Miss Weller's Wax Museum

The display window

Despite the bright lights, all I could see was her blood. It was matted across her forehead, leading up to her tangled black hair, red and dried out. The stench was strong enough for me to smell it before I had even walked in. Her mouth was open in a permanent scream-as though even after murder, she could still feel the knife slicing into her veins. Her bulged out eyes were perfectly white; the ghosts had cut out her irises.
I could see that she had been organizing wax wedding rings at the time of her unfortunate death. The professional waxing stick she had bought only two days ago was smashed to pieces. The remnants of it, along with her pinkies and toes, were arranged around her body in a perfect triangle. I thought I heard the faint drum of a heart.
I should've known that it was too soon to let her stay in the waxing room past 9 o'clock. The spirits had not touched her in the two months she had been here-I figured she was immune. Oh well, she had to die sooner or later. Her body was already stiff, excellent for my display.
Every morning and evening, hundreds of people would come by Miss Weller's Wax Museum for a glimpse of my creations. Since 1866, my ancestors had been attracting visitors all around the world for these detailed creations. After years of police searches and FBI investigations, I was the only one left in the family willing to take up the business. Within two years of my possession of the business, I was the only left in the family at all; I needed more display pieces.
I had the most visitors come during October and November, right around Halloween. Often, the weaker of visitors would cry out once they saw my displays; others would cringe. The bravest-and unluckiest-would apply for a job.
The evening she had applied for the job, she came in with a certain gusto. Her green eyes were almost wild as she described her passion for art-particularly wax use. I saw the way her hands moved with her words, as though they worked together. Unable to deny her dedication, I hired her within five minutes. Of course, she was only allowed to make the hands; the ghosts always tarnished them.
She was always so persistent on me allowing her to stay after closing.
"Please, just this once. Let me stay after you leave; I promise I'll be careful with the wax! I'll even organize your items for you. Please."
Despite my better judgement, I allowed her. Her lack of supernatural experiences in the wax room led me to believe that it was safe.
I began to prepare her rotting corpse for preservation. As I sprinkled salt all over her body, I remembered the first time I had done this repetitive task. I felt a nudge of sadness as I thought of the creation out front, a younger twin version of myself.
My hands, soaking up the dark red, began to drag her body towards the display window.