 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, visit www.librivox.org. Carmilla. By J. Sheridan LaFannou. Read by Elizabeth Clutt. CHAPTER IX The Doctor. As Carmilla would not hear of an attendant sleeping in her room, my father arranged that a servant should sleep outside her door, so that she would not attempt to make another such excursion without being arrested at her own door. That night passed quietly, and next morning early the doctor, whom my father had sent for without telling me a word about it, arrived to see me. Madame accompanied me to the library, and there the grave little doctor, with white hair and spectacles, whom I mentioned before, was waiting to receive me. I told him my story, and as I proceeded he grew graver and graver. We were standing, he and I, in the recess of one of the windows facing one another. When my statement was over, he leaned with his shoulders against the wall, and with his eyes fixed on me earnestly, with an interest in which was a dash of horror. After a minute's reflection he asked Madame if he could see my father. He was sent for accordingly, and as he entered smiling he said, "'I daresay, doctor, you are going to tell me that I am an old fool for having brought you here. I hope I am.'" But his smile faded into shadow as the doctor, with a very grave face, beckoned to him. He and the doctor talked for some time in the same recess where I had just conferred with the physician. It seemed an earnest and argumentative conversation. The room was very large, and I and Madame stood together, burning with curiosity at the farther end. Not a word could we hear, however, for they spoke in a very low tone, and the deep recess of the window quite concealed the doctor from view, and very nearly my father, whose foot, arm and shoulder only we could see, and the voices were, I suppose, all the less audible for the sort of closet which the thick wall and window formed. After a time my father's face looked into the room. It was pale, thoughtful, and I fancied agitated. "'Lore, dear, come here for a moment. Madame, we shan't trouble you,' the doctor says at present. Accordingly I approached, for the first time a little alarmed, for although I felt very weak I did not feel ill, and strength, one always fancies, is a thing that may be picked up when we please. My father held out his hand to me, as I drew near, but he was looking at the doctor, and he said, "'It certainly is very odd. I don't understand it quite. Elora, come here, dear. Now attend to Dr. Spielsburg, and recollect yourself. You mentioned a sensation like that of two needles piercing the skin, somewhere about your neck, on the night when you first experienced your horrible dream. Is there still any soreness?' "'Not at all,' I answered. Can you indicate with your finger about the point at which you think this occurred?' "'Very little below my throat. Here,' I answered. I wore a morning-dress which covered the place I pointed to. "'Now you can satisfy yourself,' said the doctor. "'You won't mind your papa's lowering your dress very little. It is necessary, to detect a symptom of the complaint under which you have been suffering.' I acquiesced. It was only an inch or two below the edge of my collar. "'God bless me! So it is!' exclaimed my father, growing pale. "'You see it now with your own eyes,' said the doctor, with a gloomy triumph. "'What is it?' I exclaimed, beginning to be frightened. "'Nothing, my dear young lady, but a small blue spot, about the size of the tip of your little finger. And now,' he continued, turning to papa, "'the question is, what is best to be done?' "'Is there any danger?' I urged, in great trepidation. "'I trust not, my dear,' answered the doctor. "'I don't see why you should not recover. I don't see why you should not immediately begin to get better. That is the point at which the sense of strangulation begins.' "'Yes,' I answered. "'And recollect as well as you can. The same point was a kind of centre of that thrill which you describe just now, like the current of a cold stream running against you.' "'It may have been. I think it was.' "'I—you see,' he added, turning to my father. "'Shall I say a word to madame?' "'Certainly,' said my father. He called madame to him and said, "'I find my young friend here far from well. It won't be of any great consequence, I hope. But it will be necessary that some steps be taken, which I will explain by and by. But in the meantime, madame, you will be so good as to not let Miss Lorby alone for one moment. That is the only direction I need give for the present. It is indispensable.' "'We may rely upon your kindness, madame, I know,' added my father. Madame satisfied him eagerly. "'And you, dear Laura, I know you will observe the doctor's direction. I shall have to ask your opinion upon another patient, whose symptoms slightly resemble those of my daughter, that have just been detailed to you, very much milder in degree, but I believe quite of the same sort. She is a young lady—our guest—but as you say you will be passing this way again this evening, you can't do better than take your supper here, and you can then see her. She does not come down till the afternoon.' "'I thank you,' said the doctor. I shall be with you then, at about seven this evening.' And then they repeated their directions to me and madame, and with this parting charge my father left us, and walked out with the doctor, and I saw them pacing together up and down between the road and the moat, on the grassy platform in front of the castle, evidently absorbed in earnest conversation. The doctor did not return. I saw him mount his horse there, take his leave, and ride away eastward through the forest. Nearly at the same time I saw the man arrive from Dranfield with the letters, and dismount and hand the bag to my father. In the meantime, madame and I were both busy, lost in conjecture as to the reasons of the singular and earnest direction which the doctor and my father had concurred in imposing. Madame, as she afterwards told me, was afraid the doctor apprehended a sudden seizure, and that without prompt assistance I might either lose my life in a fit, or at least be seriously hurt. The interpretation did not strike me, and I fancied perhaps luckily for my nerves, that the arrangement was prescribed simply to secure a companion, who would prevent my taking too much exercise, or eating unripe fruit, or doing any of the fifty foolish things to which young people are supposed to be prone. About half an hour after my father came in, he had a letter in his hand, and said, "'This letter had been delayed. It is from General Spielsdorf. He might have been here yesterday. He may not come until to-morrow, or he may be here to-day.' He put the letter into my hand, but he did not look pleased, as he used when a guest, especially when so much loved as the general, was coming. On the contrary, he looked as if he wished him at the bottom of the Red Sea. There was plainly something on his mind which he did not choose to divulge. "'Papa, darling, will you tell me this?' said I, suddenly laying my hand on his arm, and looking I am sure imploringly in his face. "'Perhaps,' he answered, smoothing my hair caressingly over my eyes. Perhaps the doctor think me very ill. "'No, dear.' He thinks, if right steps are taken, you will be quite well again, at least on the high-road to a complete recovery in a day or two,' he answered, a little dryly. "'I wish our good friend, the general, had chosen any other time. That is, I wish you had been perfectly well to receive him.' "'But do tell me, Papa,' I insisted, "'what does he think is the matter with me?' "'Nothing. "'You must not plague me with questions,' he answered, with more irritation than I ever remember him to have displayed before. And seeing that I looked wounded, I suppose, he kissed me and added, "'You shall know all about it in a day or two. That is, all that I know. In the meantime, you are not to trouble your head about it.' He turned and left