Why is it illegal to be declared dead inside the gates of “the most magical place on Earth”?

In 1971, a visionary named Elias Frost opened Wonder World in the humid swamps of central Florida. On paper, it was a family resort. In reality, Frost was building something else: a sovereign state with its own laws and a private experiment he called the Tomorrow Project—a prototype city where residents would never age, never sleep, and never leave.

To control what happened inside the park, he dug an entire network of underground tunnels called Utilidors. Officially, they were for moving trash and supplies. Workers whispered they were really for moving unhappy guests—the ones who stopped smiling.

The mascots wandering Wonder World weren’t actors in suits. Frost hated zippers. He hired a geneticist named Dr. Howard, a man with a strange duck-like waddle, to splice animal DNA into park staff. The six-foot “mouse” leading the parade wasn’t wearing a mask. It was the mask.

On the nonexistent date of February 30th, the monorail stopped dead over the lagoon. Park officials called it a mechanical glitch. It wasn’t. The train was harvesting bioenergy from the passengers to power the castle lights. In the Hall of Presidents, guests screamed as animatronics halted their patriotic speech and began blinking in Morse code. The message was simple:

GET OUT.

Eventually, the FBI raided Club 33, a secret lounge hidden behind a fake door in an expensive corner of the park. Inside, they found Elias Frost seated calmly next to a cryogenic tank. The tank didn’t hold ice cream. It held his own head, frozen in a permanent smile.

Frost tried to escape by boarding a coaster, but the track didn’t return to the station—it vanished into the swamp.

Today, Wonder World is still open. You can still ride the boats and hear the music. But if you look closely at the dolls on the “Small World”–style ride, their teeth don’t look like plastic.

They look like they used to belong to someone.