MoboNovel Lite
Chapter 1
Polly woke up with a splitting headache, only to find herself in a different set of clothes—a shirt, vest, and stockings.
The craftsmanship and fabric were rough, with some areas even frayed, the stitching crooked, and a strange smell of sweat permeating.
Where was she?
Who had changed her clothes?
Polly instinctively propped herself up, lifting her clothes to check her abdomen—no wounds.
Rolling up her sleeves, there were no needle marks on her arms either.
Before she could even breathe a sigh of relief, a sudden loud bang erupted from outside—Boom!
Followed by a series of malicious sneers.
“This kid’s bones are tough, dragged behind a horse for so long, yet he didn’t make a sound…”
“Shoot him between the legs, see if his bones are still tough!”
Another round of laughter.
“That won’t do,” someone said, “if we cripple him, the manager will kill us… he’s the cash cow of the circus.”
“Cash cow? Him? A kid who hasn’t even grown all his hair?”
“He’s got skills,” the man said with a laugh, turning his head and whistling like calling a dog, “Eric, show everyone your ventriloquism, your singing, your tricks…”
Whatever Eric said, the laughter outside abruptly stopped.
Everyone fell silent, leaving only the sound of horse hooves pacing in place.
Someone sneered, shouted “Giddy up!” and sped up the horse.
No one spoke again.
But Polly felt a chill in her heart—if she remembered correctly, that “Eric” was still being dragged behind the horse.
What made her blood run cold was that the people outside were speaking English.
Although she lived in Los Angeles, their accents were clearly not from the West Coast, sounding more like… French?
Had she been kidnapped by the French?
Or…
Polly squeezed her eyes shut, lowering her head.
The moment she saw her palms, her mind went blank, the back of her head tightened, and her heart pounded wildly.
—These were not her hands.
She had a slight obsession with cleanliness, her nails always clean and neat, smooth and pink.
But these hands were rough and red, the joints swollen as if frostbitten, dirt embedded in the crevices, and several brownish-yellow calluses on the palms.
What do people see the most every day?
Not their face, but their own hands.
Polly had never imagined waking up one day to find someone else’s hands on her body.
…It was like a scene straight out of a horror movie.
What on earth was going on?
“…Hey, Polly, Polly, look at me!”
A voice like thunder exploded in her ear.
Polly’s scalp tingled, and she jerked her head up.
At some point, a little boy had squeezed in front of her, staring at her with big eyes.
He seemed malnourished, sallow and thin, wearing a crumpled flat cap, his face covered in red pockmarks.
“What are you spacing out for!” the boy said, “Something big has happened, you know? Eric stole Mack’s gold pocket watch!”
Polly croaked, “Eric?”
“Yeah! Mack was so mad, he tied Eric’s feet to the saddle and dragged him for hundreds of meters… When the manager found out, his leg was swollen like a bun, his back almost torn apart, the ground littered with shredded flesh… serves him right,” the boy spat disdainfully, “always stealing our spotlight!”
The ground was littered with shredded flesh…
Just thinking about it made Polly’s back ache, but the boy didn’t seem to care, as if he wasn’t talking about a living person but a rat caught in a trap.
“If it were up to me, he shouldn’t get off so easy… that gold pocket watch is so expensive, Mack should call the police, send him straight to the gallows…”
Polly thought, could they even call the police in this godforsaken place?
Wait, gallows?
Then, the boy suddenly squeezed closer, signaling her to lower the tent flap, leaving only a slit to peek through.
“Shh, shh…” his face flushed with excitement, he whispered, “The manager and the others are coming!”
Polly looked up and immediately saw Eric.
He was thin, severely injured, lying motionless on a stretcher.
His shirt was soaked black with blood, like a greedy shadow ready to devour him whole.
A thick, fishy smell filled the air, invading her nostrils.
Polly initially thought she had a nosebleed, instinctively tilting her head back, only to realize seconds later that it was the heavy stench of blood.
A spark flashed as a man struck a match, lighting a cigar in his mouth, and walked over to Eric.