the room, but came back before I had done wondering and puzzling over the oddity of all this. It was merely to say that he was going to Karnstein, and had ordered the carriage to be ready at twelve, and that I and Madame should accompany him. He was going to see the priest who lived near those picturesque grounds upon business, and as Carmilla had never seen them, she could follow when she came down, with Mademoiselle, who would bring materials for what you call a picnic, which might be laid for us in the ruined castle. At twelve o'clock, accordingly, I was ready, and not long after, my father Mademois set out upon our projected drive. Passing the drawbridge, we turned to the right, and followed the road over the steep gothic bridge westward, to reach the deserted village and ruined castle of Karnstein. No silven drive can be fancied prettier. The ground breaks into gentle hills and hollows, all clothed with beautiful wood, with a lovely destitute of the comparative formality which artificial planting in early culture and pruning in part. The irregularities of the ground often lead the road out of its course, and cause it to wind beautifully round the sides of broken hollows and the steeper sides of the hills, among varieties of ground almost inexhaustible. Turning one of these points, we suddenly encountered our old friend, the general, riding towards us attended by a mounted servant. His portmanteaus were following in a hired wagon, such as we term a cart. The general dismounted as we pulled up, and after the usual greetings, was easily persuaded to accept the vacant seat in the carriage, and send his horse on with his servant to the schloss. End of CHAPTER IX. It was about ten months since we had last seen him, but that time had suffice to make an alteration of years in his appearance. He had grown thinner. Something of gloom and anxiety had taken the place of that cordial serenity which used to characterize his features. His dark blue eyes, always penetrating, now gleamed with a sterner light from under his shaggy gray eyebrows. It was not such a change as grief alone usually induces, and angrier passions seem to have had their share in bringing it about. He had not long resumed our drive, when the general began to talk, with his usual soldierly directness, of the bereavement, as he termed it, which he had sustained in the death of his beloved niece and ward. And he then broke out in a tone of intense bitterness and fury, in vain against the hellish arts to which she had fallen a victim, and expressing, with more exasperation than piety, his wonder that heaven should tolerate so monstrous an indulgence of the lusts and malignity of hell. My father, who saw at once that something very extraordinary had befallen, asked him, if not too painful to him, to detail the circumstances which he thought justified the strong terms in which he expressed himself. I should tell you with all pleasure, said the general, but she would not believe me. Why should I not? he asked. Because, he answered testily, you believe in nothing but what consists with your own prejudices and illusions. I remember when I was like you, that I have learned better. Try me, said my father. I am not such a dogmatist as you suppose. Besides which, I very well know that you generally require proof for what you believe, and am therefore very strongly predisposed to respect your conclusions. You are right, in supposing that I have not been led lightly into a belief in the marvellous, for what I have experienced is marvellous. And I have been forced by extraordinary evidence to credit that which ran counter diametrically to all my theories. I have been made the dupe of a preternatural conspiracy. Notwithstanding his professions of confidence in the general's penetration, I saw my father at this point glance at the general, with, as I thought, a marked suspicion of his sanity. The general did not see it, luckily. He was looking gloomily and curiously into the glades and vistas of the woods that were opening before us. "'You are going to the ruins of Karnstein,' he said. "'Yes. It is a lucky coincidence. Do you know I was going to ask you to bring me there to inspect them? I have a special object in exploring. There is a ruined chapel, ain't there, with a great many tombs of that extinct family?' "'So there are. Highly interesting,' said my father. "'I hope you are thinking of claiming the title and estates?' "'My father said this gaily, but the general did not recollect the laugh, or even the smile which courtesy acts for a friend's joke. On the contrary, he looked grave, and even fierce, ruminating on a matter that stirred his anger and horror. Something very different,' he said gruffly. "'I mean to unearth some of those fine people. I hope, by God's blessing, to accomplish a pious sacrilege here, which will relieve our earth of certain monsters, and enable honest people to sleep in their beds without being assailed by murderers. I have strange things to tell you, my dear friend, such as I myself would have scouted as incredible a few months since.' My father looked at him again, but this time not with a glance of suspicion, with an eye rather of keen intelligence and alarm. "'The house of Karnstein,' he said, has been long extinct—a hundred years at least. And my dear wife was maternally descended from the Karnsteins. But the name and title have long ceased to exist. The castle is a ruin. The very village is deserted. It is fifty years since the smoke of a chimney was seen there. Not a roof left.' "'Quite true. I have heard a great deal about that since I last saw you—a great deal that will astonish you.' "'But I had better relate everything in the order in which it occurred,' said the general. "'You saw my dear ward—my child, I may call her. No creature could have been more beautiful, and only three months ago none more blooming.' "'Yes, poor thing. When I saw her last, she certainly was quite lovely,' said my father. "'I was grieved and shocked more than I can tell you, my dear friend. I knew what a blow it was to you.' He took the general's hand, and they exchanged a kind pressure. Tears gathered in the old soldier's eyes. He did not seek to conceal them. He said, "'We have been very old friends. I knew you would feel for me, childless as I am. She had become an object of very near interest to me, and repaid my care by an affection that cheered my home and made my life happy. But it is all gone. The years that remained to me on earth may not be very long, but by God's mercy I hope to accomplish a service to mankind before I die, and to subserve the vengeance of heaven upon the fiends who have murdered my poor child in the spring of her hopes and beauty. "'You said just now that you intended relating everything as it occurred,' said my father. "'Pray do, I assure you that it is not mere curiosity that prompts me.' By this time we had reached the point at which the drunschdahl road, by which the general had come, diverges from the road which we were travelling to Karnstein. "'How far is it to the ruins?' inquired the general, looking anxiously forward. "'About half a league,' answered my father. "'Pray, let us hear the story you were so good as to promise.' End of CHAPTER X. