Carmilla, by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, is key lime pie. Under the sparkling chandelier, the jellied embryo of fresh pie glistens. It is as attractive as it is repulsive: the color alluring, the texture unsightly. Changing only depending on the angle of light that shades its surface. Consuming the right amount of key lime pie is a cautionary tale that you dare not accept. Eat too little, and you will only fancy more. The sour green citrus begs you to indulge your lust, your hunger, that small part of greed that lies rooted in your heart. But you must feed the part of you kept hidden. The delicate taste of the creamy dessert brings the pleasure of a sister’s hug, or perhaps closer, even yet still, a lover’s embrace. Eat it whole, and your mouth will be puckered full of stinging crimson sores, as though your tongue has been traversed with the poisonous nettles of the woods. It benumbs your senses, threatens you with a malady that causes a worrisome languor. Sitting in your dressing room, alone. Lipstick smoothed across your lips only affirms the dire contrast of the sickly pallor to your skin. It is her that comes knocking, it is she who has been waiting. The one who comes in the dead air of the night, a powerful fervor that pulses behind the door. She is like the key lime pie— desirable in the light of day, a calamity in the night. When sight is lost, when night obscures your vision, she is possessed by a strict devotion. Gloating like a mystic, teeth twin scythes. Blood a basin at your breast.