XIII. The Woodman

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

Soon enough, some issues began to surface. First, Millarca started to complain of extreme fatigue—the lingering weakness from her recent illness. She rarely left her room until the afternoon was well underway. Then, it was discovered, quite by accident, that despite always locking her door from the inside and only unlocking it to let her maid in for assistance, she sometimes slipped out of her room in the early morning hours and at various times throughout the day, before she wanted anyone to know she was awake.

More than once, she was seen from the castle windows, wandering through the trees in the faint light of dawn, moving eastward and appearing almost as if she were in a trance. This led me to believe she was sleepwalking. But that didn’t answer my questions. How did she leave her room with the door locked from the inside? How did she get out of the house without unlocking a door or window?

Amid my confusion, a more pressing worry took hold of me.

My dear child was losing her looks and health in a way that was both mysterious and terrifying, leaving me genuinely frightened.

At first, she was plagued by horrifying dreams. Then, she believed she was visited by a specter—sometimes resembling Millarca, other times taking the form of a shadowy beast that circled her bed.

Finally, she began to experience strange sensations. One, which she described as not unpleasant but very odd, felt like an icy stream flowing against her chest. Later, she felt what seemed like large needles piercing her just below the throat, accompanied by a sharp pain. A few nights later, she experienced a gradual and convulsive sensation of strangulation, followed by unconsciousness.

I could hear every word the kind old General was saying clearly because we were driving over the short grass that flanked the road as we approached the roofless village, which hadn’t seen the smoke of a chimney in over fifty years.

You can imagine how strange it felt to hear my own symptoms mirrored in those of the poor girl who, had it not been for the tragedy that followed, would have been visiting my father’s chateau at that very moment. You can also guess how I felt as he described habits and peculiarities that were, in fact, those of our beautiful guest, Carmilla.

A path opened up in the forest, and suddenly we were beneath the chimneys and gables of the ruined village, with the towers and battlements of the dismantled castle looming above us, surrounded by massive trees on a slight rise.

In a daze, I stepped down from the carriage. We were both lost in thought, so we climbed the ascent in silence and soon found ourselves in the spacious chambers, winding staircases, and dark corridors of the castle.

“And this was once the grand home of the Karnsteins!” the old General finally said, looking out from a large window across the village to the vast, rolling expanse of forest. “It was a wicked family, and here their bloodstained history was written,” he continued. “It’s unfortunate that even in death, they continue to haunt the living with their atrocious desires. That’s the chapel of the Karnsteins down there.”

He pointed to the gray walls of the Gothic building, partially visible through the trees, a little way down the slope. “And I hear the sound of a woodcutter,” he added. “He might have the information I’m looking for and could point out the grave of Mircalla, Countess of Karnstein. These locals keep the stories of great families alive long after the wealthy and titled have faded into obscurity.”

“We have a portrait of Mircalla, the Countess Karnstein, at home. Would you like to see it?” my father asked.

“Plenty of time for that, dear friend,” the General replied. “I believe I’ve seen the original. One reason I came to you sooner than I initially planned was to explore the chapel we’re approaching.”

“What! See Countess Mircalla?” my father exclaimed. “But she’s been dead for over a century!”

“Not as dead as you might think,” the General responded.

“I must admit, General, you’ve completely puzzled me,” my father said, looking at him with a hint of the suspicion I had sensed earlier. Yet, despite the anger and disdain that sometimes flickered in the old General’s demeanor, there was nothing erratic about him.

“There’s only one thing left that interests me,” he said as we walked beneath the heavy arch of the Gothic church, which was grand enough to deserve the title. “And that’s to get my revenge on her, a vengeance that, thank God, can still be carried out by a mortal hand.”

“What kind of revenge are you talking about?” my father asked, his confusion growing.

“I mean to behead the monster,” he replied, his face flushed with anger. He stamped his foot, the sound echoing sadly through the hollow ruin, and raised his clenched hand as if gripping an axe, shaking it fiercely in the air.

“What?” my father exclaimed, even more bewildered.

“To strike her head off.”

“Cut her head off!”

“Yes, with a hatchet, a spade, or anything that can slice through her murderous throat. Just listen,” he said, trembling with rage. He hurried ahead and added, “That beam will do for a seat; your dear child is tired. Let her sit down, and I’ll finish my dreadful story in just a few sentences.”

I was relieved to find a squared block of wood on the grass-covered pavement of the chapel, and I gladly took a seat. Meanwhile, the General called to a woodman who had been clearing some branches from the old walls. The sturdy old man stood before us, axe in hand.

He didn’t know much about the monuments, but he mentioned an old ranger who was currently staying at the priest’s house about two miles away. This man could identify every monument of the old Karnstein family, and for a small fee, he offered to bring him back with us if we lent him one of our horses. He promised to return in just over half an hour.

“Have you worked in this forest for long?” my father asked the old man.

“I’ve been a woodman here all my life,” he replied in his dialect. “My father did the same before me, and so did his father, and so on for as many generations as I can count. I could even show you the very house in the village where my ancestors lived.”

“What happened to the village?” the General asked.

“It was haunted by revenants, sir. Several were tracked to their graves, where they were identified by the usual tests and dealt with in the usual ways—decapitation, staking, and burning. But not before many villagers had been killed.

“Even after all those legal proceedings,” he continued, “with so many graves opened and so many vampires put to rest, the village was still not free from its torment. Then a Moravian nobleman, passing through, heard about the troubles. Skilled in such matters, as many are in his country, he offered to rid the village of its nightmare.

“He did it like this: on a bright moonlit night, shortly after sunset, he climbed the chapel’s towers, from where he could see the churchyard below. You can see it from that window. He watched until he saw the vampire rise from his grave, lay aside the linen shrouds that had wrapped him, and then glide away toward the village to terrorize its people.

“Once he had seen all this, the stranger came down from the steeple, took the vampire’s linen wrappings, and climbed back up to the top of the tower. When the vampire returned from his prowling and found his clothes missing, he shouted furiously at the Moravian, who was at the tower’s summit, beckoning him to come up and retrieve them.

“The vampire, accepting the invitation, began to climb the steeple. As soon as he reached the battlements, the Moravian struck him with his sword, splitting his skull in two and sending him crashing down to the churchyard. The stranger then descended the winding stairs, followed the vampire, and cut off his head. The next day, he delivered the head and body to the villagers, who duly impaled and burned them.

“This Moravian nobleman had the authority from the head of the family at the time to remove the tomb of Mircalla, Countess Karnstein, which he did effectively, so that soon its location was completely forgotten.”

“Can you show us where it was?” the General asked eagerly.

The forester shook his head and smiled.

“Not a soul alive could tell you that now,” he said. “Besides, they say her body was moved, but no one is sure of that either.”

With that, he dropped his axe and left us to hear the rest of the General’s strange story.