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, visit www.librivox.org. Carmilla by Jay Sheridan LaFannou. Read by Elizabeth Klett. CHAPTER XI. THE STORY. WITH ALL MY HEART," said the general with an effort. And after a short pause in which to arrange his subject, he commenced one of the strangest narratives I ever heard. My dear child was looking forward with great pleasure to the visit you had been so good as to arrange for her to your charming daughter. Here he made me a gallant but melancholy bow. In the meantime we had an invitation to my old friend the Count Carlsfeld, whose schloss is about six leagues to the other side of Karnstein. It was to attend the series of FETS, which, you remember, were given by him in honor of his illustrious visitor, the Grand Duke Charles. Yes, and very splendid I believe they were, said my father. PRINCELY. But then his hospitalities are quite regal. He has a laden's lamp. The night from which my sorrow dates was devoted to a magnificent masquerade. The grounds were thrown open, the trees hung with colored lamps, there was such a display of fireworks as Paris itself had never witnessed. And such music, music you know as my weakness, such ravishing music, the finest instrumental band perhaps in the world, and the finest singers who could be collected from all the great operas in Europe. As you wandered through these fantastically illuminated grounds, the moon-lighted chateau throwing a rosy light from its long rows of windows, you would suddenly hear these ravishing voices stealing from the silence of some grove, or rising from boats upon the lake. I felt myself, as I looked and listened, carried back into the romance and poetry of my early youth. When the fireworks were ended, and the ball beginning, we returned to the noble suite of rooms that were thrown open to the dancers. A masked ball, you know, is a beautiful sight, but so brilliant a spectacle of the kind I never saw before. It was a very aristocratic assembly. I was myself almost the only nobody present. My dear child was looking quite beautiful. She wore no mask. Her excitement and delight added an unspeakable charm to her features, always lovely. I remarked a young lady, dressed magnificently, but wearing a mask, who appeared to me to be observing my ward with extraordinary interest. I had seen her earlier in the evening, in the great hall, and again for a few minutes walking near us, on the terrace under the castle windows, similarly employed. A lady, also masked, richly and gravely dressed, and with a stately air like a person of rank, accompanied her as a chaperone. Had the young lady not worn a mask, I could, of course, have been much more certain upon the question whether she was really watching my poor darling. I am now well assured that she was. We were now in one of the salons. My poor dear child had been dancing, and was resting a little in one of the chairs near the door. I was standing near. The two ladies I have mentioned had approached, and the younger took the chair next my ward, while her companion stood by me, and for a little time addressed herself in low tone to her charge. Availing herself of the privilege of her mask, she turned to me, and in the tone of an old friend, and calling me by name, opened a conversation with me, which piqued my curiosity a good deal. She referred to many scenes where she had met me, at court and at distinguished houses. She alluded to little incidents which I had long ceased to think of, but which I found had only lain in abeyance in my memory, for they instantly started into life at her touch. I became more and more curious to ascertain who she was every moment. She parried my attempts to discover very adroitly and pleasantly. The knowledge she showed of many passages in my life seemed to me all but unaccountable, and she appeared to take a not unnatural pleasure in foiling my curiosity, and in seeing me flounder in my eager perplexity from one conjecture to another. In the meantime, the young lady, whom her mother called by the odd name of Milarka, when she once or twice addressed her, had, with the same ease and grace, got into conversation with my ward. She introduced herself by saying that her mother was a very old acquaintance of mine. She spoke of the agreeable audacity which a mask rendered practicable. She talked like a friend. She admired her dress and insinuated very prettily her admiration of her beauty. She amused her with laughing criticisms upon the people who crowded the ballroom and laughed at my poor child's fun. She was very witty and lively when she pleased, and after a time they had grown very good friends, and the young stranger lowered her mask, displaying a remarkably beautiful face. I had never seen it before. Neither had my dear child. But though it was new to us, the features were so engaging, as well as lovely, that it was impossible not to feel the attraction powerfully. My poor girl did so. I never saw any one more taken with another at first sight, unless indeed it was the stranger herself who seemed quite to have lost her heart to her. In the meantime, availing myself of the license of a masquerade, I put not a few questions to the elder lady. "'You have puzzled me utterly,' I said, laughing. Is that not enough? Won't you now consent to stand on equal terms, and do me the kindness to remove your mask?' "'Can any request be more unreasonable?' she replied. Ask a lady to yield an advantage. Besides, how do you know you should recognize me? Years make changes.' "'As you see,' I said, with a bow, and I suppose a rather melancholy little laugh. As philosophers tell us,' she said, "'and how do you know that a sight of my face would help you?' "'I should take chance for that,' I answered. It is vain trying to make yourself out an old woman, your figure betrays you.' "'Years nevertheless have passed since I saw you, rather since you saw me, for that is what I am considering.' "'Milarka there is my daughter. I cannot then be young, even in the opinion of people whom time has taught to be indulgent, and I may not like to be compared with what you remember me. You have no mask to remove. You can offer me nothing in exchange.' "'My petition is to your pity, to remove it.' "'And mine to yours, to let it stay where it is,' she replied. "'Well, then at least you will tell me whether you are French or German. You speak both languages so perfectly.' "'I don't think I shall tell you that, General. You intend a surprise, and are meditating the particular point of attack.' "'At all events you won't deny this,' I said, that being honoured by your permission to converse I ought to know how to address you. Shall I say, Madame Lacomtece?' She laughed, and she would no doubt have met me with another evasion, if indeed I can treat any occurrence in an interview every circumstance of which was prearranged, as I now believe, with the profoundest cunning as liable to be modified by accident. As to that, she began. But she was interrupted, almost as she opened her lips, by a gentleman dressed in black who looked particularly elegant and distinguished, with this drawback, that his face was the most deadly pale I ever saw except in death. He was in no masquerade, in the plain evening dress of a gentleman, and he said, without a smile, but with a courtly and unusually low bow, "'Will Madame Lacomtece permit me to say a very few words which may interest her?' The lady turned quickly to him, and touched her lip in a token of silence. She then said to me, "'Keep my place for me, General. I shall return when I have said a few words.' And with this injunction, playfully given, she walked a little aside with the gentleman in black, and talked for some minutes, apparently very earnestly. They then walked away slowly together in the crowd, and I lost them for some minutes. I spent the interval in cuddling my brains for a conjecture as to the identity of the lady who seemed to remember me so kindly. And I was thinking of turning about and joining in the conversation between my pretty ward and the Countess's daughter, and trying whether, by the time she returned, I might not have a surprise in store for her, by having her name, title, chateau, and estates at my fingers' ends. But at this moment she returned, accompanied by the pale man in black, who said, I shall return, and inform Madame Lacomptece when her carriage is at the door. He withdrew with a bow. By J. Sheridan Lafannou. Read by Elizabeth Klett. CHAPTER XII A petition. Then we are to lose Madame Lacomptece, but I hope for only a few hours, I said with a low bow. It may be that only, or it may be a few weeks. It was very unlucky, his speaking to me just now as he did. Do you now know me? I assured her I did not. You shall know me, she said, but not at present. We are older