It’s fascinating how Carmilla predates Dracula yet remains criminally underrated, given its lush prose, atmospheric tension, and groundbreaking portrayal of intimacy between women. As a lesbian reader, this book struck a deeply personal chord with me. It’s one thing to find queer subtext in old literature; it’s another to see it unapologetically woven into the heart of the narrative.

Le Fanu crafts a story that’s both haunting and deeply human. Carmilla herself is seductive, enigmatic, and terrifying in ways that feel entirely fresh, even by today’s standards. Her predatory charm adds layers to the vampiric mythos, but her relationship with Laura is what makes this novel endure. Their connection is charged with longing, tenderness, and the kind of tension that still feels revolutionary.

It’s impossible to ignore the shadow of Dracula looming over this story, particularly since Bram Stoker’s novel borrowed liberally from Le Fanu. But where Dracula is an expansive and sweeping epic, Carmilla is an intimate candlelit confession. The result is a gothic masterpiece that feels almost voyeuristic, like eavesdropping on someone else’s dream.

There’s also something to be said about how Carmilla flips the expected gender dynamics of horror. The vampire isn’t a brooding male aristocrat; she’s a beautiful, mysterious woman who wields her power with a knowing smile. It’s a rare and refreshing take, especially for its time.

In short, Carmilla deserves its rightful place at the top of gothic literature. It’s a queer cornerstone and a masterclass in crafting creeping dread. If you’re a fan of slow-burn horror with teeth and sultry, sapphic undertones — you owe it to yourself to read this.