Journal of Erin Hollister

9 June, mid-afternoon

The train entered the Duchy of Styria, after days of travel from the Dutch coast. Over the day, I have been struck by how different Austria is from my native London. London bustles with activity; Austria, especially rural Styria, is more sedate and relaxed. Perhaps that is what I need, ever since Mother died last month.

I still remember Mother’s final words to me: “Erin, dearest Erin, do not grieve, for my time has come. My only hope is for God to forgive me my greatest sin. Do not make the same mistake as I.” Mother was cryptic, as always, about her past, and when I pressed Grandfather for details, he shook his head and said it was a chapter from their lives from before Mother met Father, before Father left to fight in the Boer Wars. It is frustrating, not knowing details Mother seemed to expect me to know.

Days after the funeral, and a lovely yet sad funeral it was, I received a letter from a distant relative:

My dear Erin.

Great sorrow filled my heart to learn of the passing of my long-time friend and confidante, your mother Laura. What we once shared in our youth cannot be put into mere words, though many poets have tried, from Sappho to Shakespeare. One day soon, you too shall know of what I speak, if you have not already. Laura and I still call each other sister, although we are by blood no closer than distant cousins. I would love it if you were to call me your Aunt.

I will understand if circumstances prevent you from accepting my offer right away, but my schloß in Styria is always open to you. I would delight in meeting the vibrant young woman you have become, as all I remember is the infant babe who smiled at me from her crib on my last visit. I know you are not devoid of funds yourself, but enclosed are enough British pounds to purchase passage across the Channel, Dutch guilders to obtain a rail car, and German marks for expenses on the journey. A gift, freely given, from me to thee.

Should you accept, please send a telegraph when you reach the rail station.

With eternal and undying love,

Carmilla, Countess Karnstein

The letter is almost as cryptic as Mother spoke. If Mother and “Aunt” Carmilla both spoke like this in front of Grandfather, it would explain the disdain he expressed for Carmilla when I showed him the letter. He insisted I return the money, though he relented when I reminded him that returning a gift – any gift – is poor manners.

One thing he let slip: he still owns an estate – a schloß as the Countess called it – a mere few leagues from the Karnstein lands. I finally convinced Grandfather to let me make the trip, but his condition was for me to retreat to the family’s schloß should I start succumbing to Mother’s illness, as he would accompany me that far.

—

In the dining car, I have been talking with a German girl my age, who gave her name as Häschen. She is a few inches shorter than I, with short blonde hair framing her face, rather than piled up as is generally common. Both of us being fluent in both English and German (as well as French, Dutch, Italian, and Latin, it appears), I asked her if “Bunny” was her real name (“Hase” being German for “rabbit”, “Häschen” would be a more familiar derivative), to which she laughed and said her family has called her “little rabbit” from a young age. Häschen never told me her real name, telling me, “The ancients believed that names can grant great power over their owners,” and she warned me not to be too free with mine. I laughed and told her that the modern world had no need for such superstitions.

“Even so,” she told me, “I have been known as Häschen for so long, it feels more real to me than my real name.” I kept calling her “Bunny” the entire meal, to her amusement.

Bunny told me she was traveling with her father on one of his many business trips. He is a solicitor for a prestigious Berlin estate firm, also apparently traveling to Styria, though only as far as the city of Graz; Grandfather and I will be taking a Benz Viktoria, the top of the line horseless carriage, to the family schloß, and from there I will take a coach to the Karnstein. The way Grandfather and he spoke while I conversed with Bunny made me wonder if they had done business together before.

---

Journal of Erin Hollister

9 June, evening

Styria truly is a beautiful country. Tall, picturesque hills, thick woods, red painted covered bridges, and in places not a person for miles.

Grandfather was insistent we stop for the night at the family schloß, a keep he had purchased cheap after his military days half a century ago, but I insisted on pressing onward to the village of Karnstein. Grandfather’s warnings only served to whet my interest.

“When Laura and I lived here, before she contracted her illness, Karnstein was in ruins and Carmilla was not yet Countess of these lands. Indeed, Castle Karnstein was in ruins. For her to have restored the village and castle as well as her title so quickly disturbs me, given … ” And here he would not continue, no matter how I pressed.

Perhaps most disturbing to him, though it increased my own excitement, was that the Countess herself, my Aunt Carmilla, was there to greet us in her carriage. I felt a little overwhelmed by her dark beauty. She was tall, with long lustrous raven hair that reached her mid back with only the barest hint of gray, a regal and timeless face, and sharp gray eyes with a look that simultaneously appeared to see the real you and look right through you as if you were not there. That evening, despite the lowering temperature – during the day, it had been much cooler than London, and the sun was setting – she wore a tight black gown that scandalously bared her shoulders and calves. I could not believe she could wear something so revealing! I know I blushed, and Grandfather seemed uncomfortable in her presence. She greeted us warmly, pulling us both in for tight hugs in greeting; her grip was stronger than I expected.