and better friends than perhaps you suspect. I cannot yet declare myself. I shall in three weeks pass your beautiful schloss, about which I have been making enquiries. I shall then look in upon you for an hour or two, and renew a friendship which I never think of without a thousand pleasant recollections. This moment a piece of news has reached me like a thunderbolt. I must set out now, and travel by a devious route, nearly a hundred miles, with all the dispatch that I can possibly make. My perplexities multiply. I am only deterred by the compulsory reserve I practice as to my name from making a very singular request of you. My poor child has not quite recovered her strength. Her horse fell with her at a hunt which she had ridden out to witness. Her nerves have not yet recovered the shock, and our physician says that she must on no account exert herself for some time to come. We came here, in consequence, by very easy stages, hardly six leagues a day. I must now travel day and night on a mission of life and death, a mission the critical and momentous nature of which I shall be able to explain to you when we meet, as I hope we shall, in a few weeks, without the necessity of any concealment. She went on to make her petition, and it was in the tone of a person from whom such a request amounted to conferring, rather than seeking, a favour. This was only in manner, and, as it seemed, quite unconsciously, then the terms in which it was expressed nothing could be more deprecatory. It was simply that I would consent to take charge of her daughter during her absence. This was, all things considered, a strange, not to say, an audacious request. She in some sort disarmed me, by stating and admitting everything that could be urged against it, and throwing herself entirely upon my chivalry. At the same moment, by a fatality that seemed to have predetermined all that happened, my poor child came to my side, and, in an undertone, besought me to invite her new friend, Milarka, to pay us a visit. She had just been sounding her, and thought, if her mamma would allow her, she would like it extremely. At another time I should have told her to wait a little—until, at least, we knew who they were. But I had not a moment to think in. The two ladies assailed me together, and, I must confess, the refined and beautiful face of the young lady, about which there was something extremely engaging, as well as the elegance and fire of high birth, determined me, and quite overpowered I submitted, and undertook, too easily the care of the young lady whom her mother called Milarka. The countess beckoned to her daughter, who listened with grave attention while she told her, in general terms, how suddenly and peremptorily she had been summoned, and also of the arrangement she had made for her under my care, adding that I was one of her earliest and most valued friends. I made, of course, such speeches as the case seemed to call for, and found myself on reflection in a position which I did not half like. The gentleman in black returned, and very ceremoniously conducted the lady from the room. The demeanor of this gentleman was such as to impress me with the conviction that the countess was a lady of very much more importance than her modest title alone might have led me to assume. Her last charge to me was that no attempt was to be made to learn more about her than I might have already guessed until her return, our distinguished host, whose guess she was, knew her reasons. But here, she said, neither I nor my daughter could safely remain for more than a day. I removed my mask imprudently for a moment about an hour ago, and too late I fancied you saw me. So I resolved to seek an opportunity of talking a little to you. Had I found out that you had seen me, I would have thrown myself on your high sense of honour to keep my secret some weeks. As it is, I am satisfied that you did not see me. But if you now suspect, or on reflection should suspect, who I am, I commit myself, in like manner, entirely to your honour. My daughter will observe the same secrecy, and I well know that you will, from time to time, remind her lest she should thoughtlessly disclose it. She whispered a few words to her daughter, kissed her hurriedly twice, and went away, accompanied by the pale gentleman in black, and disappeared in the crowd. In the next room, said Malarga, there is a window that looks upon the hall door. I should like to see the last of Mamal and to kiss my hand to her. We assented, of course, and accompanied her to the window. We looked out and saw a handsome old-fashioned carriage with a troop of couriers and footmen. We saw the slim figure of the pale gentleman in black as he held a thick velvet cloak, and placed it about her shoulders and threw the hood over her head. She nodded to him, and just touched his hand with hers. He bowed low repeatedly as the door closed, and the carriage began to move. She is gone, said Malarga, with a sigh. She is gone, I repeated to myself, for the first time in the hurried moments that had elapsed since my consent, reflecting upon the folly of my act. She did not look up, said the young lady, plaintively. The countess had taken off her mask, perhaps, and did not care to show her face, I said, and she could not know that she were in the window. She sighed and looked in my face. She was so beautiful that I relented. I was sorry I had for a moment repented of my hospitality, and I determined to make her amends for the unavowed churlishness of my reception. The young lady, replacing her mask, joined my ward in persuading me to return to the grounds where the concert was soon to be renewed. We did so, and walked up and down the terrace that lies under the castle windows. Malarga became very intimate with us, and amused us with lively descriptions and stories of most of the great people whom we saw up on the terrace. I liked her more and more every minute. Her gossip, without being ill-natured, was extremely diverting to me, who had been so long out of the great world. I thought what life she would give to our sometimes lonely evenings at home. This ball was not over until the morning sun had almost reached the horizon. It pleased the grand duke to dance till then, so loyal people could not go away or think of bed. We had just got through a crowded saloon when my ward asked me what had become of Malarga. I thought she had been by her side, and she fancied she was by mine. The fact was, we had lost her. All my efforts to find her were in vain. I feared that she had mistaken, in the confusion of a momentary separation from us, other people for her new friends, and had possibly pursued and lost them in the extensive grounds which were thrown open to us. Now, in its full force, I recognized a new folly in my having undertaken the charge of a young lady without so much as knowing her name, and fettered as I was by promises of the reasons for imposing which I knew nothing, I could not even point my inquiries by saying that the missing young lady was the daughter of the Countess who had taken her departure in a few hours before. Morning broke. It was clear daylight before I gave up my search. It was not till near two o'clock next day that we heard anything of my missing charge. At about that time a servant knocked at my niece's door to say that he had been earnestly requested by a young lady, who appeared to be in great distress, to make out where she could find the general Baron Spielsdorf and the young lady his daughter, in whose charge she had been left by her mother. There could be no doubt, notwithstanding the slight inaccuracy, that our young friend had turned up, and so she had. Would to heaven we had lost her. She told my poor child a story to account for her having failed to recover us for so long. Very late, she said, she had got to the housekeeper's bedroom in despair of finding us, and had then fallen into a deep sleep, which, long as it was, had hardly sufficed to recruit her strength after the fatigues of the