24 Burials

By Gail Fulkerson

Ophelia was cold. Saskatoon was in the grips of a polar vortex for the week, and it was only Wednesday. Temperatures dipped to -30C overnight; daytime highs weren't much better, hovering around -25C.

She heated some blood to drink, warming it a few degrees warmer than she usually imbibed. She heated Roscoe's blood meal to the donor's usual body temperature.

The diminutive vampire didn't want Roscoe to burn his little tongue. It happened once before, and Ophelia felt badly about it. It took Roscoe a few hours to repair his burnt tongue; during that time, he spoke with a lisp. It was comical, but Ophelia didn't want to laugh in front of her tiny companion and risk hurting his feelings.

After their meals, Ophelia ran hot water into the tub for a soak, adding a night-blooming jasmine-scented bubble bath just before she stepped into the water. Roscoe waited patiently on the bath mat for Ophelia to pick him up and put him in the tub with her. Together, they relaxed and warmed themselves in the enveloping bubble bath.

After their soak, the pair wrapped themselves in bathrobes and hair towels and headed downstairs for a cup of blood tea. Ophelia put the kettle on to boil, and Roscoe brought his blood bowl in from the living room, where he'd left it the night before.

"Roscoe, my dear boy, please bring your blood bowl into the kitchen when you've finished drinking so I can clean it properly. There's nothing worse than dried blood flaking off and floating in the fresh tea, don't you think?" Roscoe nodded in the affirmative and told Ophelia he'd do better.

Ophelia checked the thermometer. It was -32C, too cold for her and Roscoe to hunt. 

"What's say we sit in the comfy chair in the living room and watch the world go by? We could have more tea if you'd like," said Ophelia, and Roscoe agreed. Off she went to turn on the flame under the kettle for a second cup of blood tea.

Settling into her comfy chair with a fresh cuppa tea, Ophelia and Roscoe sipped and looked out the picture window in the living room. An owl glided silently past the house, landing on a mouse out for a midnight snack. The pair watched as the owl dispatched its prey and ate it in one gulp before flying off to hunt for more. It was hunting by proxy, and Ophelia wasn't a fan. She much preferred being the harbinger of death.

                                            **********

Ophelia had a conundrum. The frozen bodies she'd placed under the snow in her yard began showing after the big wind storm the week before. No new snow had fallen to cover them over again. Ophelia had started stashing the bodies under the snow as a way of hiding the bloodless corpses, with fewer questions for her.

Ophelia waited until the wee hours to fill her wheelbarrow with snow from the pile at the end of the street and dump it on the corpses in the yard. She ensured each body was ensconced in snow, forming large, 2-metre 'twinkie'-shaped graves that wouldn't blow away in the next wind storm. 

With the crisis averted, Ophelia went inside for another cup of tea. Roscoe had been watching his mistress from the comfort of the living room, jumping down from his perch to greet her at the door. 

"Well, that went off without a hitch, eh, Roscoe. I'm going to have another cup of blood tea. Do you want one?" asked Ophelia. He nodded vigorously. Roscoe never turned down blood tea unless he was uncomfortably full from blood drinking or sick.

"I have to find a place to dump the bodies before the Spring thaw," Ophelia mused. "Do you know of any places, Roscoe?"

Roscoe shared a few ideas with Ophelia: the reservoir outside the city limits, the sewer system, and the cemetery. Of the three, Ophelia chose the graveyard -- no water. She had two dozen corpses to move, so she dug six holes and placed four bodies in each one. The graves were scattered to prevent questions from being asked. They merely looked like the cemetery had pre-dug six burial plots.

"That was a great idea you had, Roscoe, my tiny man," Ophelia told her companion. Roscoe beamed with pride. 

"I've had enough of the cemetery for a while. Let's go home and have some blood. I'm famished," Ophelia stated. 

The pair of tiny killers walked through the cemetery gates and headed home. 

An hour later, they were sound asleep in the coffin bed, with full bellies, exhausted from their toil. They slept until well after sunset.

-- 

"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.