Page 21 of My Carmilla

My gaze wandered to the painting above my mantle, tracing the features that looked so similar to Carmilla. I eyed the inscription at the bottom.

Mircalla Karnstein. Mircalla.

My mind sifted through the letters of Mircalla, rearranging them until another name emerged in its place.

Carmilla.

Realization struck me like a tidal wave, churning my insides. The young woman in the painting was Carmilla.

My thoughts reeled. It all made a horrifying kind of sense. Carmilla's aversion to sunlight, the pallor of her skin, her peculiar mannerisms. The puzzle pieces snapped into place, forming a picture I desperately wished remained blurred. Legends and folklore flooded my mind, tales of bloodthirsty creatures who walked the night, stealing lives in the darkness and never aged.

A floorboard creaked from behind. Every muscle in my body tensed. I spun around to see a figure in the door, her silhouette outlined against the pale light. I felt like I was staring into a broken mirror, the pieces reflecting a distorted image of the girl I thought I knew.

"Carmilla." Her name caught in my throat. My hand instinctively reached for the amulet I wore.

"Dearest," she said, frowning, "you look like you've seen a ghost."

“Carmilla,” I whispered, “what are you?”

A slight crease marred her brow. “I’m your companion, of course. Your friend.” She raised my hand to her lips and placed a gentle kiss. “Your love.”

I flinched from her touch, from that word. Carmilla drew in a breath, looking at me though I had slapped her.

My gaze darted back to the painting, then back to her. "The painting," I said, my voice shaking. The words stuck in my throat, the monstrous truth hovering unspoken in the air. "It's you, isn’t it?"

The smile on her lips faltered. A flicker of something akin to fear crossed her features. "Please, Laura," she said quietly, "the truth is a portrait best left unfinished."

"Carmilla," I said, her name a desperate plea on my lips. "Tell me the truth."

The silence stretched, thick with tension. Carmilla's facade seemed to waver. "There are things," she began, her voice strained, "things I haven't shared with you. Secrets I've kept for a very long time." She moved towards the painting, her long fingers trailing along the worn canvas. "Mircalla Karnstein," she said softly, "was who I once was."

A wave of nausea washed over me. "Why?" I forced the word out, my voice raw. "Why this masquerade? Why me?"

She looked at me with a sadness that mirrored my own turmoil. "Because," she said, her voice soft, "loneliness is a terrible hunger, too. For a brief moment with you, I felt alive again. Not just existing, but truly living."

The weight of her words settled on me like a shroud. Loneliness was indeed a terrible hunger. A hunger I had felt for too long. And Carmilla knew this. Knew all the right words to say. The image of a spider sprang to mind, patiently weaving its web, waiting for the unsuspecting fly.

“You lied to me,” I said.

She forced her gaze away from the painting. "Does it matter, my love? The heart that beats for you is the same.” She stepped toward me. “Have your feelings changed now?”

Suppressing my feelings for Carmilla was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with my bare hands, a futile battle. Every whispered word, every stolen glance became an offering, fueling the dark altar of my obsession. Perhaps I ought to give in to the bitter truth, to her poisoned kisses. Like a sacrificial lamb, willing to offer itself to the flames of her allure.

No. I would not succumb to her wicked spell.

“You used me, lied to me, betrayed me.” The accusations hung heavy in the air. "I was nothing but another one of your pawns." My voice cracked, mirroring the splintering of the trust I thought we'd built. "Your mother used my mother, played with her life all those years ago. And now you’re doing the same to me."

“No, Laura!” She grasped my wrist, and the contact sent a jolt through me, a conflicting mix of repulsion and an undeniable warmth.

"This feeling,” I said, my voice shaking, “this impossible pull towards you, it's a symptom of your vile curse, a parasite feasting on my weakness."

"No," she said, her voice firming with conviction, "What you feel is of your own accord." Her lunar eyes bore into mine yet held a softness that threatened to crack my resolve. "I love you, Laura, as you love me.”

Love. The word tasted bitter on my tongue. "Is that what you told the other girls? Promises of love and devotion, only to drain them dry like withered husks."

“I have been in love with no one, and never will," she said fiercely, "unless it should be with you."

A cold fury ignited within me, burning away the last remnants of naivety. “You killed Bertha. All those villagers…”