ball. That day Milarka came home with us. I was only too happy, after all, to have secured so charming a companion for my dear girl. CHAPTER XIII THE WOODMAN There soon, however, appeared some drawbacks. In the first place Milarka complained of extreme langer, the weakness that remained after her late illness, and she never emerged from her room till the afternoon was pretty far advanced. In the next place, it was accidentally discovered, although she always locked her door on the inside, and never disturbed the key from its place till she admitted the maid to assist at her toilet, that she was undoubtedly sometimes absent from her room in the very early morning, and at various times later in the day before she wished it to be understood that she was stirring. She was repeatedly seen from the windows of the schloss in the first faint gray of the morning walking through the trees in an easterly direction and looking like a person in a trance. This convinced me that she walked in her sleep. But this hypothesis did not solve the puzzle. How did she pass out from her room, leaving the door locked on the inside? How did she escape from the house without own barring door or window? In the midst of my perplexities, an anxiety of a far more urgent kind presented itself. My dear child began to lose her looks and health, and that in a manner so mysterious and even horrible that I became thoroughly frightened. She was at first visited by appalling dreams. Then, as she fancied by a spectre, sometimes resembling Malarca, sometimes in the shape of a beast, indistinctly seen walking round the foot of her bed from side to side. Lastly came sensations. One, not unpleasant, but very peculiar, she said, resembled the flow of an icy stream against her breast. At a later time she felt something like a pair of large needles pierce her a little below the throat with a very sharp pain. A few nights after followed a gradual and convulsive sense of strangulation. Then came unconsciousness. I could hear distinctly every word the kind old general was saying, because by this time we were driving upon the short grass that spreads on either side of the road as you approached the roofless village, which had not shown the smoke of a chimney for more than half a century. You may guess how strangely I felt, as I heard my own symptoms so exactly described in those which had been experienced by the poor girl, who but for the catastrophe which followed would have been at that moment a visitor at my father's chateau. You may suppose also, how I felt, as I heard him detail habits and mysterious peculiarities which were, in fact, those of our beautiful guest, Carmilla. A vista opened in the forest. We were on a sudden under the chimneys and gables of the ruined village, and the towers and battlements of the dismantled castle, round which gigantic trees are grouped, overhung us from a slight eminence. In a frightened dream I got down from the carriage, and in silence, for we had each abundant matter for thinking. We soon mounted the ascent, and were among the spacious chambers, winding stairs, and dark corridors of the castle. And this was once the palatial residence of the Karnsteins, said the old general at length, as from a great window he looked out across the village, and saw the wide undulating expanse of forest. It was a bad family, and here its bloodstained annals were written, he continued. It is hard that they should, after death, continue to plague the human race with their atrocious lusts. That is the chapel of the Karnsteins, down there. He pointed down to the gray walls of the gothic building partly visible through the foliage, a little way down the steep. And I hear the axe of a woodman, he added, busy among the trees that surround it. He possibly may give us the information of which I am in search, and point out the grave of Merkala, Countess of Karnstein. These rustics preserve the local traditions of great families, whose stories die out among the rich and titled so soon as the families themselves become extinct. We have a portrait, at home, of Merkala, the Countess Karnstein. Should you like to see it? asked my father. Time enough, dear friend, replied the general, I believe that I have seen the original, and one motive which has led me to you earlier than I first intended, was to explore the chapel which we are now approaching. What? See the Countess Merkala? exclaimed my father. Why she has been dead more than a century? Not so dead as you fancy, I am told. Answered the general. I confess, general, you puzzle me utterly, replied my father, looking at him. I fancied for a moment with the return of the suspicion I detected before. But although there was anger and detestation at times in the old general's manner, there was nothing flighty. There remains to me, he said, as we passed under the heavy arch of the Gothic church, for its dimensions would have justified its being so styled. But one object which can interest me during the few years that remain to me on earth, and that is to reckon her the vengeance which I thank God may still be accomplished by a mortal man. What vengeance can you mean? asked my father in increasing amazement. I mean to decapitate the monster. He answered, with a fierce flush, and a stamp that echoed mournfully through the hollow ruin, and his clenched hand was at the same moment raised as if it grasped the handle of an axe while he shook it ferociously in the air. What? exclaimed my father, more than ever bewildered. To strike her head off. Cut her head off? I, with a hatchet, with a spade, or with anything that can cleave through her murderous throat, you shall hear, he answered, trembling with rage. And hurrying forward, he said, that beam will answer for a seat. Your dear child is fatigued. Let her be seated, and I will, in a few sentences, close my dreadful story. The squared block of wood, which lay on the grass-grown pavement of the chapel, formed a bench on which I was very glad to seat myself, and in the meantime the general called to the woodmen, who had been removing some boughs which leaned upon the old walls, and, axe in hand, the hardy old fellow stood before us. He could not tell us anything of these monuments, but there was an old man, he said, a ranger of this forest, at present sojourning in the house of the priest about two miles away, who could point out every monument of the old Karnstein family, and for a trifle he undertook to bring him back with him, if we would lend him one of our horses, in little more than half an hour. Have you been long employed about this forest? asked my father of the old man. I have been a woodman here, he answered in his patois. Under the forester, all my days, so has my father before me, and so on, as many generations as I can count up. I could show you the very house and the village here in which my ancestors live. How came the village to be deserted? asked the general. It was troubled by revenants, sir. Several were tracked to their graves, there detected by the usual tests, and extinguished in the usual way, by decapitation, by the stake, and by burning, but not until many of the villagers were killed. But after all these proceedings, according to law, he continued, so many graves opened, and so many vampires deprived of their horrible animation, the village was not relieved. But a Moravian nobleman, who happened to be traveling this way, heard how matters were, and being skilled, as many people are in his country, in such affairs he offered to deliver the village from its tormentor. He did so thus. There being a bright moon that night, he ascended, shortly after sunset, the towers of the chapel here, from whence he could distinctly see the churchyard beneath him. You can see it from that window. From this point he watched until he saw the vampire come out of his grave, and place near it the linen clothes in which he had been folded, and then glide away towards the village to plague its inhabitants. The stranger, having seen all this, came down from the