The dim light of dusk made it hard for Polly to see the man’s face clearly, only that he was wearing a suit, a watch chain on his vest, and a gold ring with a sparkling gem on his thumb—likely the “manager” the boy mentioned.
“Dear Mack,” the man said slowly, “may I ask why you treated him like this?”
Only then did Polly notice a blond boy standing nearby, fat, sturdy, and ruddy-faced.
The blond boy immediately shouted, “He stole my watch!”
“No, no, Mack,” the man shook his head, “you misunderstood me, I mean—why do you think you have the right to beat him like this?”
At this, Mack was stunned.
He seemed not to expect the man to side with Eric, and became anxious, “Uncle, he stole the gold pocket watch mom gave me…”
The man took a puff of his cigar, making a gesture to shut up, “You’re my beloved nephew, so I usually turn a blind eye to your squabbles, but this time, it’s really gone too far.”
“Eric can do magic, ventriloquism, sing,” the man glanced at Eric on the stretcher, his gaze pained, as if looking at a dog too weak to guard the door, “with a single command from me, he can even jump through hoops of fire—what about you? You only waste my food, can’t even earn half of Eric’s performance fee.”
Mack’s face turned red and purple, “But, but he stole my gold pocket watch… Uncle! He stole my watch! Gold!”
The man asked, “Did you see him steal it?”
Mack, “No, but—”
“Did you find evidence he stole it?”
“No, but who else—”
The man’s tone suddenly turned icy, “Since he wasn’t caught, then he’s good.”
Mack said incredulously, “Uncle, how could you…”
“How could I?” the man sneered, “My sister was a good pickpocket, could empty a lady’s bedroom without anyone noticing, and you? You didn’t even know your own watch was stolen, and almost crippled my cash cow.”
The man lowered his head, glancing at Eric, “And not even in a decent place,” he said coldly, “now, Eric’s leg is broken, his back injured—who’s going to perform magic in the meantime, you?”
Mack looked as if he had been slapped several times, his face flushed, unable to speak for a while.
After all, they were uncle and nephew, the man scolded a few more times, then waved his hand, dismissing Mack.
Polly carefully pondered their conversation, feeling a chill run down her spine.
—Was there even law in this place?
Mack looked no more than sixteen or seventeen, yet the man casually told him his mother was a pickpocket.
He had committed such a serious mistake… brawling, dragging someone behind a horse, almost killing another child, yet the man only lightly criticized him.
Plus all the bizarre details: the gold pocket watch, the gallows, the cigar, the match, the completely unfamiliar hands.
…She might very well no longer be in the modern era.
Polly took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down, and continued to listen.
She needed to hear more useful details to figure out her current situation.
After finishing his cigar, the man lightly kicked Eric on the stretcher, “…Can you still talk?”
No response.
The man didn’t mind, continuing on his own, “I know both you and Mack want me to give justice, but unfortunately, I’m not a judge, nor a cop, I don’t care who stole what. I only want money.”
“Mack’s mom gave me five thousand francs to take care of this kid…” the man chuckled, “if you can earn me five thousand francs, even if you kill Mack, I won’t say a word, understand?”
Still no response.
Eric remained silent, motionless, as if dead on the stretcher.
But Polly felt a chill run through her body, her heart sinking—the man was clearly hinting to Eric that as long as he earned enough money, he could kill Mack.
He was encouraging the two boys to kill each other.
What kind of place was this?
Or rather, what… era was this?
Chapter 2
Polly felt out of breath, breaking into a sticky cold sweat.
The next second, a hoarse young voice sounded: “…Got it.”
“Good boy,” the manager approved, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Smith has copied many recipes from the Gypsies, you won’t get gangrene.”
Gypsies?
Gangrene?
Polly felt slightly dizzy.
If it was just a guess before, now she was one hundred percent sure she wasn’t in modern times.
…She had actually traveled through time.
After saying this, the manager thought for a moment, then took out a bottle and placed it in front of Eric: “Whiskey, drinking it will make you feel better.”
