VII. Descending

von Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

I can’t even begin to describe the horror I still feel when I think back to that night. It wasn’t just a fleeting fear like you might have after a bad dream. No, this fear seemed to grow heavier with time, settling into the room and even into the furniture that surrounded the ghostly figure.

The next day, I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone, even for a moment. I thought about telling my father, but two conflicting reasons held me back. Part of me feared he would laugh at my story, and I couldn’t bear the thought of it being dismissed as a joke. On the other hand, I worried he might think I was falling victim to the strange illness that had been spreading through our neighborhood. I didn’t feel sick myself, but since he had been unwell for a while, I didn’t want to alarm him.

I found some comfort in the company of my kind-hearted friends, Madame Perrodon and the lively Mademoiselle Lafontaine. They both noticed that I was feeling down and anxious, and eventually, I confided in them about the weight on my heart.

Mademoiselle laughed, but I sensed that Madame Perrodon looked worried.

“By the way,” Mademoiselle said with a chuckle, “the long lime tree walk behind Carmilla’s bedroom window is haunted!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Madame exclaimed, likely thinking the topic was inappropriate. “Who’s spreading that nonsense, my dear?”

“Martin says he went by there twice, before sunrise, while the old yard gate was being fixed, and he saw the same woman walking down the lime tree avenue both times.”

“Well, he might have seen something, especially if he’s got cows to milk in the river fields,” Madame replied.

“True, but Martin seems to enjoy being scared, and I’ve never seen anyone look more terrified,” I added.

“You mustn’t mention this to Carmilla,” I interjected, “because she can see that path from her window, and she’s even more of a coward than I am.”

Carmilla came down later than usual that day.

“I was so scared last night,” she said as soon as we were together. “I’m sure I would have seen something terrible if it hadn’t been for that charm I bought from the poor little hunchback I was so cruel to. I dreamed of something dark creeping around my bed, and when I woke up, I was terrified. For a few seconds, I thought I saw a dark figure by the fireplace. But when I felt for my charm under my pillow, and my fingers brushed against it, the figure vanished. I was convinced that if I hadn’t had it with me, something horrible would have appeared and maybe even harmed me, just like those poor people we heard about.”

“Well, listen to me,” I began, sharing my own experience, which seemed to horrify her.

“Did you have the charm with you?” she asked, her eyes wide with concern.

“No, I left it in a china vase in the drawing room, but I’ll definitely take it with me tonight since you believe in it so much.”

Looking back, I can’t quite understand how I managed to overcome my fear enough to sleep alone in my room that night. I remember pinning the charm to my pillow. I fell asleep almost instantly and slept more soundly than I usually do.

The next night passed just as well. My sleep was deep and dreamless.

But I woke up feeling a strange heaviness and sadness, though it was a kind of melancholy I found almost comforting.

“I told you so,” Carmilla said when I described my peaceful sleep. “I had such wonderful sleep myself last night; I pinned the charm to the front of my nightdress. It was too far away the night before. I’m sure it was all in our heads, except for the dreams. I used to think evil spirits caused dreams, but our doctor told me that’s not true. It’s just a fever passing by or some other illness that knocks at the door, and when it can’t get in, it moves on, leaving us with that feeling of alarm.”

“And what do you think the charm actually is?” I asked.

“It’s been treated with some kind of drug and acts as a protection against illness,” she replied.

“So it only works on the body?” I questioned.

“Of course! You don’t really think evil spirits are scared off by bits of ribbon or the scents from a druggist’s shop? No, these ailments floating in the air start by unsettling our nerves and can infect our minds, but before they can take hold, the charm repels them. I’m sure that’s what it’s done for us. It’s not magic; it’s just natural.”

I would have felt happier if I could fully agree with Carmilla, but I did my best, and the fear was starting to lose its grip on me.

For several nights, I slept soundly, but each morning, I still felt that same heaviness, a languor that lingered throughout the day. I felt like a different person. A strange sadness began to envelop me, a sadness I didn’t want to disrupt. Thoughts of death crept into my mind, and the idea that I was slowly fading away took hold of me gently, and oddly, I found it not unwelcome. If it was sad, the mood it created was also strangely sweet.

