By Gail Fulkerson
It had been a trying day for Ophelia. She lost her satchel with all the blood bags inside, and her garrotte was missing. It was her favourite, one she’d had since she was turned so many decades ago. A vampire never forgets where her tools came from — this one was a gift from a maternal uncle, Biff. Not his real name, but it was easier to pronounce than Vladimir.
Tomorrow was the Grande Reaping, a yearly gathering of vampires that took place under the city of Saskatoon every January. She was looking forward to this event; it was her first time attending the gala that had been taking place since the turn of the 19th century. If the humans knew that this blood-fest was taking place not 10 metres below them as they went about their mundane lives, they would be horrified.
Ophelia went ‘shopping’ to replenish her blood bags, breaking into a blood bank on Arlington Ave., and cleaning them out. It didn’t matter to her that she was on video surveillance as she did so, since she had a neat trick to deal with that: rewinding the tape to just before she broke in and deleting everything involving her escapade, then resetting the time stamps. She also fashioned a new garrotte from a couple of guitar strings she stole from a music store, and the handles she took from an old set of divining rods that were behind some mason jars on a shelf in the basement.
**********
Ophelia was ready to participate in the Grande Reaping. She dressed in her signature white linen nightie, topped with a black cloak, looking every bit like the diminutive killer she was. Her hypnotic eyes, enhanced with kohl liner and dark eye shadow to bring out their redness, along with the crimson lipstick staining her pouting lips, completed the look Ophelia was aiming for — unscrupulous, wanton murderer. Her deathly-white pallor was heightened by the addition of two small circles of lightly-applied scarlet rouge on her cheeks. She pulled her hair into a chignon, held in place with a bejewelled barrette that would catch the candlelight at the gala.
Checking to ensure she had enough blood bags and her newly-minted garrotte, Ophelia headed out the door, excited to finally attend a Grande Reaping. It was an event that she had heard about for decades but to which she had never been invited. To have received the invitation was an honour in itself, and Ophelia had received one in the mail not two weeks prior.
Ophelia didn’t know what to expect when she walked into the underground ‘ballroom’. It was a wide expanse, capable of hosting hundreds of vampires. Tickets were checked at the door, and those without one were turned away; if they were confirmed vampires, they lived, if they weren’t, they were killed outright. Everyone in attendance had to stand before a full-length mirror to prove they had no reflection before they were allowed to pass. Imposters ended up on the banquet table so that attendees could walk up and sample a taste.
Seemingly endless gallons of blood were decanted into carafes that lined the long banquet tables, along with hundreds of crystal goblets. As the carafes were drained, more were brought out. No one in attendance ever went thirsty.
A number of vampires were hired to deliver short demonstrations on a myriad of topics, from the fastest way to drain blood without losing too much; how to cleanse drug-tainted blood; the pros and cons of leaving a corpse in the open or hidden from sight after reaping; and, how to sharpen dull fangs without breaking off the tips. Even though she knew most of the arcane knowledge being imparted, Ophelia attended all of them, soaking up the lessons like a sponge. When the dancing started, Ophelia called it a night. She wasn’t much of a dancer, except when it suited her.
Outside in the crisp air, Ophelia spied a teenage boy walking home alone. Trying out a new method she’d learned just that night, she floated above him as he went, dropping pebbles to get him to look up. When he did, Ophelia landed forcefully on top of him, tearing out his throat with her fangs. Blood loss was minimal — she tapped his veins with blood bags after she drank her fill. She made sure to pour enough blood on the sidewalk to make it seem as though the boy was stabbed in the neck and left to die where he fell. She appreciated her talent for subterfuge and used it whenever the opportunity arose.
**********
Like all vampires, Ophelia had a built-in ‘clock’ that ensured she awoke after sunset. The internal timepiece self-adjusted to the seasons, which guaranteed her waking up in twilight every evening. No fiery killing sunlight for Ophelia, or any vampire, for that matter.
