VI. A Very Strange Agony

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

Once we settled into the drawing room with our coffee and chocolate—Carmilla, opting out of the treats—she seemed to have regained her composure. Madame and Mademoiselle De Lafontaine joined us, and we started a little card game. It was during this that my father entered, ready for what he called his “dish of tea.”

When the game wrapped up, he took a seat beside Carmilla on the sofa, his expression slightly anxious as he asked if she had heard from her mother since arriving.

“No,” she replied.

He pressed on, asking if she knew where a letter might reach her mother at the moment.

“I can’t say,” she answered vaguely. “But I’ve been thinking about leaving you. You’ve been far too kind and generous to me. I’ve caused you so much trouble, and I’d like to take a carriage tomorrow to search for her. I know where I’ll eventually find her, but I can’t tell you just yet.”

“You mustn’t even think about that,” my father exclaimed, a wave of relief washing over me. “We can’t afford to lose you like that. I won’t allow you to leave us unless it’s with your mother, who kindly agreed to let you stay until she returned. I’d feel much better if I knew you had heard from her. But tonight, the reports about the mysterious illness spreading in our area are becoming more alarming. My lovely guest, I feel the weight of responsibility without guidance from your mother. I’ll do my best, but you absolutely cannot leave us without her clear instruction. We would suffer too much to let you go easily.”

“Thank you, sir, a thousand times for your hospitality,” she said, smiling shyly. “You’ve all been so kind to me. I’ve rarely been as happy as I am in your beautiful home, under your care, and in the company of your lovely daughter.”

In his charming, old-fashioned way, he kissed her hand, clearly pleased by her words.

I walked Carmilla to her room as usual, sitting with her while she got ready for bed.

“Do you think,” I finally asked, “that you’ll ever fully trust me?”

She turned to me with a smile but didn’t answer, continuing to look at me with that enigmatic expression.

“You won’t answer that?” I pressed. “You can’t respond positively; I shouldn’t have asked.”

“You were right to ask, or to ask anything at all. You don’t realize how dear you are to me, or you wouldn’t think any confidence too great to seek.

But I’m bound by vows, no less serious than a nun’s, and I can’t share my story just yet, even with you. The time is coming when you’ll know everything. You might think I’m cruel or selfish, but love is inherently selfish; the more intense it is, the more selfish it becomes. You can’t imagine how jealous I can be. You must come with me, loving me to the end; or if you can’t, then hate me but still follow me, even in that hatred, through death and beyond. Indifference doesn’t exist in my nature.”

“Now, Carmilla, you’re going off on your wild nonsense again,” I said quickly.

“Not I, silly little fool that I am, full of whims and fancies. For your sake, I’ll speak like a wise person. Have you ever been to a ball?”

“No; you’re rambling. What’s it like? It must be so charming.”

“I can hardly remember; it was years ago.”

I laughed.

“You’re not that old. You can’t have forgotten your first ball yet.”

“I remember everything about it—with effort. I see it all, like a diver watching the surface through murky water. Something happened that night that blurred the picture and faded its colors. I was nearly killed in my bed, wounded here,” she said, touching her chest. “I’ve never been the same since.”

“Were you close to dying?”

“Yes, very much so—a cruel love, a strange love that could have taken my life. Love demands its sacrifices. No sacrifice comes without blood. Let’s sleep now; I feel so lazy. How can I get up and lock my door right now?”

She lay there, her small hands tangled in her rich, wavy hair, her head resting on the pillow, her sparkling eyes following me with a shy smile I couldn’t quite understand.

I wished her goodnight and slipped out of the room, feeling an uncomfortable sensation.

I often wondered if our lovely guest ever said her prayers. I had never seen her on her knees. In the morning, she always came down long after our family prayers had finished, and at night, she never left the drawing room to join us for our brief evening prayers in the hall.

If it hadn’t come up casually in one of our conversations that she had been baptized, I might have doubted her faith. Religion was a topic I had never heard her mention. If I had known the world better, I wouldn’t have been so surprised by her apparent neglect or indifference toward it.

The anxiety of nervous people is contagious, and those who share the same temperament often find themselves mimicking each other's fears. I had picked up Carmilla’s habit of locking my bedroom door, influenced by her quirky worries about midnight intruders and lurking assassins. I also took to searching my room briefly, just as she did, to reassure myself that no hidden threat was waiting in the shadows.

With these precautions in place, I climbed into bed and drifted off to sleep. A light burned softly in my room—a habit I had maintained for as long as I could remember, and nothing could have convinced me to do without it.

Feeling fortified, I thought I could rest peacefully. But dreams have a way of slipping through stone walls, illuminating dark corners or casting shadows over bright ones, and their inhabitants come and go as they please, mocking the locks we put in place.

That night, I had a dream that marked the start of an unsettling torment.

I can’t quite call it a nightmare, as I was fully aware that I was asleep. Yet, I was also acutely aware of my surroundings, lying in bed just as I was in reality. The room appeared as I had last seen it, though it was shrouded in darkness. I noticed something moving at the foot of the bed, though I couldn’t make out what it was at first.

As my eyes adjusted, I realized it was a large, shadowy creature that looked like an enormous cat. It seemed to stretch about four or five feet long, easily measuring the length of the hearthrug as it prowled back and forth, restless like a caged animal. I was too terrified to scream. Its movements quickened, and the room grew darker and darker until I could see nothing but its glowing eyes.

Suddenly, I felt it leap onto the bed. The two wide eyes drew closer to my face, and then I felt a sharp, stinging pain, as if two large needles had pierced my chest. I jolted awake with a scream. The candle still flickered in the room, casting a warm glow, and I saw a woman standing at the foot of my bed, slightly to the right. She wore a dark, loose dress, and her hair fell freely over her shoulders.

She stood completely still, as motionless as a statue. There was no sign of breath. As I stared, the figure seemed to shift, moving closer to the door. Then, just like that, the door opened, and she glided out.

Relief washed over me, and I could finally breathe and move again. My first thought was that Carmilla had played a trick on me, and I had forgotten to lock my door. I rushed to check, only to find it securely locked from the inside. Fear gripped me—I was horrified. I jumped back into bed, pulling the covers over my head, and lay there, more dead than alive, until morning came.