steeple, took the linen wrappings of the vampire, and carried them up to the top of the tower, which he again mounted. When the vampire returned from his prowlings and missed his clothes, he cried furiously to the Moravian, whom he saw at the summit of the tower, and who, in reply, beckoned him to ascend and take them. Whereupon the vampire, accepting his invitation, began to climb the steeple, and so soon as he had reached the battlements, the Moravian, with the stroke of his sword, clove his skull in twain, hurling him down to the churchyard, wither descending by the winding stairs, the stranger followed and cut his head off, and next day delivered it and the body to the villagers, who duly impaled and burnt them. This Moravian nobleman had authority from the then head of the family to remove the tomb of Merkala, Countess Karnstein, which he did effectually, so that in a little while its sight was quite forgotten. Can you point out where it stood, asked the general, eagerly? The forester shook his head and smiled. "'Not a soul living can tell you that now,' he said. Besides, they say her body was removed. But no one is sure of that, either. Having thus spoken, as time pressed, he dropped his axe and departed, leaving us to hear the remainder of the general's strange story. CHAPTER XIV THE MEETING My beloved child, he resumed, was now growing rapidly worse. The physician who attended her had failed to produce the slightest impression on her disease, for such I then supposed it to be. He saw my alarm and suggested a consultation. I called in an abler physician from Grotz. Several days elapsed before he arrived. He was a good and pious as well as a learned man. Having seen my poor ward together, they withdrew to my library to confer and discuss. I, from the adjoining room, where I awaited their summons, heard these two gentlemen's voices raised in something sharper than a strictly philosophical discussion. I knocked at the door and entered. I found the old physician from Grotz maintaining his theory. His rival was combating it with undisguised ridicule, accompanied with bursts of laughter. This unseemly manifestation subsided, and the altercation ended on my entrance. Sir, said my first physician, my learned brother seems to think that you want a conjurer and not a doctor. Pardon me, said the old physician from Grotz, looking displeased. I shall state my own view of the case in my own way another time. I grieve, Mr. Legenerale, that by my skill and science I can be of no use. Before I go I shall do myself the honour to suggest something to you. He seemed thoughtful, and sat down at a table and began to write. Profoundly disappointed, I made my bow, and as I turned to go the other doctor pointed over his shoulder to his companion, who was writing, and then with a shrug significantly touched his forehead. This consultation then left me precisely where I was. I walked out into the grounds, all but distracted. The doctor from Grotz, in ten or fifteen minutes, overtook me. He apologised for having followed me, but said that he could not conscientiously take his leave without a few words more. He told me that he could not be mistaken. No natural disease exhibited the same symptoms, and that death was already very near. There remained, however, a day, or possibly two, of life. If the fatal seizure were at once arrested, with great care and skill her strength might possibly return, but all hung now upon the confines of the irrevocable. One more salt might extinguish the last spark of vitality which is every moment ready to die. And what is the nature of the seizure you speak of, I entreated. I have stated all fully in this note, which I place in your hands upon the distinct condition that you send for the nearest clergyman, and open my letter in his presence, and on no account read it till he is with you. You would despise it else, and it is a matter of life and death. Should the priest fail you, then, indeed you may read it. He asked me, before taking his leave, finally, whether I would wish to see a man curiously learned upon the very subject, which, after I had read his letter, would probably interest me above all others, and he urged me earnestly to invite him to visit him there, and so took his leave. The ecclesiastic was absent, and I read the letter by myself. At another time or in another case it might have excited my ridicule. But into what quackeries will not people rush for a last chance, where all accustomed means have failed, and the life of a beloved object is at stake? Anything you will say could be more absurd than the learned man's letter. It was monstrous enough to have consigned him to a madhouse. He said that the patient was suffering from the visits of a vampire. The punctures which she described as having occurred near the throat were, he insisted, the insertion of those two long, thin, and sharp teeth, which, it is well known, are peculiar to vampires, and there could be no doubt, he added, as to the well-defined presence of the small, livid mark which all concurred in describing as that induced by the demon's lips, and every symptom described by the sufferer was an exact conformity with those recorded in every case of a similar visitation. Being myself wholly skeptical as to the existence of any such portent as the vampire, the supernatural theory of the good doctor furnished, in my opinion, but another instance of learning and intelligence oddly associated with some one hallucination. I was so miserable, however, that rather than try nothing, I acted upon the instructions of the letter. I concealed myself in the dark dressing-room that opened upon the poor patient's room, in which a candle was burning, and watched there till she was fast asleep. I stood at the door, peeping through the small crevice, my sword laid on the table beside me as my directions prescribed, until a little after one, I saw a large black object, very ill-defined, crawl as it seemed to me over the foot of the bed, and swiftly spread itself up to the poor girl's throat, where it swelled, in a moment, into a great, palpitating mass. For a few moments I had stood petrified. I now sprang forward with my sword and my hand. The black creature suddenly contracted towards the foot of the bed, glided over it, and standing on the floor about a yard below the foot of the bed, with a glare of skulking ferocity and horror fixed on me. I saw Melarka. Speculating I know not what, I struck at her instantly with my sword, but I saw her standing near the door, unscathed. Horrified I pursued and struck again. She was gone, and my sword flew to shivers against the door. I can't describe to you all that passed on that horrible night. The whole house was up and stirring. The specter Melarka was gone. But her victim was sinking fast, and before the morning dawned, she died. The old general was agitated. We did not speak to him. My father walked to some little distance, and began reading the inscriptions on the tombstones, and thus occupied he strolled into the door of a side chapel to prosecute his researches. The general leaned against the wall, dried his eyes, and sighed heavily. I was relieved on hearing the voices of Carmilla and Madame, who were at that moment approaching. The voices died away. In this solitude, having just listened to so strange a story, connected as it was with the great and titled dead, whose monuments were moldering among the dust and ivy around us, and every instant of which bore so awfully upon my own mysterious case. In this haunted spot, darkened by the towering foliage that rose on every side, dense and high above its noiseless walls, a horror began to steal over me, and my heart sank as I thought that my friends were, after all, not about to enter and disturb this treased and ominous scene. The old general's eyes were fixed on the ground, as he leaned with his hand upon the basement of a shattered monument. Under a narrow arched doorway, surmounted by one of those demonical grotesques in which the cynical