She’d had a lousy, nightmare-filled sleep, and just wanted to snuggle under the covers for a while longer. She felt out of sorts and grumpy after a bad day’s sleep. Since Ophelia had nowhere to be, she pulled the covers over her head and tried, unsuccessfully, to go back to sleep. Perhaps a hot cup of blood tea would set her to rights again, so she threw back the covers and headed to the kitchen to plug in the kettle and drop a dried blood and honey tea bag into a cup. Ophelia learned to brew the concoction at the Grande Reaping she’d recently attended. The recipe was a closely guarded secret, kept within the vampire world; non-vampires were killed if found with the recipe or the tea itself. Vampire culture had strict rules that must not be broken, and sharing recipes with a non-vampire was taboo. There were no parties where the hostess received some gift or other for having a demonstration of the product in their home. Nope, vampires eschewed such pretentiousness, preferring to pass on product knowledge through word of mouth and access to a hidden department at Amazon. A closely guarded vampiric password had to be typed in to gain admittance.
**********
Ophelia drank her blood and honey tea, showered, and donned a fresh, white linen nightie. The tea had improved her mood. She left her house and floated above the trees, making her way down the streets and avenues of the town, looking for a victim. She spied an elderly man making his way slowly down the sidewalk with the aid of a cane. Landing silently behind him, Ophelia reached out and tugged on one of his pant legs to get his attention. The old man jumped and almost fell over as he whirled around to see who or what had grabbed him. Seeing Ophelia behind him in her bright white nightie, he relaxed, thinking that the little girl with the red piercing eyes was one of the neighbourhood kids who had decided on a late-night stroll instead of going to bed. It was the last mistake the old guy ever made.
The next morning, the old man’s bloodless body was discovered by some kids walking to school. They had seen the corpse in a ditch, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the sky, and ran home screaming in terror. If Ophelia had been around to see the kids’ reactions, she would have laughed her head off.
**********
Ophelia stifled a yawn as she sipped the last bit of blood from a mason jar. Sunrise was just tinting the sky red as she rinsed the jar and headed for her coffin.
Tomorrow was the Grande Reaping, a yearly gathering of vampires that took place under the city of Saskatoon every January. She was looking forward to this event; it was her first time attending the gala that had been taking place since the turn of the 19th century. If the humans knew that this blood-fest was taking place not 10 metres below them as they went about their mundane lives, they would be horrified.
Ophelia went ‘shopping’ to replenish her blood bags, breaking into a blood bank on Arlington Ave., and cleaning them out. It didn’t matter to her that she was on video surveillance as she did so, since she had a neat trick to deal with that: rewinding the tape to just before she broke in and deleting everything involving her escapade, then resetting the time stamps. She also fashioned a new garrotte from a couple of guitar strings she stole from a music store, and the handles she took from an old set of divining rods that were behind some mason jars on a shelf in the basement.
**********
Ophelia was ready to participate in the Grande Reaping. She dressed in her signature white linen nightie, topped with a black cloak, looking every bit like the diminutive killer she was. Her hypnotic eyes, enhanced with kohl liner and dark eye shadow to bring out their redness, along with the crimson lipstick staining her pouting lips, completed the look Ophelia was aiming for — unscrupulous, wanton murderer. Her deathly-white pallor was heightened by the addition of two small circles of lightly-applied scarlet rouge on her cheeks. She pulled her hair into a chignon, held in place with a bejewelled barrette that would catch the candlelight at the gala.
Checking to ensure she had enough blood bags and her newly-minted garrotte, Ophelia headed out the door, excited to finally attend a Grande Reaping. It was an event that she had heard about for decades but to which she had never been invited. To have received the invitation was an honour in itself, and Ophelia had received one in the mail not two weeks prior.
Ophelia didn’t know what to expect when she walked into the underground ‘ballroom’. It was a wide expanse, capable of hosting hundreds of vampires. Tickets were checked at the door, and those without one were turned away; if they were confirmed vampires, they lived, if they weren’t, they were killed outright. Everyone in attendance had to stand before a full-length mirror to prove they had no reflection before they were allowed to pass. Imposters ended up on the banquet table so that attendees could walk up and sample a taste.
