Charity begins at home

by  Gail Fulkerson

There was a knock at the door just after 6 pm. Turning on the porch light, Ophelia unlocked and opened the front door to an older woman who looked vaguely familiar. 

“Hello,” Ophelia said. As the woman replied, Ophelia recognized her as the neighbor from two doors down. 

“Hello, I’m Gladys—I live in the house with the fake palm tree in the front yard. I’m collecting for charity. Would you like to contribute?” 

“Why, yes, I would,” said Ophelia. “Please come in while I get some cash.”

Ophelia couldn’t believe her luck: prey knocking on her door on a cold night! How fortuitous! Roscoe was at the front door, busy sniffing around Gladys’ feet and ankles, checking for an area of thin skin he could sink his teeth into when Ophelia took her down.

The white nightie-clad killer returned with cash to give to Gladys. She accidentally dropped a five-dollar bill on the floor. While Gladys bent to retrieve it, Ophelia overpowered her and started feeding. Gladys was so surprised that she cried, “What the hell do you think you’re do-,” before Ophelia snapped her neck.

The pair of killers dragged the woman’s body further into the house so they could close and lock the front door. Before Ophelia could turn off the porch light, Roscoe had torn a hole in the older woman’s leg just above the ankle and was busily lapping up her blood. 

Ophelia went to the basement and retrieved some blood bags. She drained the blood from the woman’s rapidly cooling body. She hoisted the corpse off the floor and placed it over one of her shoulders, and walked down the basement stairs with it, humming a tune as she went. Ophelia then had to contend with the large pool of blood that soaked the front door mat, so she rolled it up and tossed it down the basement stairs. She would deal with it later. Ophelia used paper towels to clean up the blood off the parquet floor. Instead of wringing the blood from the towels into the sink, she wrung them out into a glass, getting about 150 mLs, which she strained to remove dog hairs, dirt, paper towel fibres, carpet fibres, and pebbles. Then, Ophelia poured the contents into Roscoe’s bowl for him to lap up. 

Roscoe didn’t mind the odd bowl of ‘floor blood’. It had a uniquely satisfying taste imparted by the floor wax and carpet fibres.

Ophelia, done with her work, scooped up Roscoe and headed for the bathroom. She ran very warm water into the tub, added her signature night-blooming jasmine bubble bath, and got in. She picked up Roscoe and set him in the tub beside her. Together they soaked until the water began to cool.

Roscoe jumped out of the tub and shook water from his fur, wetting the walls and floor. Ophelia wrapped him in a towel and finished drying him off. Then, she grabbed his replica bright-white nightie and hair towel and put them on him. 

She donned a thick cotton housecoat, wrapped her hair in a towel, and headed for the kitchen to turn on the kettle to brew some blood tea. Roscoe was right behind her, floating at head height. He watched his mistress brew the tea and add some cold water to his bowl. Her cup was ready, so she took it and Roscoe’s bowl out to the living room to sit in her comfy chair and look out the window while she sipped and he lapped. A small creature the size of a rat walked under the tree in the front yard; Roscoe wanted to go after it, but Ophelia advised him not to, especially after his very warm bath not ten minutes ago. He sulked momentarily, shrugged, and asked for more blood tea. Ophelia obliged him.

Ophelia noticed the eastern sky getting brighter. She took the last sip of her blood tea and walked the empty cup and bowl into the kitchen, placing them in the sink. As she turned, she looked into Roscoe’s eyes, who was floating at head height. She grabbed his head in her hands and kissed him all over. He loved the attention.

“C’mon, Roscoe, let’s head up to bed, shall we? It’s been a long, busy evening, and I’m tired. Do you want to float or do you want me to carry you?” Roscoe chose floating, so off he went ahead of her. He was in bed, covered up, before Ophelia got to the top of the stairs. 

She got into bed and covered up before closing and locking the coffin lid. Ophelia sighed and turned over.  

Gail Fulkerson is a writer and a regular contributor to 'OZ', 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.