and ghastly fancy of old gothic carving delights, I saw very gladly the beautiful face and figure of Carmilla entering the shadowy chapel. I was just about to rise and speak, and nodded smiling, in answer to her peculiarly engaging smile. When with a cry, the old man by my side caught up the woodman's hatchet and started forward. On seeing him a brutalized change came over her features. It was an instantaneous and horrible transformation, as she made a crouching step backwards. Before I could utter a scream, he struck at her with all his force, but she dived under his blow, and unscathed caught him in her tiny grasp by the wrist. He struggled for a moment to release his arm, but his hand opened, the axe fell to the ground, and the girl was gone. He staggered against the wall. His gray hair stood upon his head, and a moisture shone over his face as if he were at the point of death. The frightful scene had passed in a moment. The first thing I recollect after is Madame standing before me, and impatiently repeating again and again the question, Where is Mademoiselle Carmilla? I answered at length, I don't know, I can't tell. She went there, and I pointed to the door through which Madame had just entered, only a minute or two since, but I have been standing there in the passage ever since Mademoiselle Carmilla entered, and she did not return. She then began to call Carmilla through every door and passage and from the windows, but no answer came. She called herself Carmilla, asked the general, still agitated. Carmilla, yes, I answered. I, he said, that is Milarka. That is the same person who long ago was called Merkala, Countess Karnstein. Depart from this accursed ground, my poor child, as quickly as you can. Drive to the clergyman's house, and stay there till we come. Be gone! May you never behold Carmilla more. You will not find her here." End of CHAPTER XIV. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, visit www.librivox.org. Carmilla by J. Sheridan Lafannou. Read by Elizabeth Klett. CHAPTER XV. Ordeal and Execution. As he spoke, one of the strangest-looking men I ever beheld entered the chapel at the door through which Carmilla had made her entrance and her exit. He was tall, narrow-chested, stooping, with high shoulders and dressed in black. His face was brown and dried in with deep furrows. He wore an oddly shaped hat with a broad leaf. His hair, long and grizzled, hung on his shoulders. He wore a pair of gold spectacles, and walked slowly with an odd, shambling gait, with his face sometimes turned up to the sky and sometimes bowed down towards the ground, seemed to wear a perpetual smile. His long, thin arms were swinging, and his lank hands, in old black gloves ever so much too wide for them, waving and gesticulating in utter abstraction. The very man, exclaimed the general, advancing with manifest delight. My dear Baron, how happy I am to see you I had no hope of meeting you so soon. He signed to my father, who had by this time returned, and leading the fantastic old gentleman, whom he called the Baron, to meet him. He introduced him formally, and they at once entered into earnest conversation. The stranger took a roll of paper from his pocket, and spread it on the worn surface of a tomb that stood by. He had a pencil case in his fingers, with which he traced imaginary lines from point to point on the paper, which from their often glancing from it together at certain points of the building I concluded to be a plan of the chapel. He accompanied what I may term his lecture, with occasional readings from a dirty little book, whose yellow leaves were closely written over. They sauntered together down the side aisle, opposite to the spot where I was standing, conversing as they went. Then they began measuring distances by paces, and finally they all stood together, facing a piece of the sidewall, which they began to examine with great minuteness, pulling off the ivy that clung over it, and wrapping the plaster with the ends of their sticks, keeping here and knocking there. At length they ascertained the existence of a broad marble tablet, with letters carved in relief upon it. With the assistance of the woodman, who soon returned, a monumental inscription, and carved a scutcheon, were disclosed. They proved to be those of the long-lost monument of Merkala, Countess Karnstein. The old general, though not I fear given to the praying mood, raised his hands and eyes to heaven in mute thanksgiving for some moments. Tomorrow, I heard him say, the commissioner will be here, and the inquisition will be held according to law. Then turning to the old man with the gold spectacles, whom I have described, he shook him warmly by both hands and said, Baron, how can I thank you? How can we all thank you? You will have delivered this region from a plague that has scourged its inhabitants for more than a century. The horrible enemy, thank God, is at last tracked. My father led the stranger aside, and the general followed. I know that he had led them out of hearing, that he might relate my case, and I saw them glance often quickly at me as the discussion proceeded. My father came to me, kissed me again and again, and leading me from the chapel said, It is time to return. But before we go home, we must add to our party the good priest, who lives but a little way from this, and persuade him to accompany us to the schloss. In this quest we were successful, and I was glad, being unspeakably fatigued when we reached home. But my satisfaction was changed to dismay, on discovering that there were no tidings of Carmilla. Of the scene that had occurred in the ruined chapel, no explanation was offered to me, and it was clear that it was a secret which my father for the present determined to keep from me. The sinister absence of Carmilla made the remembrance of the scene more horrible to me. The arrangements for the night were singular. New servants and madame were to sit up in my room that night, and the ecclesiastic with my father kept watch in the adjoining dressing-room. The priest had performed certain solemn rites that night, the purport of which I did not understand any more than I comprehended the reason of this extraordinary precaution taken for my safety during sleep. I saw all clearly a few days later. The disappearance of Carmilla was followed by the discontinuance of my nightly sufferings. You have heard, no doubt, of the appalling superstition that prevails in upper and lower Styria, in Moravia, Silesia, in Turkish Serbia, in Poland, even in Russia, the superstition, so we must call it, of the vampire. Of human testimony taken with every care and solemnity, judicially, before commissions innumerable, each consisting of many members, all chosen for integrity and intelligence, and constituting reports more voluminous perhaps than exist upon any one other class of cases, is worth anything, it is difficult to deny, or even to doubt, the existence of such a phenomenon as the vampire. For my part, I have heard no theory by which to explain what I myself have witnessed and experienced, other than that supplied by the ancient and well-attested belief of the country. The next day the formal proceedings took place in the chapel of Karnstein. The grave of the Countess Mercala was opened, and the general and my father recognized each his perfidious and beautiful guest in the face now disclosed to view. The features, though a hundred and fifty years had passed since her funeral, were tinted with the warmth of life. Her eyes were open. No cadaverous smell exhaled from the coffin. The two medical men, one officially present, the other on the part of the promoter of the inquiry, attested the marvellous fact that there was a faint but appreciable respiration and a corresponding action of the heart. The limbs were perfectly flexible, the flesh elastic, and the leaden coffin floated with blood, in which to a depth of seven inches the body lay immersed. Here then were all the admitted signs and proofs of vampirism. The body, therefore, in accordance with the ancient practice, was raised, and a sharp stake driven through the heart of the vampire, who uttered a piercing shriek at the moment, in all respects such as might escape from a living person in the last agony. Then the head was struck off, and a torrent of blood flowed from the severed neck. The body and head was next placed on a pile of wood and reduced to ashes, which were thrown upon the river and borne away, and that territory has never since been plagued by the visits of a vampire. My father has a copy of the report of the Imperial Commission, with the signatures of all who were present at these proceedings, attached in verification of the statement. It is from this official paper that I have summarized my account of this last, shocking scene. End of CHAPTER XV. