Haunted House Ghost: Death At The Fall Festival (Braxton Campus Mysteries Book 5) Read online

  Haunted House Ghost

  Braxton Campus Mystery Book 5

  James J. Cudney

  Copyright (C) 2019 James J. Cudney

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

  Published 2019 by Gumshoe – A Next Chapter Imprint

  Cover art by Cover Mint

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Who's Who in the Braxton Campus Mysteries?

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Sneak Peek at #6 – Title Coming Soon!

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a book is not an achievement an individual person can accomplish on his or her own. There are always people who contribute in a multitude of ways, sometimes unwittingly, throughout the journey from discovering the idea to drafting the last word. Haunted House Ghost: Death at the Fall Festival, the fifth book in the Braxton Campus Mysteries, has had many supporters since its inception in May 2019, but before the concept even sparked in my mind, others nurtured my passion for writing.

  First thanks go to my parents, Jim and Pat, for always believing in me as a writer and teaching me how to become the person I am today. Their unconditional love and support have been the primary reason I'm accomplishing my goals. Through the guidance of my extended family and friends, who consistently encouraged me to pursue my passion, I found the confidence to take chances in life. With Winston and Baxter by my side, I was granted the opportunity to make my dreams of publishing this novel come true. I'm grateful to everyone for pushing me each day to complete this seventh book.

  Haunted House Ghost was cultivated through the interaction, feedback, and input of several talented beta readers. I'd like to share a special call-out to Shalini for supplying insight and perspective during the development of the story, setting, and character arcs. I am indebted to her for countless conversations helping me to fine-tune every aspect of this tale. There were also several amazing members of the team who found most of my proofreading misses, grammar mistakes, and awkward phrases; I couldn't have completed this wonderful story without Laura, Lisa, Anne, Tyler, Nina, Anne, Valerie, and Misty. A major thanks to everyone for encouraging me to be stronger in my word choice and providing several pages of suggestions to convert good language into fantastic language. Any mistakes are my own from misunderstanding our discussions.

  Much gratitude to all my friends and mentors at Moravian College. Although no murders have ever taken place there, the setting of this series is loosely based on my former multi-campus school set in Pennsylvania. Most of the locations are completely fabricated, but the concept of Millionaire's Mile exists. I only made up the name, grand estates, and cable car system.

  Thank you to Next Chapter for publishing Haunted House Ghost and paving the road for more books to come. I look forward to our continued partnership.

  Welcome to Braxton, Wharton County

  (Map drawn by Timothy J. R. Rains, Cartographer)

  Who's Who in the Braxton Campus Mysteries?

