Braxton Campus Mysteries Collection - Books 5-8

Chapter 5-3

“I suspect Hiram or his real estate agent failed to take you on a full tour?” Bartleby grinned mischievously; his pupils narrowed so that two caterpillar eyebrows arched in my direction.

“No, he didn"t. My contractor wanted access before construction, but we couldn"t find the key. In the interim, all the repairs have focused on ensuring we could at least live here.”

I"d asked for a complete tour and formal inspection, but the irritable judge insisted he"d lower the price rather than deal with mounds of paperwork. Nana D had lent me the money to buy the place, eliminating several months to procure a mortgage approval or sell my house in LA. I owed her my monthly payments now. Nicky had climbed on the roof and tested the overall wooden beams, floor joists, wall studs, roof rafters, and related components throughout the first two floors. He"d verified the foundation from the outside, but we knew nothing major could happen until we completed a structural analysis with an engineer. We planned to bust into the basement soon to check for any issues.

“If I were you, I wouldn"t explore much without the help of a knowledgeable and trained professional, such as myself. This house has a convoluted history, and you might find yourself in a spot of trouble. I"ll share my research with you in the future. For now, beware of strange sounds and lights. Do not go into the basement.” Bartleby let himself out the front entrance, citing a prearranged dinner with a friend. He promised to return the following week with Madam Zenya to discuss the incidents.

My rational side thought his sanity was heading south for a permanent vacation, so I brushed off the entire bonkers visit. Once Hope shared her information, and Bartleby returned to divulge his, I"d decide if moving into the Garibaldi house produced any valid risks. For all I knew, my practical joker had gone the way of the dinosaurs or the situation resulted from Ulan"s childish behavior.

I remained in the kitchen and stared at the basement door, angry and frustrated that I wasted so much of my time. I hadn"t expected the door to open and reveal its secrets to me, but I knocked anyway. I jiggled the handle and tried to pry it loose. Nothing worked. I trudged away, theorizing the entire pseudo-paranormal experience was just a case of home-buying regret. As soon as I turned my back and arrived at the sink to test the new faucet, a disturbing return knock boomed.

I did a one-eighty and eyed the door suspiciously. I stepped a few feet closer to it and leaned a hesitant ear in its direction. I stood two yards away, waiting for another creepy knock. What kind of fool was I? I did not believe in ghosts. The door was locked, and there were no other entrances into the basement, as far as I could tell. The house had a front and a back door on the main level. There weren"t any tornado cellars or storm shelter access points nearby that I"d found when roaming the grounds. I was being silly and deemed the root cause as pipes creaking or the house settling. With all the minor construction, things were bound to shift. Given the house was over a hundred-and-fifty years old, it"d earned the right to moan and groan when someone rattled its bones.

Then, I heard a second round of persistent thumping. Madam Zenya"s theory about the haunting"s demise, once the victim"s bones were found, no longer made sense. Someone was definitely inside my house again, and this time, he or she was intent on tormenting me with their presence. I jumped backward, despite nothing moving near the door. I cupped my chin and scratched at the two-day growth I"d absentmindedly forgotten to shave. Wait! That knock came from the front of the house. As I meandered through the hallway, I heard another loud bang, followed by two voices shouting at me.

“It"s too early for trick-or-treat,” Emma yelled in a hilarious sing-song voice. “Open up, Daddy.”

Ulan had stepped across the entryway to the bay window in the living room and tapped on the glass. “It"s locked. We can"t get in. Are you punishing us for being so much more awesome than you?”

After opening the squeaky door, Emma hugged and informed me she was starving. The gymnastics routine had wiped her out, and Augie had no time to buy snacks before dropping them off.

“Augie said hi and bye. Can we head back to Danby Landing? I need to work on my science project, and the supplies are at home,” Ulan stated with a blank expression. He adjusted a Beetlejuice sock that had slipped a few inches to his ankle.

BeetlejuiceAfter checking the basement entrance again, even though it seemed no one had pounded on the door, I complied. Once we ate dinner and settled at the cottage, Emma prepared to walk Baxter around the orchard, proudly showing off her adorable socks with two ghosts blowing kisses at one another. What an angel. “You better pick up after him. Nana D will be upset if she finds anything.”

Emma pinched her nose and begged Ulan to go with her. “Pleeeaaassseee….”

“Nope. Sorry, honey. Ulan and I need to have an important discussion about a meeting at his school tomorrow.” I glanced in his direction and watched all the color drain from his youthful face.