Polly fell silent, if she wasn’t mistaken, half of Eric’s body was soaked in blood.
Injured like this, and he could still drink whiskey?
Eric, however, as if he had been waiting for this moment, suddenly raised his hand and grabbed the whiskey bottle, his movement so abrupt it startled the manager—his fingers clenched almost spasmodically, he impatiently bit off the cork and drank it all in one gulp.
The little boy next to him, seeing this, didn’t find it strange at all, instead, he looked envious: “That’s Scotch whiskey… He stole something, why is the manager rewarding him?”
Polly didn’t speak.
She didn’t want to watch this grotesque scene anymore, instead, she observed the surroundings: carriages, tents, grass, dirty blankets, old gas lamps, and a murky water bucket in the corner.
It seemed she had really traveled through time.
Moreover, she hadn’t traveled to her own country, but to a… completely foreign land.
Polly found it hard to breathe.
After a while, she realized the reason for her difficulty in breathing wasn’t due to fear, but because her chest was bound too tightly.
The little boy was still sighing intently, not noticing her discomfort.
Polly quietly turned around, reached into her shirt, and felt a piece of chest binding.
Chest binding?
Why was she binding her chest?
Polly’s mind was a mess.
The current situation was already tricky enough, and this chest binding made things even more confusing.
She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart, and continued to feel inside, her fingers touching something round.
Taking it out, she saw it was a gold pocket watch.
Eric hadn’t lied.
He really hadn’t stolen Mack’s gold pocket watch.
She was the one who stole it.
“Polly?” the little boy called her again, this time sounding a bit impatient, “You’re spacing out again.”
“Sorry,” Polly snapped back to reality, subtly putting the gold pocket watch back in place, “I’m too… sleepy.”
The little boy shrugged and said, “You’re never awake. What, is Eric still following you?”
This was a key piece of information.
Polly cautiously said, “…What do you think?”
“What do I think?” The little boy took a piece of tobacco from his pocket, stuffed it into his mouth, and started chewing, “I think—he couldn’t possibly be following you, it’s all your imagination.”
He turned his head and spat to the side: “Dear, if Eric had the ability to follow you, sneak into your tent in the middle of the night without sleeping, and stand behind you to scare you, would he have been beaten so badly by Mack?”
“Anyway, I’m off,” the little boy waved at her, “With such a big event today, I’m sure to get a beating tomorrow morning, all because of Eric—may his wounds rot and breed maggots!”
After seeing off the little boy, Polly put down the tent flap, planning to carefully examine the gold pocket watch inside the chest binding.
But just then, she noticed that the tent’s canvas was covered in writing.
Large black letters, densely packed like flies, looked somewhat eerie at a glance.
The moment she understood, she felt a chill run down her spine, a cold shiver rushing to the top of her head.
“He will follow you.”
“He will spy on you.”
“He will kill you, he will kill you, he will kill you… he will kill you he will kill you he will kill you he will kill you he will kill you he will kill you…”
A few words were obscured by grease.
Polly held her breath, looked closely, and saw it said—
“He is watching you from behind.”
She immediately felt her hair stand on end, and turned around sharply.
There was nothing behind her.
What the hell?
Who wrote this?
And who is the ‘he’ mentioned?
Polly thought of the little boy’s words, her heart skipping a beat.
Could it be… Eric?
But, how could that be?
While talking to the little boy, she quickly analyzed the situation.
She seemed to be in a circus.
Here, the manager acted as a judge, maintaining order, deciding life and death.
Mack was the manager’s relative, and because he was worth five thousand francs, the manager allowed him to bully Eric, on the condition that he didn’t cripple him.
Eric was the circus’s cash cow, skilled in magic, ventriloquism, and singing.
So, the question arose.
If Eric was really as terrifying as the tent’s writing suggested, how could Mack and the manager dare to treat him like that?
Polly’s mind was in chaos. She turned around and started rummaging through the tent—it was a small tent, half carriage, half waterproof canvas, covered in mold spots.