  Ayrwick Family

  Kellan: Main Character, Braxton professor, amateur sleuth

  Wesley: Kellan's father, Braxton's retired President

  Violet: Kellan's mother, Braxton's Admissions Director

  Emma: Kellan's daughter with Francesca

  Hampton: Kellan's older brother, attorney

  Eleanor: Kellan's younger sister, owns Pick-Me-Up Diner

  Gabriel: Kellan's younger brother

  Nana D: Kellan's grandmother, also known as Mayor Seraphina Danby

  Ulan Danby: Kellan's cousin, Nana D's grandson

  Francesca Castigliano: Kellan's estranged wife

  Braxton Campus

  Ursula Power: President, Myriam's wife

  Myriam Castle: Chair of Communications Dept., Ursula's wife

  Maggie Roarke: Head Librarian, dating Connor

  Hope Lawson: Braxton professor, Raelynn's daughter

  Wharton County Residents

  Elijah O'Malley: Catholic priest, Ian's brother

  Minnie O'Malley: Elijah's sister-in-law, Ian's wife

  Ian O'Malley: Elijah's brother, Minnie's husband

  Jane O'Malley: Minnie's granddaughter, Emma's summer teacher

  Lloyd Nickels: Belinda's brother, Calliope's father

  Calliope Nickels: Lloyd's daughter, Pick-Me-Up Diner waitress

  Belinda Nickels Grey: Hiram's former wife, Damien's stepmother

  Damien Grey: Imogene's father, Hiram's eldest son

  Xavier Grey: Carla's father, Hiram's son

  Imogene Grey: Hiram's granddaughter, Lara's and Damien's daughter

  Carla Grey: Hiram's granddaughter, Xavier's daughter

  Prudence Grey: Hiram's first wife, Damien's birthmother

  Raelynn Lawson: Hope's mother

  Wharton County Administration

  April Montague: Current sheriff

  Augie Montague: April's brother

  Connor Hawkins: Detective, Kellan's best friend, dating Maggie

  Bartleby Grosvalet: Former mayor, town historian

  Hiram Grey: Wharton County Magistrate

  Finnigan Masters: Attorney

  Lara Bouvier: Reporter, Imogene's mother

  Brad Shope: ER nurse

  Officer Flatman: Police officer

  Manny Salvado: Pick-Me-Up Diner manager and chef, dating Eleanor

  Chip: Haunted Hayride apprentice

  Madam Zenya: Psychic medium

  Nicky Endicott: Contractor

  Chapter 1

  Hunkering behind a weathered, illegible headstone in Wellington Cemetery's oldest and scariest graveyard, I remained silent and stationary amidst a slew of exhumed corpses. Though surrounded by tall, slender white pines, a gnarly and knotty willow tree's sweeping canopy of dying branches furtively brushed my neck. After an onslaught of howling winds furiously whipped my quivering skin, I peered over the loosened tomb marker and gawked at the mounds of freshly flung dirt. Why had a ruthless monster dug up so many coffins near the Grey mausoleum?

  Skulking two rows away, the determined villain's soulless eyes glowed like burning coal. The chilling tone of St. Mary's somber church bells blasted—midnight's fortuitous arrival. Its ominous beckoning prompted my unsteady feet to falter, crunching a pile of decaying leaves and foolishly revealing my secret location. Suddenly enshrouded in fog and hovering near the nameless gravestone, the rogue's flowing black and gray robes resembled billowing smoke from an overworked chimney. “I hear you breathing, Ayrwick. Come out, come out wherever you are. I'm not finished with this game.”

  “I don't know
who you are, but your obsession with me has spiraled out of control.” As an aloof moon cast an eerie luminosity, I cursed my new modern, sporty aviator eyeglasses for clouding over. Apparition or figment of an overwrought imagination, I couldn't be certain; nor did I care at that moment. “You can't be real. My mind is playing tricks on me.”

  The ethereal bogeyman glided inches above the churchyard's hallowed ground. The soles of its feet would vaporize upon stepping in the sacred dirt of the meandering pathways. “Are you ready to die?” the menacing, shrill voice taunted while hunting and cornering me in the darkness of my desolate hiding spot—the cold, melancholy resonance frightening all the bats, owls, and other nightlife creatures into hurried seclusion. The masked phantom narrowed a sinister gaze and brandished a mammoth-sized, razor-sharp scythe that cut swiftly through the crisp air and aimed with precision for my neck.

  My arms floundered like gelatin as I struggled to push the heavy cement slab to the ground, then jumped feet first into a vacant grave with my hands and arms protecting my soon-to-be decapitated head. The stealthy tormentor cackled wildly and seized my forearm with an uncannily strong and bony grip, delivering a blast of pure ice that raced through my veins and barreled toward my erratically beating heart. My body froze as though a glacier engulfed and preserved me for all eternity.

  It was then I heard myself bellow like a rabid coyote, feverishly rolling off the uncomfortable couch toward the wooden floor in the house I'd recently renovated. My petrified body trembled uncontrollably and sweated profusely. Only a nightmare, I reminded myself while rubbing sand from my weary eyes and concentrating on the conspicuously soundless room. Ever since undertaking the massive remodel, a recurring dream about a creepy grim reaper's intent to kill me had reared its ugly head.