Once Emma left, he sat restlessly on the couch across from me. “How much trouble am I in?”

“On a scale of one to ten, I"d say… a twelve. What gives, Ulan? I thought you were happy in Pennsylvania.” I kept my tone calm and understanding, but direct, so he knew I meant business.

“It"s not you guys. It"s so much fun being around family. I love my father, but he"s more interested in talking to the elephants than to me.” Ulan huffed and crossed his arms around a pillow.

I carefully navigated the conversation, as I recalled what it"d been like for an authority figure to discipline me at his age. Hampton had always gotten us into trouble, but I"d earned the more severe punishments because our parents had believed I knew better. They cut him extra slack, since he was older and had to deal with four younger siblings who"d received more attention than him. I never agreed with their approach and analysis, but what fifteen-year-old could reason with their parents?

“Okay. I"m glad you"re happy to be around Emma and me. What I don"t understand is why you painted that message and what else you"ve done at school. I"ll try to be reasonable and listen to what you have to say, but this is inappropriate and childish behavior, Ulan.” I leaned forward from the opposite couch and clasped my hands together. Although I"d barely known him for two months, I recognized he was uncomfortable with physical contact. I"d read up on his situation, wondering whether growing up without a mother and with a distant father had made him untrusting or incapable of expressing his emotions. All I knew was I wanted him to feel safe and be honest with me.

“They were bullies. When the kids found out I lived in an African jungle, they called me Moozan because of my long hair. They made a bunch of animal sounds whenever I"d enter or leave a room.” Ulan turned his head, rubbing at something in his eye. He"d begun tearing up and didn"t want me to know. Ulan explained that they"d combined Tarzan, the Disney character Mulan, and his real name to tease him. Principal Grey had observed it happen the first time and encouraged him to be friendlier to his schoolmates, by showing them he was a nice kid who could be an ally. Between Ulan"s shyness and super-intelligence, the school"s cream of the crop had already deemed him prey. “No matter what I said, it got worse. So, one day, I took a can of red paint to school and wrote mean messages on all their lockers. I thought it"d make them stop torturing me,” Ulan admitted, then covered his head on his lap and silently bawled.

MoozanI let him work out his emotions, then moved next to him. I placed a hand on his knee, hoping not to make him nervous. “We"ll get through this together.”

He sat up and thrust himself against my chest, hugging me as tightly as Emma whenever she said goodbye on school mornings. “Please don"t send me back to Africa. I just can"t attend that awful school anymore.” Ulan calmed down moments later and swallowed a glass of water.

After I convinced him he wouldn"t be leaving my care soon, he promised to never again do anything like he"d done. “I appreciate you saying that. You inadvertently caused me to almost have a heart attack when you painted our basement door with that death threat. I must admit, when I found those shoes with the red paint on the heels in your closet, I wanted to FedEx you to Hampton"s place.”

Ulan c****d his head to the side and made a strangled sound in his throat. “What are you talking about? I did nothing to our house.”

My body froze instantly, recalling the dream I"d had the previous weekend where I"d felt ice in my veins. “It"s okay. I forgive you, and we"ll figure out how to move forward. Just don"t lie to me, Ulan.”

He stood, situating the empty water glass on the table. “I swear, sir. I don"t even know what you"re talking about. It wasn"t me.”

If I"d learned anything about my cousin, he couldn"t fib without shaking one of his legs. He was as rigid as a pole at that moment. Ulan was telling the truth, prompting me to search for a mutually agreeable solution. As punishment for not revealing his troubles at school and for throwing out the principal"s letter, I tasked him with trivial repairs and painting the living room in the new house. When we were united on our approach for how to talk to Belinda Grey, I directed him to finish his homework.

I escaped and shut the bedroom door to steal a moment of silence. I believed Ulan when he promised he hadn"t left the message on the door. Regrettably, it elevated my concerns about moving into the house with two young, impressionable children. Until I knew what was in the basement, and we verified who"d left that message, remaining at the Danby Landing cottage was the wisest decision.

A suspicious, niggling desire rose to the surface over what"d happened to Prudence Grey and whether it was indeed her skeleton they"d found underneath Memorial Library. I shook my head and crashed on the bed. It was happening again. I had another compelling mystery to investigate. But it was personal this time—my home was possibly at the center. If Prudence was still alive or Hiram had killed her, the law dictated that he didn"t have permission to sell me the house. Now what would I do?