Constance sat straight up in bed, eyes wide open. Light from the full moon seeped through the window and cast shadows around her attic bedroom. She gazed about and then stood. Slowly, she walked to the window. It was still latched. Yet, she¢d felt . . . no, it was a dream . . . her imagination, nothing more. Again, an icy gush of air rushed passed her, almost through her. Her heart beat quickened. Her imagination? She caught a glimpse of something in the antique, full-length mirror. She hurried to it, only to see . . . screaming was the last thing she remembered.