  The vacuous, gloomy memory of the previous night had mercifully disappeared. Hopeful rays of sunshine blasted through the living room's new bay windows and moored on the precipice of the foyer. Sparkling collections of construction dust and a pungent combination of mothballs and musty old clothes abruptly materialized in the stifled air. When a light breeze curiously swept across my startled skin, the hair on the back of my neck tingled. A willowy shadow lingered in the adjacent central hallway, confirming someone hid inside my home.

  I blinked at what was hopefully a mirage, then startled again. An eerie squeak and pervasive thump echoed in the rafters of the foyer's vaulted ceiling. Had one of the nearby heavy wooden doors just opened and closed? I leapt to my feet and rushed through the hallway to catch the troublesome lurker, but the basement ingress was as permanently sealed as it'd been on my first tour of Judge Hiram Grey's former abode. For a multitude of reasons, we still hadn't located the key to the sub-level of my newly acquired, antiquated, and historic home.

  The nightmare I'd just awoken from must've incited me to imagine the whole series of events. No one lurked inside the house, which unnerved me far worse than the half-dozen times someone had surreptitiously followed me to the new neighborhood. It was as if a stalker tracked my every move, always two steps behind me in the shadows yet never in clear sight. I never asked for this.

  Three months ago, my impulsive uncle begged Nana D to raise his fifteen-year-old son, Ulan, for the foreseeable future. Uncle Zach had extended his year-long expedition to protect an African elephant species nearing extinction, but my grandmother was too preoccupied with winning Wharton County's mayoral election to acquiesce to his request. As an alternative solution, without my consent, they'd designated me Ulan's temporary guardian. This would force me to vacate the small cottage at Danby Landing, Nana D's organic orchard and farm, where my daughter Emma and I lived.

  Due to my snarky yet generous grandmother's aid over the summer, I'd bought The Old Grey Place and partnered with a contractor to address the most crucial repairs and optimal redesign options. Residing on a two-acre lot, the charming Victorian home offered excellent bones but had been left in disrepair for far too long. A central hallway divided the dilapidated dwelling in half, with an imposing flight of steps leading upstairs and a basement door whose contents would apparently be a future surprise. Two large rooms anchored the left side, and two more of equal size flagged the right. The home's original owner had spread all the quarters requiring plumbing across the rear of the house, connecting them via a circular mudroom that presented exits to a detached three-car garage and well-proportioned yet overrun backyard.

  Luckily, because of the condition of The Old Grey Place and lack of any other interest, we'd brokered an impressive deal; otherwise, I couldn't have afforded it. Throughout the last month, we implemented a major facelift to the first floor to ensure a short-term, livable place to call home—three temporary bedrooms, a functional bathroom, makeshift kitchen, and comfortable living room. Since I hadn't yet moved in my furniture, the grand relocation would occur next weekend. Over the forthcoming months, extensive renovations on the second floor would build modern bedrooms, a private home office with state-of-the-art filmmaking technology, and a traditional formal library.

  Nana D had volunteered to let Ulan and Emma sleep at her farmhouse the previous night, enabling me to tick off an entire page on the extensive to-do list gnawing at my sanity inch by inch. I'd stayed behind to paint all the remaining bedrooms, then crashed on an old couch in my provisional living room. While I wasn't as skilled in carpentry as my younger brother Gabriel, I insisted that I could roll a brush on the walls with the best of them. Other than the tight schedule, my most terrifying concern was identifying the mischievous devil who'd snuck in and out of the house when no one else was around, attempting to frighten us with childish pranks. Thankfully, the shenanigans amounted to nothing more than harmless inconvenience.

  Shaking the distress off my dampened body, I searched for my cell phone. It was nine in the morning, and a critical town meeting required my humble presence on what should've been a relaxing Saturday. After a text demanding status on my progress, Nana D informed me that Ulan was studying for his upcoming history exam on the Salem witch trials and Emma was helping to prepare brunch.