Whatever it was, I accepted it.

I wouldn’t admit that I was sick. I refused to tell my father or call for a doctor.

Carmilla became more devoted to me than ever, her strange fits of languid affection growing more frequent. She seemed to revel in my fading strength and spirits, her ardor intensifying in a way that shocked me, like a sudden flash of madness.

Unbeknownst to me, I was deep into a bizarre illness that few had ever experienced. At first, the early symptoms held a strange allure that made me more accepting of the debilitating effects of this condition. This fascination grew for a while, until it reached a tipping point where a sense of horror began to creep in, gradually tainting my entire existence.

The first change I noticed was oddly pleasant. It marked the beginning of my descent into darkness.

Vague and strange sensations visited me in my dreams. The most prominent was a delightful, chilling thrill, reminiscent of the feeling one gets while swimming against a current. This was soon accompanied by dreams that felt endless, so vague that I could never recall their details or any specific actions. Yet, they left me with a haunting impression and a sense of exhaustion, as if I had endured a long stretch of intense mental strain and danger.

Upon waking, I remembered being in a place nearly devoid of light, speaking to unseen figures, and particularly, I recalled a deep, distant female voice that spoke slowly, evoking an indescribable mix of solemnity and fear. Sometimes, I felt a hand brushing softly against my cheek and neck. Other times, it felt like warm lips kissing me, lingering longer and more lovingly as they reached my throat, but then the caress would stop. My heart raced, my breathing quickened, and a sobbing sensation would rise, turning into a choking convulsion that left me unconscious.

It had been three weeks since this strange state began.

My suffering had taken a toll on my appearance. I had grown pale, with dark circles under my eyes, and the languor I had felt for so long was now evident on my face.

My father often asked if I was unwell, but with a stubbornness that now seems inexplicable, I insisted I was perfectly fine.

In a way, this was true. I felt no physical pain and could complain of no bodily issues. My troubles seemed to stem from my imagination or nerves, and despite the horror of my suffering, I kept it mostly to myself, wrapped in a morbid reserve.

It couldn’t be that dreadful illness the villagers called the oupire, since I had been enduring this for three weeks, while they usually succumbed after just three days, when death ended their misery.

Carmilla mentioned having dreams and feverish sensations, but nothing as alarming as mine. I say mine were extremely alarming. Had I been able to grasp my condition, I would have begged for help on my knees. An unseen influence was acting on me, dulling my perceptions.

Now, I’m going to tell you about a dream that led to a strange discovery.

One night, instead of the familiar voice I usually heard in the dark, I heard a sweet yet terrifying voice that said, “Your mother warns you to beware of the assassin.” Suddenly, a light flared up, and I saw Carmilla standing at the foot of my bed, her white nightdress drenched in blood from her chin to her feet.

I woke with a scream, consumed by the thought that Carmilla was being murdered. I remember leaping from my bed, and my next memory is of standing in the hallway, crying for help.

Madame and Mademoiselle rushed out of their rooms, alarmed. A lamp always burned in the hallway, and when they saw me, they quickly understood the source of my terror.

I insisted we knock on Carmilla’s door. Our knocking went unanswered.

Soon, it turned into frantic pounding and shouting. We called her name, but it was all in vain.

Fear gripped us as we realized the door was locked. We hurried back to my room in a panic. There, we rang the bell furiously. If my father’s room had been nearby, we would have called him for help immediately. But, unfortunately, he was far out of earshot, and reaching him would require a journey none of us had the courage to take.

Servants quickly rushed up the stairs. I had slipped into my dressing gown and slippers, and my friends had done the same. Recognizing the voices of the staff in the hallway, we stepped out together. After fruitlessly calling out to Carmilla at her door once more, I instructed the men to force the lock. They complied, and we stood in the doorway, holding our lights high, peering into the room.

We called her name, but there was still no answer. We scanned the room, and everything appeared untouched. It looked exactly as I had left it when I said goodnight. But Carmilla was nowhere to be found.