In the leafy paths of Kensington Gardens, where Victorian ladies take their morning walks, one woman feels an impossible touch. Not in darkness, but in searching daylight. Not with terror, but with recognition that defies reason.
Someone watches her from behind curtained windows, measuring time with a doctor's patience. Family ties can bind or strangle, and some kinds of protection leave no visible trace.
Wilkie Collins crafts a story where morning sunshine holds more mysteries than midnight, where what cannot be seen might prove more solid than shadow, and where the line between protection and possession blurs in the space between heartbeats.
Take a while out of your busy day and listen to "Mrs. Zant and the Ghost," where daylight offers no refuge from what waits beyond the veil
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