Don't Ask the Goats

Early access from The Samodiva Queen: Balkan Neogothic Vol. I

Image by H1dalgo

Paid subscribers get early access to Don’t Ask the Goats, one of five stories from The Samodiva Queen: Balkan Neogothic Vol. I, before publication in the last week of June.

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The cab driver in S. told me about the cursed treasure buried nearby while his modded VW climbed into the mountains with the windows down and the smell of diesel, pine, and old upholstery pressing into my shirt.

He told it with one hand on the wheel, and the other stabbing the air whenever someone found gold or died.

The gods curse fools by giving them luck, we agreed before parting.

By the time he left me in the village square, dusk had thickened around the houses, the light of a convenience store doubling as a tavern casting a warm glow in the gathering shadows.

My bag was cutting a groove into my shoulder, so I followed the yellow light and asked who had a room.

The following morning, I met Lee, a Korean tourist, walking around with a GoPro hanging on his chest.

“Recording everything?” I asked, nodding at his GoPro.

“Trying to,” he replied. “Been here a few days now. This place is somehow both quaint and rough. It is strange, but I feel watched, too.”

He had a happy and earnest face, ill-fitting, like he’d stepped out of a bulgogi food delivery commercial into a story with no menu.

“Find anything interesting?”

He smiled cryptically. “Yeah, the other day, some random baba warned me to watch for shadows that don’t match their owners.”

I laughed, but it came out wrong.

Later that day, Lee had apparently wandered off into the forest, GoPro still strapped on. The next morning, his chair was empty outside the tavern. His beer glass was gone, too.

I ordered breakfast and asked around. Nobody looked interested. Someone shrugged and pushed a plate of tomatoes with goat cheese toward me. For some reason, they all called him The Chinaman.

“We have lots of Chinamen wandering around,” Milan, the local still owner and liquor brewer, muttered as he poured me another glass of his rakia.

“Name’s Milan,” he had introduced himself. “Yes, after the football team.” Grey streaks in his hair, he was wearing hunting pants and a white Maldini shirt, the red number 3 slightly faded.

I had rented a room from him for the week. His wife, quiet until now, burst into laughter at the mention of Chinamen. She had sharp eyes, a crisp, pretty face, blond hair pulled back tightly, wearing a lilac Puma tracksuit.

Nobody called Milan’s wife mad in front of him. They only tapped their temple later, out of sight. I never heard her speak, only that occasional sudden laughter.