"Belief," she replied. Her voice sounded like the rustle of old parchment.
"She’s been there three nights, Holmes," Watson replied, standing by the heavy velvet curtains. "She looks like she’s trying to tell you something."
The "Believer" was what the London tabloids called the specter of a young woman seen drifting through the fog outside Holmes's window. She didn't haunt the streets; she watched the glass. While the rest of the world saw a cold, calculating machine, the apparition seemed to be waiting for a soul to wake up.
But then came the fourth night. The temperature in the sitting room plummeted. The fire in the hearth turned a sickly, chemical green. Holmes finally turned.