The Shooter in The Wax Musesum

The wax museum was even more chilling in person, if that’s possible.
Not that Mrs. Dakin’s description wasn’t vivid enough; trust me, it was. However, if you were in a supposedly ‘haunted’ museum in the middle of the night – not to mention the freaky wax statues – you would probably be a little spooked too.
And why would a sixteen-year-old girl be lurking around a wax museum on a Friday night in the first place? Shouldn’t she be painting her nails at home, surrounded by her three closest friends, talking about how hot Travis Bollani looked in a lab coat?
Whatever.
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 ducked though the gap in the rusty fence, into the museum. “Harper Fischer was shot here in an armed robbery.”
I looked at him sharply. “What? How do you know?”
“It was all over the ten o’clock news.” He moved like a shadow, his grey eyes darting over the empty parking lot. His oily blonde hair hung limply around his bony shoulders, moving with each neck jerk. He resembled a scarecrow: straw hair and timid eyes.
I didn’t speculate about the possibility of being shot dead tonight; we didn’t have time to think about it.
We found the pink rose bush exactly where Mrs. Dakin’s said it would be. I sunk my hands into the dirt, and dug. Even though it has been years, the box was still in its resting spot. This wasn’t my first request to deliver life savings. I was about to pry the box out of the dirt, but the sound of twigs snapping behind me stopped me in my path.
“Charlie McKenna?” My flashlight landed on a perky redhead with a matching smile. “Excuse me, are you Charlie McKenna?” she asked me a second time...

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Unable to hear the ghost, another gunshot fired and Mrs. Dakin screamed in pain.
My heart lurched, and Wes and I exchanged glances.
The ghost, who was completely bald except for a few hairs on the top of his head, eyed Mrs. Dakin. “You asked her to get my life savings- you have no right. And for that, I will haunt you until you tell me where she is.” He grinned, revealing craggy black stumps for teeth.
Wes grabbed a plank of wood nearby, and snuck up behind the shooter. He heard the ear-splitting crunch and waited for the shooter to collapse.
The shooter turned around and watched Wes for a moment before the faintest of smiles broke his ice-hard expression. He took the tin box from his hands. “This belongs to me.”
Watching from a distance, I saw the shooter point the gun between his eyes. The light of the fired shot flared, and he was gone.
But not for long.