. And a little more. Just a little more. Thank you. Merci, monsieur. Ah, merci. Mercy. Over one end of the chamber was a thick skylight of frosted glass, which by day let in a few sickly and filtered rays from the floor above. After sunrise, these began to mingle with the subdued light from the electric bulbs, and this mingled illumination added a certain ghastliness to a scene which needed no additional touch of horror. The waxwork figures stood apathetically in their places, waiting to be admired by the crowds who would presently wander fearfully among them in their midst. In the center gangway, Houston sat still leaning far back in his armchair. His chin was up, tilted, as if he were expecting to receive attention from a barber. And although there was not a scratch upon his throat, nor indeed anywhere upon his whole body, he was cold and quite dead. His previous employers were wrong in having him credited. With no imagination, Dr. Baudette, on his pedestal, watched the dead man unemotionally. He did not move, nor was he capable of motion. But then, after all, he was only a waxwork.