Let it never be said that I do not commit to a joke.

This story is a mash-up of Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu's gothic novella Carmilla (1871) and Lucy Maud Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables (1908), with some of my own additions and embroideries here and there. It follows the plot and structure of Carmilla very closely (you can read the original text of Carmilla for free on Project Gutenberg; it is in the public domain). I have kept the chapter titles from Carmilla, along with most of the chapter divisions, though I reserve the right to condense some of the later chapters and add an ending that suits my fancy.

Where I have kept large chunks of text unaltered or only slightly altered, I have italicized them. However, I have also quoted and paraphrased promiscuously throughout the text and have not italicized every borrowed phrase. Please assume that much of the language is borrowed from Carmilla.

I dedicate this story to oz diva (read: I assign blame) for pointing me toward the world of crossovers (though I'm posting this on AOGG where it is easier to find).

Carmilla of Green Gables

Chapter 1: An Early Fright

When I was a girl, I lived with my family on the outskirts of the village of Avonlea. We were by no means magnificent people and Orchard Slope was not a castle, but a small income goes a great way in that part of the world, and we counted ourselves among the wealthier inhabitants of our area. We lived comfortably, enjoying many small comforts and luxuries, even in this lonely and primitive place.

Nothing can be more picturesque or solitary than Orchard Slope. It stands on a slight eminence in a forest, with an irregular and shadowy glade before its gate. The red road that passes in front of it skirts a large pond inhabited by many ducks and sailed over by fleets of white water lilies. In yesteryears, people called it Barry's Pond, but to me, it will ever be The Lake of Shining Waters.

Over all this, Orchard Slope stands neat and proper, the warm glow from its windows illuminating the rows of cherry trees that give it its name.

I have said that this is a very lonely place. Judge whether I say truth. The nearest village is Avonlea, nearly two miles to the west. The nearest inhabited house of any sort is the Lynde farm, about a mile down the road, and the next is the Blythe homestead, a similar distance across the Lake of Shining Waters.

I have said "the nearest inhabited house," because there is, only half a mile westward across fields and streams, a ruined farmhouse. Once, it was painted in crisp whites and greens, surrounded by prim Lombary poplars and stately willows, with its quaint front yard swept clear of every stray stick and stone, or so I am told. Now, it is an empty husk of glassless windows and sagging roof, overgrown with brambles and grasses that arch across the rutted lane and peek up through the floorboards of the veranda. Near the crest of the hill, under the largest willow tree on Prince Edward Island, stand the the moldering tombs of the proud family of Cuthbert, now extinct, who once owned the equally desolate house that they called Green Gables.

Respecting the cause of the desertion of this striking and melancholy spot, there is a legend which I shall relate to you another time.

I must tell you now about my family, few though we were. There was my father, Mr. George Barry, who was the kindest man on earth, but growing old, and my mother, Mrs. Elizabeth Barry, who was strict, but not unkind. I, at the date of my story, was only sixteen.

My parents and I constituted the family at Orchard Slope. We often had a young French maid or hired boy about the place, though I seldom recalled their names long after they had left us. My younger sister, Minnie May, died of the croup when I was about eleven or twelve years old, and I mourned her loss dreadfully. About the same time, my especial chum, Bertha Blythe, had gone west with her father for the good of his health. With no near neighbors but Mrs. Lynde, I was a dreadfully lonesome girl, particularly in the summertime, when school was out. At school, I had a few young lady friends, pretty nearly of my own age, who were occasional visitors, for longer or shorter terms; and these visits I sometimes returned. Ruby Gillis, blonde and flirtatious; Jane Andrews, plain and practical; Josie Pye, acerbic and quick-tempered.

These were our regular social resources; but of course there were chance visits from other neighbors. My life was, notwithstanding, rather a solitary one, I can assure you. Still, I was a rather spoiled girl, whose parents allowed her pretty nearly her own way in everything.

My earliest memory is one which produced a terrible impression upon my mind. Indeed, it has never been effaced. Some people will think it so trifling that it should not be recorded here. You will see, however, by-and-by, why I mention it.

When I was a child of six years, I inhabited the nursery on the upper floor of Orchard Slope. One night, I awoke to find myself utterly alone. I was not frightened, for I was one of those happy children who are studiously kept in ignorance of ghost stories, of fairy tales, and of all such lore as makes us cover up our heads when the door cracks suddenly, or the flicker of an expiring candle makes the shadow of a bedpost dance upon the wall, nearer to our faces. I was vexed and insulted at finding myself, as I conceived, neglected, and I began to whimper, preparatory to a hearty bout of roaring; when to my surprise, I saw a solemn, but very pretty face looking at me from the side of the bed. It was that of a young girl who was kneeling, with her hands under the coverlet. She was a very striking personage, with skin as clear and white as the narcissi in my mother's garden and hair a fiery color that reminded me of tiger lilies. She was slender and sweet, with seven tiny freckles scattered over the bridge of her shapely nose.

I looked at her with a kind of pleased wonder, and ceased whimpering. She caressed me with her hands, and lay down beside me on the bed, and drew me towards her, smiling; I felt immediately delightfully soothed, and fell asleep again. I was wakened by a sensation as if two needles ran into my breast very deep at the same moment, and I cried loudly. The girl started back, with her eyes fixed on me, and then slipped down upon the floor, and, as I thought, hid herself under the bed.

I was now for the first time frightened, and I yelled with all my might and main. My mother and father came running in, and hearing my story, they made light of it, soothing me all they could meanwhile. But, child as I was, I could perceive that their faces were pale with an unwonted look of anxiety, and I saw them look under the bed, and about the room, and peep under tables and pluck open cupboards; and the maid whispered, "Lay your hand along that hollow in the bed; someone did lie there; the place is still warm." My father scolded her and warned her not to talk such nonsense, as the warm place was only the spot where my favorite tabby cat was wont to curl up beside me.

I remember all three examining my chest, where I told them I felt the puncture, and pronouncing that there was no sign visible that any such thing had happened to me.

I was very nervous for a long time after this. Dr. Blair was called in, but there was little he could do but suggest that someone sit with me at all times until I should feel secure enough to be left alone.

I remember my father coming up and standing at the bedside, and talking cheerfully, and asking me a number of questions, and laughing very heartily at one of the answers; and patting me on the shoulder, and kissing me, and telling me not to be frightened, that it was nothing but a dream and could not hurt me. My mother tried to comfort me by assuring me that it was she who had come and looked at me, and lain down beside me in the bed, and that I must have been half-dreaming not to have known her face.

But I was not comforted, for I knew the visit of the strange girl was not a dream; and I was awfully frightened.

After it became clear that my terror would not be assuaged by tender falsehoods, my parents sent for the Reverend Mr. Allan and Mrs. Allen to pray in my chamber. Mr. Allan was very sweet to me, asking me how I fared and speaking gently to me. He told me that we would pray, and joined my hands together, and desired me to say, softly, "Lord hear all good prayers for us, for Jesus' sake." I think these were the very words, for I often repeated them to myself in after years.

Then Mr. Allan kneeled, and his wife and my parents with him, and he prayed aloud with an earnest quavering voice for, what appeared to me, a long time.

I forget all my life preceding that event, and for some time after it is all obscure also, but the scenes I have just described stand out vivid as the isolated pictures of the phantasmagoria surrounded by darkness.