The Wax Museum was even more chilling in person, if that's possible. Not that Mrs. Dakin's description was not vivid enough; believe me, it was. However, if you found yourself in a supposedly "haunted" museum in the middle of the night - not to mention strange wax figures - you'd probably be a little scared too. And why would a sixteen year old girl be lurking around a museum? wax museum on a Friday night in the first place? Shouldn't she be at home painting her nails, surrounded by her three closest friends, talking about how hot Travis Bollani looked in a lab coat? Anyway. According to the thirty-seven missed calls on my phone, not everything is made of wax in the Carmel Wax Museum. “Did you hear the story?” Wesley Conrad asked as we squeezed into the museum through the gap in the rusty fence. "Harper Fischer was killed here during an armed robbery." I looked at him carefully. "What? How do you know?" "All the ten o'clock news said so." He moved like a shadow, his gray eyes darting across the empty parking lot. His greasy blonde hair hung limply around his bony shoulders, moving with every jerk of his neck. He looked like a scarecrow: straw hair and shy eyes. I have not speculated on the possibility of being killed tonight; we didn't have time to think about it. We found the pink rose bush exactly where Mrs. Dakin said it would. I dug my hands into the earth and dug. Even though years have passed, the box was still in place. This wasn't my first request to hand over life savings. I was about to lift the box from the ground, but the sound of twigs snapping behind me stopped me in my tracks. "Charlie McKenna?" My flashlight landed on a perky redhead with a smile to match. "Excuse me, are you Charlie McKenna?" he asked me a second time… in the middle of the paper…” Unable to hear the ghost, another gunshot was fired and Mrs Dakin screamed in pain. My heart skipped a beat, and Wes and I exchanged looks. The ghost, who was completely bald except for a few hairs on the top of his head, looked at Mrs. Dakin. “You asked her to take my life savings, you have no right. And for that I will haunt you until you tell me where it is." He smiled, revealing craggy black stumps where his teeth should have been. Wes grabbed a nearby wooden board and crept up behind the killer. He heard the deafening crunch and waited for the shooter to collapse. The shooter turned and looked at Wes for a moment before the faintest of smiles broke his ice-hard expression. He took the tin box from his hands. “This It belongs to me." Looking from afar, I saw the shooter pointing the gun between his eyes. The light from the shot flared up and he disappeared. But not for long..