The room is dark, but I can still make out their shape. Long hair. Male or female?
I try to shift my arms, my legs, but I’m paralyzed.
The shape moves closer, slowly advancing along the side of the bed. Their movements smooth with no sound, as if they’re floating.
Moonlight shines through the window, pale blue illuminating the creature above me. Black hair falls forward as they lean down, their mouth wide, plunging fangs into the flesh of my breast.
My scream echoes in my ears as I sit upright in bed.
Something pushes on my thigh. Clairee’s small feet as she stumbles off my legs with an irritatedmew. Finding her footing, she leaps to the floor and scurries out the door.
“Sorry,” I call after her, running a hand through my hair. She must have been sleeping on me, maybe nuzzling my face. A sweet, friendly caress.
But that’s not what I felt in my dream.
Throwing back the cover, I walk to the bathroom and start the shower. Hot enough to burn away cold prickles and the lingering sensation of teeth in my skin.
I don’t need a therapist to tell me the source of the dream. It’s the book.Carmilla. Filled with gloom and foreboding.
But also the questions behind the book. Was it always in the apartment? Or did someone sneak in and leave it for me?
Its blood-red cover blended perfectly with the velvet.
Easily overlooked, right?
Turning off the water, I step out of the shower, wrap up in a towel, and stare at myself in the mirror.
Right?
With my hair towel-dried, I get dressed, head downstairs, and start a pot of coffee. While the machine spits and hisses, I open my phone.
A notification pops on the screen, from the photo-sharing app. Tapping the icon, I open the app to find a red dot by the little arrow at the top. A message.
A message from Alice.
Have you found the journal yet?
My first reaction is to type a reply, but then I pause. Instead of messaging Alice, I tap her picture. Once I’m on her profile, I click on the list of who she’s following.
Hundreds of accounts are listed, but I assume her sister would have been one of her first contacts. Family and friends usually are. I scroll all the way down, almost to the bottom, before I spot Rose’s name.
A prickly sensation fills my chest as I stare at her picture. Bright eyes, dimpled smile, hair blonde—but curly where Alice’s is straight.
Another moment of hesitation, and I click through to her profile.
I start with her last post, a generic photo of a sunset. It could have been taken from anywhere in the world, but the caption is what gets my attention.
Au revoir, Paris. I’m ready for my next adventure.
Over eighty comments on the picture. Rose was a popular girl.
Expanding the comments, I read various versions of the same thing—well wishes, questions about where she’s going, exclamations about how lucky she was to live in Paris.
I scroll down to the next picture. This one is a selfie of Rose, grinning sideways toward the camera.
As I scrutinize the photo, the wall behind her catches my attention. Rather, the painting on the wall. A landscape I’ve seen here, in the main salon. The selfie was taken in this apartment.
Rose stares directly into the camera, her eyes soft and hooded, as if flirting with her followers. The caption below reads: Paris is an amazing city, but not all riches are made of gold. I will always treasure our time here, ma douce bête.