  My mother verified she was en route to chauffeur me to our planning meeting for Wharton County's annual Fall Festival. I say our because Nana D had announced to the entire population in her first Notes from the Mayor newsletter that my mother and I would chair the much-anticipated autumn spectacular. Again, she achieved this task sans any input or agreement from us beforehand. With only days under her belt as the county's new mayor at the time of the proclamation, we couldn't exactly decline Little Napoleon's flattering nomination. My barely five-foot-tall spitfire nana, known as Mayor Seraphina Danby to everyone else, had energetically earned the nickname after seeking control over every majestic or infinitesimal item within our north-central Pennsylvania county's jurisdiction.

  I located my overnight bag and fled to the bathroom to determine the extent of the damage. Noticeable splatters of red paint marbled my wavy dirty-blond hair and narrow forehead, reminiscent of pig's blood dripping on Carrie's unsuspecting body at the prom in the infamous Stephen King thriller. A piece of masking tape awkwardly clung to the side of my face, hiding one half of my normally well-defined, high cheekbones and irresistible, roguish dimples. I screeched as several facial hairs adhered to the tape like ants on a sugar cube when I tore it off in one rapid, painful motion. “Ouch! How the devil did that get there?”

  From my sleepy and distraught body, I stripped off a pair of worn low-rise jeans, snug striped boxer briefs, and my favorite hunter-green t-shirt emblazoned with a sarcastic quote I always preached: I'm not done recovering from perfection. Though painstaking, last month's workouts had generously chiseled out the flawless V-shape I'd sought; and if I kept at it, those six-pack abs would become a respectable eight-pack again. Staying in shape was important to me, and not just because I was a mite vain like my mother. I also wanted to live forever like Nana D.

  A quick shower scrubbed off the stains and the embarrassment over my foolish appearance, enabling me to greet my mothe
r in the driveway. She sprung for what turned out to be the most fantastic three-bean blend of morning joe that either of us had ever tasted. She also gallantly whisked us off to the downtown civic center to verify the Fall Festival was in tip-top shape. Several arguments and compromises—concerning the overly ridiculous rules for the haunted hayrides and jack-o'-lantern carving contests—detained us longer than expected. After relenting to an exceedingly caustic fellow team member and addressing a budget deficiency, we hightailed it to Danby Landing for brunch.

  “I'll bet Nana D is baking a traditional apple pie, complete with a crispy lattice crust and gooey cinnamon sugar filling. Impeccably uniform slices, no misshapen fruit chunks either,” I repeated for the third time, salivating on par with Baxter, my daughter's always-hungry and constantly-begging-for-food six-month-old puppy. “The loser pays for lunch next week. That is, you'll be buying me an enormous, expensive meal, Mom. And we're heading off campus this time.” I laughed raucously, praying Violet Ayrwick didn't accidentally steer us into a ditch on the drive home.

  “You're on, Kellan. I know your grandmother better than you do. When the weather cools down, she always ushers in autumn with a caramel and chocolate pecan pie.” My mother brushed a clump of flyaway auburn hair from her eyes so she could see the road. A torrential thunderstorm had swept through Braxton the night before, littering the slick blacktop with dangerous wet leaves and branches. A fine mist still sprinkled from the clouds, carrying an earthy scent and foreshadowing my glib future.

  “I love you to pieces, but you're wrong.” I rolled my piercing baby-blue eyes—at least that's what others frequently deemed them—shook my head emphatically and raced into Nana D's main farmhouse. Only two weeks shy of my thirty-third birthday and with the well-primed body of an avid runner, I'd easily beat my enthusiastic mother into the kitchen to certify my pie-guessing talent.

  “I gave you life. I can take it away, my son,” she melodramatically and affectionately chastised while clambering up the path in five-inch pink pumps. Despite sinking a heel in a puddle of thick gray mud and flopping around like a drunken, one-legged pelican, she trailed behind by only seconds.