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, visit www.librivox.org. Carmilla. By J. Sheridan LaFannou. Read by Elizabeth Klett. CHAPTER XVI. CONCLUSION I write all this, you suppose, with composure, but far from it. I cannot think of it without agitation. Nothing but your earnest desire so repeatedly expressed could have induced me to sit down to a task that has unstrung my nerves for months to come, and re-induced a shadow of the unspeakable horror which years after my deliverance continued to make my days and nights dreadful and solitude insupportably terrific. Let me add a word or two about that quaint Baron Vordenberg, to whose curious lore we were indebted for the discovery of the Countess Mercala's grave. He had taken up his abode in grots, where, living upon a mere pittance which was all that remained to him of the once princely estates of his family in Upper Styria, he devoted himself to the minute and laborious investigation of the marvelously authenticated tradition of vampirism. He had at his finger's end all the great and little works upon the subject. MAGIA POSTUMA FLAYGON DE MIRABILIBUS AUGUSTINUS DE CURA PROMORTUOS FELOSIFIQUE ET CHRISTIANE COGITACIONES DE VAMPIRIS BY JOHN CHRISTIFER HERRENBURG AND A THOUSAND OTHERS, AMONG WHICH I REMEMBER ONLY A FEW OF THOSE WHICH HE LENT TO MY FATHER. He had of a luminous digest of all the judicial cases, from which he had extracted a system of principles that appear to govern, some always, and others occasionally only, the condition of the vampire. I may mention, in passing, that the deadly pallor attributed to that sort of revenance is a mere melodramatic fiction. They present in the grave, and when they show themselves in human society, the appearance of healthy life. When disclosed to light in their coffins, they exhibit all the symptoms that are enumerated as those which proved the vampire life of the long-dead Countess Karnstein. How they escape from their graves, and return to them for certain hours every day, without displacing the clay or leaving any trace of disturbance in the state of the coffin or the ceramants, has always been admitted to be utterly inexplicable. The amphibious existence of the vampire is sustained by daily renewed slumber in the grave. Its horrible lust for living blood supplies the vigor of its waking existence. The vampire is prone to be fascinated with an engrossing veniments resembling the passion of love by particular persons. In pursuit of these, it will exercise inexhaustible patience and stratagem, for access to a particular object may be obstructed in a hundred ways. It will never desist until it has satiated its passion and drained the very life of its coveted victim. But it will, in these cases, husband and protract its murderous enjoyment with the refinement of an epicure, and heighten it by the gradual approaches of an artful courtship. In these cases, it seems to yearn for something like sympathy and consent. In ordinary ones it goes direct to its object, overpowers with violence, and strangles and exhausts, often at a single feast. The vampire is, apparently, subject in certain situations to special conditions. In the particular instance of which I have given you a relation, Mercala seemed to be limited to a name which, if not her real one, should at least reproduce, without the omission or addition of a single letter, those as we say anagrammatically which compose it. Carmilla did this. So did Millarca. My father related to the Baron Vordenberg, who remained with us for two or three weeks after the expulsion of Carmilla, the story about the Moravian nobleman and the vampire at Carnstein Churchyard, and then he asked the Baron how he had discovered the exact position of the long-concealed tomb of the Countess Mercala. The Baron's grotesque features puckered up into a mysterious smile. He looked down, still smiling on his worn spectacle case and fumbled with it. Then looking up, he said, I have many journals, and other papers, written by that remarkable man. The most curious among them is one treating of the visit of which you speak to Carnstein. The tradition, of course, discolours and distorts a little. He might have been termed a Moravian nobleman, for he had changed his abode to that territory and was besides a noble. But he was, in truth, a native of Upper Styria. It is enough to say that in very early youth he had been a passionate and favoured lover of the beautiful Mercala, Countess Carnstein. Her early death plunged him into inconsolable grief. It is the nature of vampires to increase and multiply, but according to an ascertained and ghostly law. Assume at starting a territory perfectly free from that pest. How does it begin? And how does it multiply itself? I will tell you. A person, more or less wicked, puts an end to himself. A suicide under certain circumstances becomes a vampire. That spectre visits living people and their slumbers. They die, and almost invariably, in the grave develop into vampires. This happened in the case of the beautiful Mercala, who was haunted by one of those demons. My ancestor, Vordenberg, whose title I still bear, soon discovered this, and in the course of the studies to which he devoted himself, learned a great deal more. Among other things he concluded that suspicion of vampirism would probably fall sooner or later upon the dead Countess, who in life had been his idol. He conceived a horror, be she what she might, of her remains being profaned by the outrage of a posthumous execution. He has left a curious paper to prove that the vampire, on its expulsion from its amphibious existence, is projected into a far more horrible life, and he resolved to save his once-beloved Mercala from this. He adopted the stratagem of a journey here, a pretended removal of her remains, and a real obliteration of her monument. When age had stolen upon him, and from the veil of years, he looked back on the endless scenes he was leaving, he considered, in a different spirit, what he had done, and a horror took possession of him. He made the tracings and notes which have guided me to the very spot, and drew up a confession of the deception that he had practiced. If he had intended any further action in this matter, death prevented him, and the hand of a remote descendant has, too late for many, directed the pursuit to the lair of the beast. We talked a little more, and among other things he said was this. One sign of the vampire is the power of the hand. The slender hand of Mercala closed like a vice of steel on the general's wrist when he raised the hatchet to strike. But its power is not confined to its grasp. It leaves a numbness in the limit seizes, which is slowly, if ever, recovered from. The following spring my father took me on a tour through Italy. We remained away for more than a year. It was long before the terror of recent events subsided, and to this hour the image of Carmilla returns to memory with ambiguous alternations. Sometimes the playful, languid, beautiful girl, sometimes the writhing fiend I saw in the ruined church, and often from a reverie I have started, fancying I heard the light step of Carmilla at the drawing-room door—end of Carmilla by J. Sheridan Lafannou.