You Can Run

A Regular Day

29th February 1880

The smoke from the furnaces burned Pierre's lungs, but at least he could find solace in the fact that his home was close. From what he'd seen on his lunch break, the shore seemed near, appearing clearer than mere pixels in the vast sea. They'd reach Nova Scotia soon enough. He moved a hand to wipe the sweat off his brow, earning a smack on the back of his head from James, the stout red pig he called his supervisor.

"Back to work, Frenchie," James grunted, letting the ashes from his cigar fall on Pierre's sweaty shirt. A silent curse escaped his lips as James waddled away, hands behind his back.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, sir"

"Better not be," he hacked up a cough and walked away.

Soon, Pierre walked onto the dock, grateful for the steady land beneath his feet. The smell of dead fish from the nearby market

reached his nose. Best to leave, he decided, setting off towards his home, where his sister would be waiting.

On the way, he came across the desolate ruins of Abbott & Sons, the shack that once passed for a bookstore in this part of town. Mould spread freely across the wooden sign, covering half the lettering. The store windows had been smashed, then boarded up. The humidity had worked its way on the walls; paint chipped away to expose veins of rot creeping its way along the walls. It wouldn't be long before the bookstore crumbled altogether, but even then, it was unlikely that the Abbott siblings would return.

Arthur and Lorraine Abbott were the previous owners of the bookstore. Arthur taught him to read and write in English. They had a son and a daughter, Albert and Charlotte. Lottie was the same age as Pierre, so they'd always competed about who could learn their lessons faster. Albert, who was a lot older, was a schoolteacher in Montreal. He'd left his post abruptly to care for Lottie and run the bookstore after their parents mysteriously died when Lottie was 12. Aside from English, Albert had also taught Pierre French until both Lottie and Albert mysteriously disappeared two years later, leading to rumours and speculation about the family.

Pierre glanced into the store through a cracked window pane, hoping for any sign that the Abbotts were back. None at all. He'd done this since he was 14; after every job, he'd visit the store and peep through the window, praying desperately for the Abbotts to return. It had been 6 years since they disappeared. Pierre had searched 18 times.

And all 18 times, his efforts proved to be futile.

Soon, his own home grew near, smelling of herbs and chicken. As he opened the door, he was engulfed in a suffocating embrace by his sister, Bernadette.

꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏ 

 On the other side of the globe Abru tossed and turned in her sleep. The long windows of the devdi let in the humid monsoon air, disturbing her sleep. Although; the heat wasn't the only disturbance—

She dreamt of a shadowy figure covering her mouth and forcing her out of her home as her father watched, brown eyes staring in bewilderment. The shadow figure dragged her to the forests behind the property, from where it shot up in the air, taking her along with it. She tried to scream and found her voice betraying her as it refused to come out. Upon glancing up at her captor, she realised something:

It had no face.

The figure was a humanoid mass of black shadow, tendrils of the being billowing in the air as it flew. As it glanced back at Abru, she felt an inexplicable fear.

There was no doubt her captor wasn't human.

But whatever it was, it wasn't safe either.

As she came to this realisation, she felt its grip loosen until she was entirely out of its grasp and was plummeting downwards towards the ocean–when had that come there? But before she could comprehend that, the ocean grew frighteningly near until—

She awoke with a start. There was no faceless captor. No ocean. She was in her bed, back at the devdi. Sweat glistened on her forehead as she took in her surroundings. The moonlight filtered in through the tall trellised windows, casting an eerie light across the room. Crickets chirped outside, punctuated by the soft hooting of an owl. A sigh escaped her lips. Soon, it would be time for the Fajr prayer. She lowered her head back on the pillow, drifting into a peaceful sleep.