Page 8 of My Carmilla
Carmilla accepted my hand, her touch sending an unexpected spark coursing through me. Hand in hand, we walked back towards the schloss and that strange uneasiness took hold of me again.
I must’ve been imagining it. How the evening shadows seemed to deepen around Carmilla.
“Do you hear that?” she asked suddenly.
I strained to listen. A distant, mournful melody drifted on the breeze. It was a slow, hymn-like song, tinged with sorrow. The sound grew louder, and a procession came into view. It wound its way down the dusky path toward us. A line of villagers, cloaked in black, carried a simple wooden casket on their shoulders.
I rose to offer my respect as an older woman walked past. “My condolences to your party. Who is it?
“The daughter of the locksmith,” she said somberly. “The poor girl claimed to see a ghost a fortnight ago. She's been fading ever since, until yesterday, when she finally succumbed. The swineherd’s wife died just last week. She, too, spoke of monstrous fevered dreams."
“Don’t talk about such things,” Carmilla said, her voice sharp. “Don’t you want to sleep tonight?”
The woman stilled at Carmilla’s outburst. She said nothing, quietly walking past us.
I touched her hand. "Carmilla, are you alright?"
Her face had drained of its usual pale cast, and a grimace contorted her features. "The music," she rasped. "The noise… it's unbearable. It grates on my ears.” A harsh edge filled her voice. “Death is inevitable, a release even. Shouldn’t we be happy to be free from this mortal coil?”
“Carmilla, everyone is afraid to die.”
“But to die as lovers may - to die together, so that they may live together.” Her hand flew to her ears, pressing against them as if to block out the sound of the hymn entirely. “Sit here, next to me, closer. My ears can’t bear any more of that noise. It sets my nerves on edge. Hold my hand, squeeze it. Harder, even harder.”
Gritting her teeth, hands clenching and unclenching, she stared fixedly at the ground, her body wracked with uncontrollable tremors. Finally, a low, guttural cry escaped her lips, the hysteria slowly giving way.
Torn between sympathy and a growing unease, I spotted beads of sweat doting Carmilla's brow. “Here.” I placed a supportive arm around Carmilla's waist. The touch anchored Carmilla, and she leaned heavily on me. "We should head back," I said gently. "You need to rest."
Carmilla nodded mutely, her eyes fluttering closed. The weight on my arm felt unsettlingly light, as if I were supporting a hollow shell of a girl. The dying light cast shadows seemed to writhe and contort around them, mirroring the disquiet churning in my stomach.
The cobbled path crunched beneath our boots as we made our way back from the village. The midday sun cast a welcome glow on my face while Carmilla preferred the cool shade of a wide-brimmed straw hat.
Rounding a corner, we came upon a curious sight: a ramshackle cart overflowing with colorful scarves, trinkets, and dusty vials.
"Good day, Fräulein Laura," said the small bearded man. He was a familiar sight, visiting the schloss twice a year to peddle his wares.
A large black hound padded beside him, its amber eyes fixed on us. The dog growled, low and guttural, its hackles rising.
“Quiet, flea-bitten beast.” The man clamped the leash on the agitated dog, silencing it, and turned to us. "Perhaps your ladyships seek wares to ward off the foul miasma that hangs in the air…that malady that tears through the village like a ravenous wolf."
Carmilla leaned forward. "What remedy do your baubles offer?"
He held up various amulets for us to see. "These, milady, are no mere baubles. They are amulets of moonstone, blessed under a full moon, to keep the shadows at bay. Simply wear one around your neck, and the shadows will hold no terror.
“I shall sleep soundly knowing I am safe from the touch of the night.” Carmilla picked up a silver locket engraved with a crescent moon, tracing its intricate design with a slender finger. “Wouldn’t you, Laura?”
I handed the man a few coins. "One for each of us, please."
"A wise choice, indeed." As Old Man Gregor handed us the trinkets, his eyes flicked to Carmilla. "Milady, such a pretty face deserves a flawless frame, wouldn't you say?" The man unfurled a leather case, its surface scarred and worn with age. Inside lay an arsenal of strange implements – polished steel claws, small files, and pincers held shut by a spring mechanism. The man’s gaze lingered on Carmilla’s canines. “Sharp they are. A beautiful lady with a carnivore's smile…that wouldn't do, would it?” He chuckled, gesturing at his mouth. “I can make ‘em nice and round, match the rest of your beauty. No more the teeth of a fish."
Fury bloomed in Carmilla’s eyes. Her scarlet lips curled back, a flash of teeth, and she spat at his feet.
Recoiling, the man swore. I grabbed Carmilla's arm and whisked her away before the situation could spiral.
“The audacity of that insolent peddler,” she fumed.
“Pay no mind to him,” I said. “I think your teeth are quite becoming.”
“Don’t lie.” Carmilla let out a hollow laugh. "Your flattery is as delicate as a spider's web, pretty words spun from deception. You probably find my teeth as odious as that odious man."