I walk across my bedroom, only suddenly I realise it is not mine. Textbooks litter the floor of subjects I am not studying and my eyes pass over an unfamiliar corkboard; professional modelling headshots, photographs with friends, and a local kickboxing club leaflet are pinned to it.

My feet lead me to the dressing table. There's a mirror there.

I try to stop. I try to walk away.

I don't want to look in the mirror. Please don't make me look in the mirror.

I'm forced down into the chair. My head jerks upwards – but it's not my reflection I see.

It's Eleanor's.

Tears stream down her lightly freckled face. She's mouthing something to me, over and over and over again.

Wax. Wax. Wax.

Suddenly the image in the mirror changes. Through the glass I see the curator. Only he looks different to before.

His hair is gone, and his completely round head is bulbous and red as though severely burned. The flesh covering his whole body seems to be pulsating, and some kind of goo seems to be coming out of his pores.

No. No goo.

Wax.

He's at a dirty looking workbench, surrounded by wax models. Their faces are twisted as though frozen in a scream. In his hand he holds a leg. It is human, I'm sure of it. A bone juts out from the end and the curator's hands are covered with blood.

He looks at me through the mirror. His face changes from one of concentration to one of annoyance.

"Why are you crying? Don't you want longer legs? Don't you want to be beautiful forever?" he shakes his head. "Stupid girls. What is your purpose if not to be admired? I am helping you."

Then he puts his hands to his head and pulls open his skin. It peels off and falls to the floor; moist and rubbery. And in its place stands something that makes me want to scream. He does not look like a man anymore – he is huge, wet, a burning, throbbing red monster.

He raises his taloned hands and droplets of liquid spray out from them.

No. Not liquid.

Hot wax.

It covers the glass mirror and hardens.

Somewhere in the distance I hear screaming.

***

The next morning Rebecca calls an emergency meeting in the girl's changing rooms. When I enter she's already there; sprawled on the bench in the middle of the room looking over the article I discovered yesterday on her phone. There's a darkness behind her expression.

"This is seriously messed up," she says without looking up.

She stuffs her phone back into her pocket then sits up, flicking her eyes up to me. Concern momentarily etches onto her face.

"You OK? You look kinda tired."

The dream from last night keeps reeling around my head. I couldn't get to sleep afterwards. I think about telling Rebecca but as she stares up at me I feel a small stab of annoyance.

"Oh, thanks...I look even more like shit than usual. Great."

I avert my gaze from her, discreetly rubbing circles around my eyes with my fingertips. I read in a magazine once that it helps get rid of eyebags. Rebecca's face falls.

"Ah crap. I'm sorry, Frankie. I didn't mean it like that."

The door opens behind her and Jared walks in, thankfully cutting the conversation about how much of a monster I look like today short. There's a sour look on his face and he raises a dark eyebrow at Rebecca.

"The girl's changing rooms?!" he says. "Can't we meet somewhere normal...somewhere I won't get suspended if someone walks in?"

Rebecca looks up at him.

"We can't be overheard, Jazzy. Where else in the school can we go that we know will be empty?"

"Erm... the library, the bike-sheds, the carpark, an empty classroom...I mean...I'm not even meant to be in school today..."

She looks pensive a moment then beams, "Oh yeah...those are actually pretty good suggestions. Oh well...we're here now..."

He shakes his head and goes to moodily lean against one of the lockers opposite me. He's wearing jeans and a black T-Shirt today and looks much more comfortable than he does when he's wearing his football coaching clothes. He's got a newspaper tucked underneath his tattooed arm. Rebecca gives it a look.

"I didn't know you read the news. I didn't know you read at all," she pauses. "In fact – I wasn't even sure you could read."

"Har har," he says, giving her a look, "I was checking to see if Mr Redwood has been reported missing yet."

The sound of his corpse thudding onto the top of the coffin rings in my ears. I try to push it out.

"In case you were wondering, he hasn't," he says.

"Should we report what we saw to the police or something?" I say.

The both give me a look.

"And say what, exactly? He was killed by demons while robbing a grave. And we just so happened to see it because we love late night cemetery visits," says Jared.

I exhale heavily.

"I...uh...OK, you've made your point. I just...he was a human, wasn't he? Shouldn't the police have dealt with him? I feel a bit...I dunno...bad about it."

Rebecca fixes her eyes onto mine.

"Don't. He had it coming."

She pulls her phone out of her pocket and brandishes the photograph of Eleanor in my face. I shudder but I feel my resolve strengthen.

He had it coming, a voice in my head agrees.

I nod.

"I did see something else in the paper though," says Jared. "An advert about a live art, modelling event at the wax museum tomorrow night. A call for models to pretend to be wax instalments for the evening..."

"Looks like the curator really didn't need Mr Redwood after all..." says Rebecca. She shakes her head, "We need to stop this. The question is, is the curator human? Or demon? We need to know how to defeat him."

I take a breath. My dream flashes behind my eyelids.

Severed legs. A monster. Hot wax. Screams.

"He's a demon," I say.

They both look at me questioningly and I tell them about last night. Rebecca's face is set when I'm done; her lips pursed, her blue eyes blazing.

"We need to visit Carter," she says. "Find out what demon he is. We need to kill him before any more girls are turned into permanent fixtures at his wax museum."

Jared nods.

"Good, because he messaged me earlier. He says he has some more information to share, too."