That Which Should Not Be by Brett J. Talley

I gathered our things in silence, and as we did, I began to feel a sense of general foreboding.  I was not a superstitious man, but on that day, I felt as if there were a hex on our journey, as if we were doomed to some ill fate before we even departed.
    We descended the stairs to find the inn keeper waiting on us.  He was dressed in a heavy brown leather overcoat and black boots.  He had a wide-brimmed hat on his head and a black whip in his hand.  He struck a frightful figure, but given the fear I held for the journey, a not altogether unwanted one. 
    “Well, old man,” Charles said, “you look as though you expect some trouble.”
    “I do not expect it,” the man said as he led us to the door, “but I am ready for it, nonetheless.”
    He held the door open wide, and we exited through it.  The stagecoach was waiting outside.  I followed behind Charles.  He reached up and jerked open the stagecoach door.  But then he paused and, cocking his head to the side, said, “Well, hello.  How very rude of me to not announce my entrance.”
    I peeked around Charles’ shoulder and in the darkness of the cabin saw the figure of a woman, though in the early morning haze I could not make out her features.  But the voice that answered Charles was not that of a lady. 
    “It is of no concern, sir,” a man’s voice answered, in the deeply accented English common to the few of that land’s people who spoke anything more than their native tongue.  “Please, do join us.”
    Charles reached up and pulled himself in.  I followed.  As I sat down next to Charles, I took a moment to glance at the two people seated across from me.  One was a young woman, I would say no older than twenty.  She was a strikingly beautiful girl, firm in all the places that required it, but with a softness that immediately soothed me.  It was her hair that stood out most to me, though − her long, straight, raven-black hair.  Next to her was a man, much older, weathered, like leather that has spent too much time in the sun.  I could tell immediately his life had been hard, but his finely tailored dress disclosed it had been a successful one nevertheless. 
    “I apologize for startling you.  I am Vladimir,” he said, raising his top hat slightly.  His hair was as long as the girl’s beside him and had been, at one time long ago perhaps, as black as hers.  But now it was streaked white in places, more places, in fact, than it retained its previous luster.  “And this is Anna,” he continued, gesturing to his right with a hand on which sat a large gold ring.  It was then I noticed in his other he held a thick black cane, the handle of which was molded in the shape of the bowed head of a large wolf.
    “Hello,” Anna said shyly, bowing her head with a blush as she did.  She had the lilting voice of an Easterner, though the accent was not one I had previously encountered.  She did not look long at me, though.  She had eyes for Charles.  At about that time the stagecoach shook with the weight of the innkeeper as he ascended to the driver’s box.  After only a moment, I heard him cry something in his native language, and I felt the sudden jerk of the coach as the horses began to pull.
    As we began to roll along, Vladimir said, “You must be the two young gentlemen who took the only room in the village last night.” 
    Charles chuckled.  “I am afraid so,” he said.  “A place such as this rarely sees visitors.  I doubt it has ever had a lodging shortage before.”
    “Yes,” Vladimir replied with a smile.  “So you go to Czernowitz as well?”
    “Briefly,” Charles replied, “on our way to the Black Sea.” 
    “Ah, the Black Sea.  It will be beautiful,” Vladimir said with a wave of his hand.  I glanced out the window and noticed that the houses had ended.  We had entered the forest.
    For a moment, there was silence, but then I broke it.  “So Anna must be your daughter then?” I asked.  Vladimir looked at