Fluid black curves create a picture, and as I stare, an image emerges. A woman, the top half of her face cut off by the cover’s edge. Black hair slithers down the front of her shoulders.
Carmilla.
The title seems familiar, but I can’t place it.
Reaching for the book, I pick it up by the corner, as if it might bite, and take it with me to the kitchen.
As I make my meal, I glance at the book on the countertop, telling myself it was there all along. Sitting on the chair. Probably since before I arrived.
But the other side of the argument pushes back. Yesterday, I searched everywhere, lookingspecificallyfor a book. How could I possibly have missed one lying out in the open?
But did I check the chair? I can’t remember.
The debate continues until my food is gone and my dishes are in the washer. Unable to ignore its presence, I pick up the tattered paperback. The figure on the cover pulls at me, somehow sensuous and ominous all at once.
And despite how unsettled I feel, I’m compelled to read it.
Cover to cover.
Pouring another glass of merlot, I drink it down. And pour another.
Wine glass in one hand and the book in the other, I go upstairs to the study. Rain continues to lash outside, rivulets on the glass casting serpentine shadows.
Because the night calls for it, because my mood calls for it, I light the logs in the hearth and settle on the couch.
The book is short, more novella than full novel, so it shouldn’t take me long to read.
Yellowed and worn, the pages crackle in protest as I open the book. The font of the copyright page is old, the text printed slightly off-center. But the story itself dates even farther back. The sentences long, the language formal.
Still, the eerie tone draws me in, filled with Gothic castles and misty nights.
A tragic story set in the heart of the Austrian forest. A young woman named Laura lives with her father. Isolated. Innocent. Untouched.
Until a woman arrives.
A woman called Carmilla.
Despite the intricate writing style, an unnerving sense of danger seeps from the page. Soon, I’ve forgotten my wine, engrossed in the story as horror unfolds.
Carmilla is more than a new companion. She’s a seductress, using her body and her words to enthrall young Laura. The author employs no crass language or pornographic scenes, yet the images are undeniably erotic.
As the sexual tension builds, I turn another page. And find the first words scribbled in the margins. Handwritten. In red ink.
Comparing the note to the text, I realize someone has rewritten a quote from the chapter.
“You are mine, you shall be mine, and you and I are one forever.”
Neither masculine nor feminine, the writing consists of angular letters scratched in cursive.
Who did this book belong to?
In a later chapter, more red ink, though this time the note is underlined.No sacrifice without blood.
By this point, the vampiric reference is clear. Carmilla is an evil figure, one disguised by sweetness, glossy lips, and skin pale as the moon. Again and again, she takes Laura’s blood, giving her nightmares and torment in exchange.
Riveted by the tale, I read on as Laura weakens daily, and Carmilla grows more volatile, wandering the night in search of what she craves. I read of ethereal hands stroking Laura’s cheeks, of warm lips pressed to the pulse in her neck.
Of a figure standing by her bed, bathed from chin to foot in one great stain of blood.