Seemingly endless gallons of blood were decanted into carafes that lined the long banquet tables, along with hundreds of crystal goblets. As the carafes were drained, more were brought out. No one in attendance ever went thirsty.
A number of vampires were hired to deliver short demonstrations on a myriad of topics, from the fastest way to drain blood without losing too much; how to cleanse drug-tainted blood; the pros and cons of leaving a corpse in the open or hidden from sight after reaping; and, how to sharpen dull fangs without breaking off the tips. Even though she knew most of the arcane knowledge being imparted, Ophelia attended all of them, soaking up the lessons like a sponge. When the dancing started, Ophelia called it a night. She wasn’t much of a dancer, except when it suited her.
Outside in the crisp air, Ophelia spied a teenage boy walking home alone. Trying out a new method she’d learned just that night, she floated above him as he went, dropping pebbles to get him to look up. When he did, Ophelia landed forcefully on top of him, tearing out his throat with her fangs. Blood loss was minimal — she tapped his veins with blood bags after she drank her fill. She made sure to pour enough blood on the sidewalk to make it seem as though the boy was stabbed in the neck and left to die where he fell. She appreciated her talent for subterfuge and used it whenever the opportunity arose.
**********
Like all vampires, Ophelia had a built-in ‘clock’ that ensured she awoke after sunset. The internal timepiece self-adjusted to the seasons, which guaranteed her waking up in twilight every evening. No fiery killing sunlight for Ophelia, or any vampire, for that matter.
She’d had a lousy, nightmare-filled sleep, and just wanted to snuggle under the covers for a while longer. She felt out of sorts and grumpy after a bad day’s sleep. Since Ophelia had nowhere to be, she pulled the covers over her head and tried, unsuccessfully, to go back to sleep. Perhaps a hot cup of blood tea would set her to rights again, so she threw back the covers and headed to the kitchen to plug in the kettle and drop a dried blood and honey tea bag into a cup. Ophelia learned to brew the concoction at the Grande Reaping she’d recently attended. The recipe was a closely guarded secret, kept within the vampire world; non-vampires were killed if found with the recipe or the tea itself. Vampire culture had strict rules that must not be broken, and sharing recipes with a non-vampire was taboo. There were no parties where the hostess received some gift or other for having a demonstration of the product in their home. Nope, vampires eschewed such pretentiousness, preferring to pass on product knowledge through word of mouth and access to a hidden department at Amazon. A closely guarded vampiric password had to be typed in to gain admittance.
**********
Ophelia drank her blood and honey tea, showered, and donned a fresh, white linen nightie. The tea had improved her mood. She left her house and floated above the trees, making her way down the streets and avenues of the town, looking for a victim. She spied an elderly man making his way slowly down the sidewalk with the aid of a cane. Landing silently behind him, Ophelia reached out and tugged on one of his pant legs to get his attention. The old man jumped and almost fell over as he whirled around to see who or what had grabbed him. Seeing Ophelia behind him in her bright white nightie, he relaxed, thinking that the little girl with the red piercing eyes was one of the neighbourhood kids who had decided on a late-night stroll instead of going to bed. It was the last mistake the old guy ever made.
The next morning, the old man’s bloodless body was discovered by some kids walking to school. They had seen the corpse in a ditch, staring in wide-eyed wonder at the sky, and ran home screaming in terror. If Ophelia had been around to see the kids’ reactions, she would have laughed her head off.
**********
Ophelia stifled a yawn as she sipped the last bit of blood from a mason jar. Sunrise was just tinting the sky red as she rinsed the jar and headed for her coffin.
-- Gail Fulkerson is a writer who specializes in writings of the supernatural. She
lives with her family in Saskatchewan, where she is working on another
story. This is a series about Ophelia Banks. Stay tuned to 'OZ' for future stories.
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