XIV. The Meeting

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

“My beloved child,” he continued, “was getting worse by the day. The doctor who had been treating her hadn’t made any difference in her condition, which I had assumed was an illness. He noticed my distress and suggested that we consult another physician. I called in a more experienced doctor from Gratz.

It took several days for him to arrive. He was a kind, devout, and knowledgeable man. After examining my poor ward, the two of them retreated to my library to discuss her case. I waited in the next room, listening to their voices rise in what sounded more like a heated argument than a calm discussion. I knocked and stepped inside to find the older physician from Gratz defending his theory while his rival countered it with open mockery and bursts of laughter. The tension eased when I entered.

“‘Sir,’ said my first physician, ‘my esteemed colleague seems to think you need a magician, not a doctor.’

“‘Excuse me,’ the older physician from Gratz replied, clearly annoyed. ‘I’ll present my perspective in my own way another time. I regret, Monsieur le General, that my skills and knowledge cannot help her.’

Before leaving, he added, ‘I’d like to suggest something to you.’

He appeared deep in thought, sitting down at a table to write.

Feeling profoundly disappointed, I took my leave. As I turned to go, the other doctor gestured to his companion who was writing, then shrugged and subtly tapped his forehead.

This consultation left me exactly where I had started. I stepped outside into the grounds, nearly beside myself with worry. The doctor from Gratz caught up with me in ten or fifteen minutes. He apologized for following me but insisted he couldn’t leave without sharing a few more words.

He told me he couldn’t be mistaken; no natural illness showed the same symptoms, and death was very close. However, there might still be a day or two left. If we could stop the impending crisis immediately, with great care and skill, her strength might return. But everything was teetering on the edge of the inevitable. One more attack could snuff out the last flicker of life that was hanging on by a thread.

“‘What kind of crisis are you talking about?’ I asked urgently.

“‘I’ve detailed everything in this note,’ he said, handing it to me with a firm condition: I had to summon the nearest clergyman and open the letter in his presence. ‘Do not read it until he arrives; otherwise, you might dismiss it, and it’s a matter of life and death. If the priest can’t help you, then you may read it.’

Before he left, he asked if I would like to meet a man who was exceptionally knowledgeable about the very subject that would likely interest me most after reading his letter. He urged me to invite him over, then took his leave.

The clergyman was unavailable, so I opened the letter myself. Under different circumstances, I might have laughed at its contents. But when the life of someone you love is at stake, you’re willing to consider anything, no matter how strange.

You might think the learned man’s letter was utterly ridiculous. It was absurd enough to land him in an asylum. He claimed that the patient was suffering from a vampire’s attacks! The marks she described near her throat, he insisted, were the result of those long, sharp teeth unique to vampires. He pointed out the small, livid mark that everyone agreed resembled the imprint of a demon’s lips, and every symptom she described matched those recorded in other cases of similar encounters.

I was completely skeptical about the existence of such a creature as a vampire. To me, the doctor’s supernatural explanation was just another example of intelligence tangled with a delusion. Yet, I was so desperate that I decided to follow the instructions in the letter rather than do nothing.

I hid in the dark dressing room that connected to the patient’s room, where a candle flickered. I waited until she fell asleep, peeking through a small crack in the door, my sword resting on the table beside me as instructed. Then, shortly after one o’clock, I saw a large, indistinct black shape crawl over the foot of the bed and quickly rise to the girl’s throat, swelling into a great, pulsing mass.

I stood frozen for a few moments, my heart racing. Then, with my sword gripped tightly in my hand, I lunged forward. The dark figure shrank back toward the foot of the bed, gliding over it, and then, standing on the floor about a yard away, I saw her—Millarca. Her eyes glinted with a mix of ferocity and horror as they locked onto mine. Without thinking, I swung my sword at her, but she vanished, only to reappear near the door, completely unharmed. Panic surged through me as I chased after her, striking again, but she was gone, and my sword shattered against the door.

I can’t fully explain everything that happened that dreadful night. The entire house was alive with movement. Millarca had disappeared, but her victim was fading fast. By dawn, she had passed away.

The old General was visibly shaken. We remained silent, not wanting to disturb him. My father wandered a little way off, engrossed in reading the inscriptions on the tombstones. Lost in his thoughts, he stepped into a side chapel to continue his exploration. The General leaned against the wall, wiping his eyes and letting out a heavy sigh. I felt a wave of relief wash over me when I heard the familiar voices of Carmilla and Madame approaching, but then they faded away.

In that eerie silence, having just heard such a strange tale connected to the illustrious dead whose crumbling monuments surrounded us, I felt a chill creep over me. The weight of every detail pressed down on my own mysterious situation. In that haunted place, shrouded by towering trees that loomed high above the quiet walls, dread began to settle in my chest. I feared my friends would not come to break this somber and foreboding atmosphere.

The General’s gaze was fixed on the ground, his hand resting on the base of a broken monument.

Then, through a narrow, arched doorway adorned with grotesque carvings that seemed to mock the very essence of life, I caught sight of Carmilla’s beautiful face and figure as she stepped into the dim chapel.

I was about to rise and greet her, smiling in response to her captivating smile, when suddenly the old man beside me grabbed the woodman’s hatchet and lunged forward. The moment she saw him, a brutal change swept over her features—an instantaneous and horrifying transformation—as she took a cautious step back. Before I could scream, he swung the hatchet with all his might, but she ducked under the blow, and with a swift motion, she grasped his wrist. He struggled to free himself, but his grip loosened, the axe clattered to the ground, and she vanished.

He staggered against the wall, his gray hair standing on end, sweat glistening on his face as if he were on the brink of collapse.

The terrifying scene unfolded in an instant. The first thing I remember afterward is Madame standing before me, impatiently repeating, “Where is Mademoiselle Carmilla?”

Finally, I replied, “I don’t know—I can’t say—she went that way,” pointing to the door through which Madame had just entered. “Just a minute or two ago.”

“But I’ve been standing right there in the passage since Mademoiselle Carmilla entered, and she hasn’t come back.”

She began calling out “Carmilla” through every door and passage, even from the windows, but there was no response.

“She called herself Carmilla?” the General asked, still visibly shaken.

“Yes, Carmilla,” I confirmed.

“Aye,” he said, “that is Millarca. The same person who was once known as Mircalla, Countess Karnstein. Leave this cursed ground, my poor child, as quickly as you can. Go to the clergyman’s house and stay there until we return. Hurry! May you never see Carmilla again; you won’t find her here.”