Knock, knock, knock…
In the quiet room, the sound was especially clear. Charlotte and Russell both fell silent, staring at the entrance—then at each other.
"Looks like the case found us after all," Charlotte said, mug in hand.
"I bet it's Mrs. Hudson," Russell replied, and hurried to the door.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson—wait, who are you?"
It wasn't Mrs. Hudson. Instead, a stylish woman in a coffee-colored coat, with long chestnut curls, stood at the door. Her beautiful face visibly hid worry and unease, a subtle curiosity in her pale yellow eyes.
"Excuse me—is this the home of Charlotte Holmes?" she asked timidly. "My name is Holly David. I… I need Miss Holmes' help. Is she home?"
As she spoke, Holly's gaze drifted into the room, spotting Charlotte on the sofa.
"Yes, but…," Russell shrugged, stepping aside. "Anyway, come in, Miss David. Sorry about the mess."
Once inside, Holly seemed shocked at the clutter, carefully avoiding items scattered on the floor to stand across from Charlotte.
"Who sent you to me?" Charlotte asked. "Mycroft? Or Lestrade?"
"Inspector Lestrade," Holly answered honestly.
Charlotte clicked her tongue in displeasure—clearly still holding a grudge over Lestrade prying open her box. Still, she didn't kick Holly out.
"Tell me your situation. I hope it's at least not too dull."
"Right… okay," Holly hurried, taking a deep breath. "I think there's a ghost in my house."
"…?"
That was both Charlotte and Russell's first reaction.
"Sorry, Miss David, but I'm a detective, not an exorcist," Charlotte said.
"No, no, that's just a figure of speech!" Holly said quickly. "Actually, I think someone's been stalking me for days, but I have no proof."
"What exactly's been happening?" Russell picked up a pen and paper almost out of habit—which he found annoying, even in himself.
"Well it started as little things. For example, the coffee I drank the night before would have disappeared by morning. Pretty trivial—it's a disposable, maybe I just tossed it and forgot."
"Classic amnesia," Charlotte didn't look up.
"Right—I thought so too," Holly nodded. "But it wasn't just once. Forgetting once or twice is normal, but every single time…?"
Charlotte maintained her ambiguous air but gestured for her to go on.
"Then, my perfume. I don't know when it began, but it started running out way faster than it should—abnormally so."
"Couldn't that just be a misunderstanding?" Russell interjected helpfully, but Holly immediately disagreed.
"No, no. You don't understand. Women know exactly how fast their cosmetics go."
"Really?" Russell shot a suspicious look at Charlotte.
"If chemistry reagents count, then… I've got nothing to say." Charlotte shrugged, tacitly admitting it.
"What else?" Russell jotted down the notes.
"Yes—my flowers!" Holly nodded. "I often forget to water them because of work, but whenever I remember and go to water them, I find someone already has!"
"So… something more overt?" Russell prompted.
"Exactly!" Holly nodded firmly, suddenly sounding excited. "My bookshelf!"
"Your bookshelf?" Russell's pen froze.
For all the personal property anyone might violate, a bookshelf seemed the least sinister.
"This ghost is truly an artiste," he quipped.
"Yes, the bookshelf," Holly said with a trembling voice. "I love to read, and I have a ton of books. I arrange them by publisher and size—makes the shelf look tidy. But last Tuesday, I found something bizarre…"
She paused, either sorting her thoughts or suppressing a shudder over a creepy memory.
"My favorite poetry books were all out of order!"
At last, Charlotte's previously lethargic eyes sparked.
"Sounds like harmless mischief," she said calmly, though Russell could tell her interest was piqued.
"At first, I thought so too—maybe a friend played a trick when visiting. But just two days later, the books were rearranged again. But no one else had been in my flat!"
"This isn't good," Russell observed. "Did you call the police?"
"Yes. Inspector Lestrade came, but found nothing," Holly said, despair in her voice. "No sign of forced entry, no footprints, no clues. They suggested I change the locks, which I did, but it kept happening. Doctors thought maybe I was hallucinating from overwork, so they sent me to a psychologist…"
She buried her face in her hands in distress.
"But I'm sure it's not a hallucination!"
"Anything else? Tell me the most illogical thing that makes you sure it isn't all in your head," Charlotte pressed.
Holly slowly lowered her hands, then raised her head, her pale eyes swimming with barely suppressed fear.
"My bed, Miss Holmes…"
She hugged herself tightly as she spoke.
"It's my bed."
What happened to your bed?
"I go to bed at 10 every night, wake up at 7. As you know, it's been getting cold in London lately," Holly said. "But one night, as I went to bed… I noticed—my bed was already warm."