“My dear Erin!” she exclaimed, holding me at arms length. “You’ve grown into quite the beauty. You look almost exactly like our dear Laura, but for your hair. Such a vibrant red! You must have dozens of suitors back in London!”

Truth be told, I had none, as Grandfather tended to scare them off with his Continental demeanor, and I told her as such.

“Well, there is a grand ball at Castle Karnstein on Saturday,” she told us, “and I insist both of you attend.” A grand ball! How could I refuse? Grandfather seemed reluctant, but after a minute of what I presume to be internal debate relented.

“You must be famished after your long trip,” she said. “I will have my chefs prepare a wonderful meal.”

Grandfather smiled politely and declined, while Aunt Carmilla’s coachwoman helped me up into the coach. I was so excited to be with this strange and alluring aunt that I forgot to hug Grandfather farewell, though I know I’ll see him in two nights. Then the coach took off, much faster than what London coachmen would consider safe. Despite the cobblestone road, the ride was as smooth as could be.

—

Castle Karnstein is astounding! To hear Grandfather’s stories, it had been destroyed leaving only the barest ruins when he and Mother lived at the family schloß, yet the stone walls of the courtyard, the tall stone towers of the keep, the courthouse stable, and well-kept landscaping gave me not the impression of restoration but that of continuity, even with the gas lamps that lit as we entered the gate.

A servant – most of the servants were women, I noticed – took my baggage and placed it on a cart, pulling it inside. Aunt Carmilla took my hand and guided me inside, a playful smile gracing her lips as I practically gawked at everything. The decorations ran the gamut from tasteful curtains to nude Renaissance statuary, male and female alike, and often arranged in erotic poses. What kind of woman was my aunt to get away with these displays so openly in her home?

Without my realizing it, one of the servants had removed not only my travel coat but had opened my waistshirt to display my cleavage. Despite this, I didn’t feel ashamed. There is no shame in revealing one’s neck in an evening gown, and surrounded by the statuary and Aunt Carmilla herself, I found myself feeling almost like a prudish hag!

A friend of Carmilla’s joined us for dinner. I only caught her first name, Minea, but she was a beautiful British woman whose age I could not determine. She wore her long brown hair loose, and wore a flowing red dress with a plunging neckline. There was something different about her, something intriguing, though I could not ask her the questions I had trouble even formulating in my head. Carmilla wanted to know all about my life, although between taking care of Mother and Grandfather’s watchful eye there was not much to tell. Carmilla talked about her time with Mother, about how they had met and the instant connection between them. She mentioned that Mother had saved her life, not once but twice, but paid for it with the illness that ultimately claimed her. The three of us talked for hours, until the eleven o’clock chimes rang.

Dinner was delicious. A dish of Austrian sausage cut into small pieces simmered with vegetables in a white sauce, served over Italian noodles, and the most delicious red wine I have ever tasted, full and rich in flavor. When I asked about the wine, Carmilla replied that it was a special vintage, a local wine that had been in the wine cellar unopened for four hundred years, discovered during the restoration. “A true Karnstein wine.” Wow. Most wine becomes vinegar long before then.

I think between the two of us, we finished the bottle. Yet I do not even feel a buzz, nor did Aunt Carmilla appear affected by if at all. Minea never touched the wine.

Maybe this holiday from myself is exactly what I needed.

---

Journal of Erin Hollister

10 June, early morning

I’m scared.

After writing in my journal before bed, Aunt Carmilla knocked on my door, letting herself in a moment later.

“Dearest Erin, there is something you should know,” she told me. My curiosity piqued, I asked what.

“The illness that claimed Laura, my first and only love, was not a result of when she saved my life. It was a result of my trying to free hers until she rejected me.” There was great sadness in her voice. Moved, I stood up and embraced her.

“I don’t know what happened to separate you and Mother, Aunt Carmilla,” I told her, practically whispering in her ear, “but her last words were for me to not make the same mistake. Whatever happens, I won’t reject you.”

“I’m glad,” she whispered back. Then I felt it: two pins on my neck. I vaguely realized that she was biting me! When she pulled away, she looked younger, much younger. She could pass for my age! My eyes were drawn to her mouth, where a pair of fangs – fangs! – showed above her lip, red with my blood.

“I am a vampire,’ she explained as I stood there in shock. “The wine contained my blood. Dearest Laura knew this, but when the time came, she chose to remain mortal.”

As she faded from view, seeming to merge with the shadows, I felt myself able to move once again. Grandfather’s voice filtered into my mind, “Should you start to succumb to the same illness that claimed your mother, retreat to our family’s schloß. Leave your stuff behind. Just run.”

