The sound of Julian’s voice drew Alexander and me into the hallway, where we discovered that he’d assembled a small crowd of underclassmen around him like he was conducting a campfire gathering. He was holding what looked like an industrial-strength flashlight that cast dramatic shadows across his face as he gestured theatrically.
“The academy is built on ancient burial grounds,” he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried through the corridor. “Every year, during the worst storms, the spirits of expelled students return to seek vengeance on those who wronged them.”
“That’s not true,” a nervous freshman protested.
“Isn’t it?” Julian’s grin was wicked in the flashlight’s glow. “Then explain the strange sounds in the East Wing basement. The cold spots
