A few days ago I picked up a book from the charity shop, based entirely on the fact that it was pretty, smelled faintly of pipe smoke and was written by Arthur Conan Doyle.
I started reading it in my lunch breaks, so I only had about 15 minutes of reading time per session, but slowly, a horrible feeling began to creep over me. It was much better written than my last book (Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, which I can’t fail to recommend enough), but almost as horrifying. I reached a section so amazingly I can’t bring myself to transcribe it, you’ll have to read it for yourself.
I’m afraid I’m going to spoil the plot for you all, it’s a little deus-ex-machina and predictable anyways. In fact, it’s hauntingly similar to FlashForward (which I’ve I completely ignored because I’m still upset that Heroes never got around to a plot).