Carmilla

LAURA

Though many stories have been spun of monsters, fairy tales, and magic, within this journal lies the only true account of the fantastic. My story has been told, time and again, through men’s eyes. Well, this is my perspective. My name is Laura, and I have been victim, pursuer, and commander of the demonic. My earliest memory is this:

 

Behind LAURA a scrim is lit and we see the shadows of her memory unfold. The shadow of LAURA is played by MADEMOISELLE DE LAFONTAINE or MOTHER on her knees. FATHER, MADAME PERRODON, and CARMILLA play themselves.

 

At the age of six I was a rather spoiled girl. I have no memory of my dearly departed mother, but was showered in adoration by my dear and sweet Papa. I have, for better or worse, always had a mind of my own, despite my governess’ strict behavioral regiment. At this young age of six, I fell asleep as usual in my nursery with my maid keeping watch from a nearby rocking chair. However, when I awoke at the witching hour, I found myself entirely alone. Feeling quite abandoned and neglected, I began to cry. This is when the most beautiful woman appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, at my bedside. I had never heard much of any dark tale nor ghost story so upon seeing her lovely face, I felt comforted. She stroked my cheek with her soft hand and lay beside me. I felt instantly at peace. She played with my long hair and massaged my arms. I was just beginning to drift off into sleep when I felt the strangest sensation in my life. Suddenly, just below my neck, I felt two pin pricks about an inch apart. I screamed, as loud as my small lungs could carry, as the “needles” sunk into my chest. The woman behind me vanished into thin air as my nurse maid and father ran into my room. They told me it was not but a dream, but I overheard their voices in the hall. They believed that someone had entered my room despite the strange circumstances. The door was closed, the windows locked, and yet there was a warm indentation beside my small figure in the bed. While the events of my young childhood are blurred, this memory remains unforgettably clear. If this memory was a lone event of horror experienced by a child, I would quickly dismiss it as nightmare and fiction; however, this is only where our story, and its terrors, begin.