Bathtubs and Blood Tea

By Gail Fulkerson

 

Ophelia and Roscoe stayed in the house until the weather improved. It was -13C and overcast, with a mild breeze. Tiny snowflakes gave way to larger ones that gave the impression of a haze in the distance. It wouldn't be long before the scene was obliterated behind blowing snow and wind.

Once the storm had played itself out, Ophelia and Roscoe went out looking for the not-quite-dead to drink their blood until they died. Ophelia went after the larger prey — people and dogs — leaving the cats and rats for Roscoe. 

Their search for prey was methodical: they scoured the streets for storm victims by going up one side of the street and down the other. They even searched the parks in a grid pattern, ensuring they didn't miss any casualties. By the time the night sky began to lighten, the pair had dispatched dozens of fatalities and amassed quite a haul of filled blood bags.

 

Ophelia got Roscoe's attention, and the two of them headed home. They shut the front door just as the sun broke the horizon. Roscoe ended up with a singed tail, and Ophelia's hair started to smoulder around the nape of her neck. She quickly patted it out and then treated Roscoe's tail. 

"Blood tea now or after our bath, Roscoe?" Ophelia asked her companion. Roscoe told her he'd love a cup before AND after a bath, to which Ophelia agreed. She brewed up the blood tea and carried both cups upstairs to the bathroom, Roscoe trailing behind her. Setting their cups down, Roscoe's on the floor and hers on the small table by the bathtub, Ophelia disrobed and stepped into the bath filled with warm water and bountiful bubbles. Settling into the tub, she reached down with soap-bubbled hands and lifted Roscoe into the tub with her. He wore a shower cap that Ophelia had fashioned from an old shower curtain. It kept his ears dry, and he loved it almost as much as the small towel he wrapped around his head to emulate Ophelia. They soaked together in the tub until the water started to cool.

"Let's get that second cuppa tea going, shall we," Ophelia said as she towelled off herself and then Roscoe. She wrapped herself in a fluffy cotton housecoat and matching slippers. She dried off Roscoe and put him in a miniature fluffy cotton housecoat; he refused to wear any slippers. The pair went to the kitchen and brewed their second cup of tea. Taking their cups into the living room, Ophelia and Roscoe sat together in the comfy chair facing the window that looked onto the street in front of their house. 

After finishing their drinks, Ophelia and Roscoe put their cups in the kitchen sink and headed to the coffin bed. They snuggled into the myriad covers, blankets, and quilts and fell asleep. 

Later that day, Ophelia awoke after darkness had fallen. Roscoe was still asleep, so Ophelia left him to his dreams and headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on for a cup of tea. She made sure to brew a cup for Roscoe; he wouldn't be long behind her. 

Ophelia had a whack of blood bags to process after last night. She got to business before Roscoe had awakened, placing blood bag after blood bag into mason jars and sealing them before putting them on the shelves in the basement. She set aside a jar of blood she wanted to drink and took it upstairs when she finished. Ophelia took a wine glass out of the cupboard and poured a measure of blood into it. Taking a sip, she closed her eyes and swirled the blood around in her mouth. It was heavenly in its robustness, and Ophelia swooned with pleasure.

Roscoe had awoken and followed the scent of blood to the basement. There was Ophelia, swooning after the first taste. Roscoe wanted in on the tasting, so he scratched at Ophelia's leg with his front paws. 

"Roscoe, my little man, I'm so glad you're awake. Here, taste this blood. It's perfection in a glass." Ophelia tilted the wine glass to let Roscoe lap up some blood. His reaction was quite similar to Ophelia's. 

Ophelia took the mason jar of the terrific-tasting blood to the kitchen, poured some into Roscoe's bowl and refilled the wine glass. The pair imbibed their elixir as they watched a television program. 

There would be no hunting tonight. Ophelia and Roscoe had made a killing the night before, draining the storm victims of their blood where they fell. 

Ophelia yawned. "How about we make it an early night, little man? I'm having a hard time keeping my eyes open. How 'bout you?"

Roscoe told her he could use an early night, so the pair headed upstairs to the coffin bed.

"Good night, Roscoe, my sweet boy. See you tomorrow," she said as she snuggled into the covers.

-- 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. Gail just published her new book: "Tales of the Macabre". The book is available at Turning the Tide bookstore in Saskatoon or online direct from Gail. Make a comment and I will pass on your information to her. Stay tuned to 'OZ' for future stories.