By Gail Fulkerson
Ophelia's back was killing her when she awoke. There would be no hunting until it was better, which could take up to a week. Luckily, she'd put up many bottles of blood for just such an occurrence. All she had to do was retrieve a few from the basement, bring them upstairs, and put them in the fridge to chill.
Navigating the basement stairs was an exercise in pain. Every step sent shooting pain up her spine and down her right leg. As much as she wanted to stop, Ophelia kept going, wincing with every step. She broke into a clammy sweat, leaving beads of blood-red perspiration on her skin.
Ophelia carted an even dozen blood jars into the kitchen, three at a time, which damn near killed her. The pain was so intense that she sat on the stairs until it stopped screaming, and she was able to stand up and finish her errand.
She had lost track of time and walked into the kitchen at sunrise. As the sunbeams accosted her, Ophelia quickly placed the last jars in the refrigerator and hobbled upstairs to bed with Roscoe in tow. Her bright, white nightie was singed and threatening to burst into flames.
Flopping into bed was de rigeur for Ophelia but was out of the question tonight. She gingerly got into her bed and tried to find a cozy position to fall asleep. Roscoe was deep asleep and didn't feel Ophelia trying to get comfortable. He even let out a snore, which usually made Ophelia giggle, but tonight, her pain only granted her a small smile.
The next night, Ophelia arose and descended the stairs to the kitchen. She took a bottle of blood from the fridge and set it on the counter to warm a bit before pouring herself a cup and a bowl for Roscoe. Sometimes, she would heat the blood to body temperature - 98.6F - before drinking; it made the blood taste fresh on her tongue. Ophelia preferred her blood that way - warm, thick, and silky. Roscoe couldn't have cared less, as long as it was liquid and he could lap it up quickly.
After a week of recovery, Ophelia started feeling better. She allowed herself another night of staying in and taking it easy to ensure her back was well and wouldn't cause her pain while she hunted.
Ophelia and Roscoe stepped out onto the front porch, down the steps, and onto the sidewalk. Turning right, they headed for the docks to hunt rats; since this was the first outing after being laid up, Ophelia wanted to take it easy on her back. Hunting rats was the quickest and easiest way to get sustenance. Roscoe was in heaven as he dispatched rat after rat, drinking their blood in slurps and gulps.
After draining the twentieth rat, Ophelia began to feel stronger and finished off another ten. Roscoe had stopped at fourteen, his personal best. Both were full to the eyeballs and could barely move. The pair found a spot to hide until their meals had time to partially digest and not make them feel so bloated before heading home. It took about an hour before the duo felt comfortable enough to travel. Ophelia picked up Roscoe and flew them home. There were no bags of rat blood to bring home; after all the rat blood she'd drank, Ophelia didn't think she'd want more of it any time soon. On the other hand, Roscoe couldn't get enough; rats were his choice of prey every time they hunted.
The next night, Ophelia was after larger prey: humans. So many delicious people were on the streets that deciding which one to reap was difficult. She was about to lock the front door when she remembered the blood bags and went into the basement to get them. Tucking them into a fold of her bright white nightie, Ophelia left the house with Roscoe in tow.
The pair went first to the docks so Roscoe could hunt and kill rats before going for Ophelia's prize of a fleshy human.
Her quarry was walking right toward them: a large woman wrangling shopping bags. As the woman passed by, Ophelia turned and followed her as she made her way home. The woman turned down a darkened street, and Ophelia made her move, jumping on the woman's back and sinking her fangs into her neck as Roscoe tripped her up. There was an audible 'oomph' as the woman landed face down on the sidewalk, Ophelia on top of her, sucking her warm blood. The big woman died on the sidewalk, never making it home with her shopping.
Ophelia filled three blood bags before the body was drained. She didn't even bother to move the body out of sight, preferring to let some unsuspecting pedestrian find the corpse. Sometimes, Ophelia would wait out of sight to watch the reaction of the finder: the instant that the horror spread across the face was her favourite moment. It was times like these that Ophelia wished she owned a camera.
The next night, the killers went on a killing spree, decimating the rat population on the docks. Rats fled for safety, but every avenue was blocked. There was no escape for them, and Roscoe thrived in the chaos.
He beheaded the ones he caught and drank their blood. After the twelfth one, Roscoe was quite full but didn't want to quit, so he merely snapped their little necks in his teeth and left them for dead on the pavement.
Back home, Ophelia emptied the blood bags into some clean mason jars and placed them on the shelf. Then she went to the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea, measuring the powdered blood and tea into her cup and Roscoe's bowl while she waited for the water to boil.
Taking their tea into the living room, Ophelia settled into her comfy chair and sipped on her tea. Roscoe had devoured his tea and was looking for more.
"Wait until I finish my drink, and I'll make us both a fresh cuppa tea. How does that sound?" Ophelia said.
Roscoe nodded his assent and impatiently waited for Ophelia to finish her tea. He needed a bath, too, to get the rat blood out of his fur, so Ophelia ran the bath water while they drank their tea. She added some bubble bath - night-blooming jasmine - to the steaming water and then settled in with Roscoe at her side. They relaxed in the tub until the water started to cool and then got out to towel off.
Ophelia donned a bright white nightie from the drawer and wrapped a towel around her still-wet hair. She also grabbed a diminutive nightie and towel for Roscoe to wear. Then, they went downstairs for a final cuppa for the night before sunrise.
"That was some hunting trip tonight, eh, Roscoe? I don't recall having as much fun as we did tonight. That was a blast. We'll have to do that again," Ophelia said. Roscoe nodded his agreement.
The pair headed upstairs to the coffin bed as dawn began to paint the sky.
"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.