Descending

I dared not tell my parents of my nightmare, nor of much that happened afterward. I feared that they might fancy that I had been attacked by the mysterious complaint which had invaded our neighborhood. I had myself no misgiving of the kind, and I was afraid of alarming them.

For three nights, I endured this torment. On the morning after the third, I resolved that I must tell my parents, whatever the cost.

Yet, when I went down to breakfast, my father greeted me with a sorrowful expression and informed me in grave and formal tones that Jane Andrews had succumbed the previous evening.

"Thank God you are still well, Diana," he said. "Come, let us pray together."

How could I disappoint him?

Carmilla came down rather later than usual the next day. We asked for permission to walk together in the orchard, which was granted, provided that we stay near enough to the house that we might be called, and that we should speak to no one but one another. This being our intent, we gladly assented.

As soon as we were alone together, Carmilla turned her splendid eyes to me. "I was so frightened last night," she said, "and I am sure I would have been lost if it had not been for that charm I bought from the peddler. I had a dream of something black coming round my bed, and I awoke in a perfect horror, and I really thought, for some seconds, I saw a dark figure near the chimneypiece, but I felt under my pillow for my charm, and the moment my fingers touched it, the figure disappeared, and I felt quite certain, only that I had it by me, that something frightful would have made its appearance, and, perhaps, throttled me, as it did those poor people we heard of."

I was much amazed by her story. In hushed tones, I recounted my adventure, at the recital of which she appeared horrified.

"And had you the charm near you?" she asked, earnestly.

"No," I said. "I dropped it into a china vase in the sitting room, but I shall certainly take it with me tonight, as you have so much faith in it."

Accordingly, I did so, and it was only by the presence of that charm that I summoned the courage to lie alone that night. Oh, that Carmilla would join me, or invite me to her bed! But she did not and I was not bold enough to ask. In any case, I pinned the charm to my pillow. I fell asleep almost immediately, and slept even more soundly than usual all night.

The next night I passed as well. My sleep was delightfully deep and dreamless.

And yet, I was not untroubled.

I could say that it was the news of Gertie Pye's death than sank me into a deep sense of lassitude and melancholy, but indeed, I barely realized the news when my father delivered it.

Every morning I felt the same lassitude, and a languor weighed upon me all day. I felt myself a changed girl. A strange melancholy was stealing over me, a melancholy that I would not have interrupted. Dim thoughts of death began to open, and an idea that I was slowly sinking took gentle, and, somehow, not unwelcome, possession of me. If it was sad, the tone of mind which this induced was also sweet.

Whatever it might be, my soul acquiesced in it. I would not admit that I was ill, I would not consent to tell my parents, or to have the doctor sent for.

In this state, I feared that I was no longer a charming companion for Carmilla. Gone were the days when I would walk with her to the Dryad's Bubble or the little round pool in the back field that she had christened Willowmere. Instead, I was content to lie on the sofa or in the soft, green grass of the cherry orchard, under fruit that had begun to rot, ungathered, for our hired man and maid had by this time gone home to look after their own families, and I had not the vitality to help bring in a harvest.

I feared that my languor would bore Carmilla, but in truth, she became more devoted to me than ever, and her strange paroxysms of adoration more frequent. She used to gloat on me with increasing ardor the more my strength and spirits waned.

Soon, I began to experience strange sensations in my sleep. They were not dreams as my nightmare of the cat and the dark figure had been, but they were just as vivid, and left indelible impressions on both my mind and my body.

Deep in dreams, I could hear one clear female voice, very deep, that spoke as if at a distance, slowly, and producing always the same sensation of indescribable solemnity and fear. Sometimes there came a sensation as if a hand was drawn softly along my cheek and neck. Sometimes it was as if warm lips kissed me, and longer and longer and more lovingly as they reached my throat, but there the caress fixed itself. My heart beat faster, my breathing rose and fell rapidly and full drawn; a sobbing, that turned into a lingering convulsion, in which my senses left me.

In the weeks that followed, the news from Avonlea was very bad. Scarcely any of the girls with whom I had played and studied were left untouched by the distemper, though their brothers and younger siblings invariably escaped its ravages. Mr. Allan came to see my father on several occasions, bringing word that there were now reports from Carmody and Grafton of girls who had never met Ruby Gillis or Jane Andrews the Pye girls, but had fallen ill nevertheless. Tillie Boulter and Em White died and were buried without public ceremonies. All Avonlea sequestered itself against the plague, and even Mrs. Lynde stopped coming to visit Mother. Mr. Allan travelled from house to house, praying with families, but all public gatherings were cancelled, including school, which would not convene. This was due in part to the fear of contagion, but also to the fact that our beloved teacher, Miss Stacey, was herself among the afflicted.

As summer turned toward autumn, my sufferings told upon my appearance. I had grown pale, my eyes were dilated and darkened underneath, and the languor which I had long felt began to display itself in my countenance.

My father asked me often whether I was ill; but, with an obstinacy which now seems to me unaccountable, I persisted in assuring him that I was quite well.

In a sense this was true. I had no pain, I could complain of no bodily derangement. My complaint seemed to be one of the imagination, or the nerves, and, horrible as my sufferings were, I kept them, with a morbid reserve, very nearly to myself.

I reasoned that my troubles could not be the same as those that had afflicted the other girls. After all, they had sunk into death within days or a week of their infection, while my ordeal had already seen a month come and go. Besides, I had my charm, which Carmilla swore by as an infallible shield against any evil. Indeed, my first, terrifying nightmare had given way to the other sort of dreams which, though they prevented me from resting soundly, I was nevertheless loath to extinguish.

Thus, I did not confide in my parents.

This state of affairs continued unchanged all through September, until, one night, instead of the voice I was accustomed to hear in the dark, I heard one, sweet and tender, and at the same time terrible, which said, "Beware the assassin."

At the same time a light unexpectedly sprang up, and I saw Carmilla, standing, near the foot of my bed, in her white nightdress, her blazing hair utterly unmistakable. She was bathed, from her chin to her feet, in one great stain of blood.

I wakened with a shriek, possessed with the one idea that Carmilla was being murdered. I remember springing from my bed, and crying for help.

My parents came running when I raised the alarm. Though crazed with fright, I was nonetheless able to communicate to them that Carmilla was in some danger. Whether they believed me I cannot say, but the urgency of my pleas prevailed and we hurried together to the spare room.

My father knocked, but his summons was unanswered.

"Anne?" he called, his voice edged with fear. "Anne? If you can hear me, please open this door."

When no answer came, he tried the doorknob, but found that it was locked fast.

"Anne?" he pounded upon the door, faster and harder, loud enough to wake the dead. "Anne!"

"Carmilla!" I shrieked, wild with terror, but all was vain.

"Stand back," Father said, handing the candle to Mother. "I'm going to force the lock."

Taking a fire iron from the hearth in the adjacent parlor, Father attempted to pry open the spare room door, splintering the wood of the jamb. On his third attempt, the apparatus gave way and the door swung wide.

Mother held the light aloft in the doorway, and so we stared into the room.

We called her by name; but there was still no reply. We looked round the room. Everything was undisturbed. It was exactly in the state in which I had left it on bidding her good night.

But Carmilla was gone.