So run I did. Down the hallway, wearing only my nightgown, down two flights of stairs, through the dining room, and into the main hall. I came up short as I approached the front doors to the courtyard. Two women stood in the gaslight, and it looked like one was kissing the other’s neck, but that was not so. The one feeding – yes, feeding – raised her head to look at me, blood dripping from her fangs. I screamed and turned and ran. Back into the dining room I ran, only to find another vampire blocking my way. In a fright, I ran into the kitchen. Two other vampires were there feasting. I recognized one as the coachwoman, the other as the cook! Not seeing any other choice, I ran across the kitchen to the other door. I hoped it was the door outside.

It was the door to the basement pantry. My mind raced. Would it have another set of stairs up and out? I hoped so. I lit an oil lamp and ventured forth to look.

I found a young woman dressed in a tattered dress and bound to a cross, in a mockery of the Lord’s crucifixion. She started screaming when she saw me. I tried to shush her, knowing that every second she continued screaming drew the vampires ever nearer. Nothing I said could contain her panic, even as I unbound her arms from the cross. In desperation, to close her mouth, I kissed her.

To my surprise, a few seconds later she started kissing me back. Our tongues dueled, and then her hand reached up and cupped my breast. My breasts are average sized, though not as full as I secretly wished for (though corsets helped maintain an illusion of such), but her hand felt like magic. Without realizing what I was doing, I cupped her breast, which filled my hand. Finally releasing her other arm from the cross, I laid her down on the cold stone floor. Fire surged in our hearts as we fondled each other. The tatters of her dress fell away; I leaned down and took her nip into my mouth. My first taste of female breast milk since I was a tot filled my mouth, or did I only imagine it?

Sliding down her smooth skin, I kissed under her breasts, her stomach, her navel, her waist; my hands followed my mouth. She’d long stopped screaming, now she was moaning softly. I didn’t know her name, but I also didn’t care to learn it. The gas lantern, long since forgotten, sputtered out.

I tasted the folds of her private parts, the parts only a husband should see and know. A part of my mind, the part that seemed to be a mere passenger in my body, registered that her pubes were trimmed. What was I doing? Why was I doing this? I was moving automatically, tasting her juices. New instincts had taken over, instincts that would not be denied. That could not be denied. That I then did not want to deny. She was exquisite, nearly as good as the blood-laced wine from dinner. And I lapped her up like a man in a desert who stumbled into an oasis.

As she climaxed, she screamed in ecstasy. the heat in my loins flared; I wanted to feel that. Removing my nightgown in one smooth motion, I spun on my knees and lowered my privates over her mouth.

“Your turn,” I told her, as she began to inexpertly lick my own folds. She spit a few times, my red pubic hair not to her taste, but I didn’t give her the chance to let up. The build-up was slow. Was this what Mother and Carmilla shared? In time, my freed captive lover got better at reading my body. I felt a climax approaching, and urged her onward. I don’t recall everything I yelled at her, but it was probably not fit for a journal anyway.

I climaxed hard. I think I may have triggered a second climax in her. I didn’t care to find out. As I came down from my climax, I cuddled on the floor with my newfound nameless lover. We sighed contentedly as we kissed, letting each other taste our own juices. I laid down on top of her and lightly kissed her neck.

Wine filled my mouth, or so I thought. Warm, rich, thick, coppery, delicious wine. Suddenly my nameless lover started bucking underneath me, but my hands grabbed her wrists and my legs intertwined with hers. I was thirsty, so very thirsty, and her wine was what I needed. What I craved.

As I drank, it seemed my senses got sharper. Despite the darkness I could see perfectly, better than when the lamp was lit. My ears could pick up my lover’s heartbeat as it got slower. I could smell three people nearby. At the same time my lover stopped struggling.

The flow of wine slowed to a crawl, and my lover’s heart gave one last beat, silencing the room and stemming the flow of wine.

“Welcome to the family, sister,” I heard the coachwoman say.

That was when I looked down, to see the corpse of the woman I had tried to save. The woman I had …

That I had killed.

Enjoy your first meal?

I looked around furtively as the vampires faded into the woodwork. The voice, I realized, was not in my ears but in my head.

“I didn’t…”

Ah, no one likes to admit it at first. That’s when I realized it was Carmilla’s voice in my head. I didn’t want to admit it either, all those centuries ago.

“Let me go,” I sobbed.

You are free to go any time, dearest Erin. But if you wish to learn to control what you are becoming, if you wish to honor your dear sweet departed mother’s last request, you’ll stay.

Carmilla appeared at my side and scooped me up in her arms. Moments later, we were back in my bedchamber, as she laid me down on the bed.

“Rest now,” she said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” She kissed me tenderly on the forehead, covering me with the blanket.

As soon as she left, I reached for my journal. The dawn is nigh, and I am tired. So very tired.

---

Telegraph from Häschen, Karnstein, Styria to Dr. Jack Seward, London, England

10 June

It’s started. Will attempt to save her. Success not guaranteed.

---

Based on Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, originally published in 1872, and therefore is in the public domain, using a character from Bram Stoker’s Dracula, also in the public domain.

THE END OF CHAPTER ONE