The ground was covered with a blanket, its original color long gone. The sleeping bag was relatively clean, but it had a damp, sweaty smell that was nauseating.
Polly searched for a long time but found no useful information.
For example, who was this body? Why was she disguised as a man, and why did she steal Mack’s gold pocket watch?
What was the relationship between the original owner and Eric?
She took a deep breath and turned her attention to the sleeping bag.
The sleeping bag had an opening, seemingly for someone to crawl into to sleep, with a name embroidered on the edge: Polly Clermont.
Good, now she knew her name.
This was a good start.
Polly closed her eyes, reached into the sleeping bag, and found a notebook.
Taking it out, she saw it was a thin booklet sewn with coarse linen thread, the paper rough and yellowed, with slightly raised fibers visible.
She opened the first page.
September 3, 1888
My diary is lost. Maybe Mack and the others threw it away, who knows? They can’t read and hate those who can.
They also hate Eric, but they never dare to provoke him.
I don’t want to be beaten anymore. Why don’t they beat Eric?
September 8, 1888
Madame hit me many times, many many times, saying my hands weren’t fast enough. She told me to look at Eric.
He didn’t even touch the person, yet he took the wallet. How is that possible?
It must be witchcraft, otherwise why does he always wear a mask?
He’s the only one here who wears a mask.
September 9, 1888
I was beaten again. Why is it always me?
September 10, 1888
Beaten beaten beaten, I’m always beaten. I can’t take it anymore. Why is it always me? Why why why.
Madame is praising Eric again. Although Mack hates him, he rarely bullies him. I really hate him.
I hate Eric.
September 20, 1888
Mack’s watch is missing. Only Eric could have stolen it without anyone noticing. We want Eric to hand over the gold pocket watch. Eric didn’t say anything.
I don’t know if it’s my imagination, but during the meal, he glanced at me.
What’s he looking at? He’s the best thief here.
October 5, 1888
Why does he keep looking at me?
Chapter 3
October 8, 1888
Why? Why did it appear on my bed even though I buried it properly? Why why why why!
I’m going crazy.
He’s still looking at me, he always looks at me.
His eyes glow.
He’s a monster.
October 9, 1888
He wants to kill me.
He will definitely kill me, those are eyes that can kill.
What should I do?
I want to resist, how should I resist?
Mack? Manager? Wanda?
No, no, none of them will do.
October 11, 1888
How long has he been standing behind me, one minute? Two minutes? Half an hour?
Or has he always been there?
He’s a lunatic, lunatic, lunatic!
October 12, 1888
I clearly threw it into the swamp, surrounded by crocodiles, why did it return to my hand?
What does he really want? What does he really want? What does he really want?
…
This is the last page, the handwriting gradually becomes messy and heavy, the ink soaked through several sheets of paper.
Polly felt a chill running down her spine.
The original owner’s education level was clearly not high, the wording and sentence structure are relatively simple.
But it was this simple and straightforward description that made her unable to control a shiver, from her spine to her scalp, as if someone was really standing behind her.
Should she believe what was written above?
Polly read the diary again.
The original owner and Eric were both at the bottom of the circus.
The only difference was that Eric was more talented than the original owner—he could steal faster and knew more things than her, she became the bottom of the bottom. Wanda and Mack didn’t treat her well.
Over time, she began to hate Eric, even wishing that Eric would take her punishment.
So, she stole Mack’s gold pocket watch and framed Eric.
The original owner was very cautious, she didn’t keep the gold pocket watch on her, but buried it in the ground, but after a while, the gold pocket watch suddenly returned to her.
It was at this time that her mental state began to deteriorate, she felt that Eric was watching her, wanting to kill her.
She was so scared that she threw the gold pocket watch into the swamp, but it came back the next day.
After that, the diary ended. Either the original owner completely lost her mind, or she transmigrated.
Anyone who reads this diary would think that Eric is a hunter with great patience.
He almost calmly, like a cat playing with a mouse, played with the original owner.
What Polly couldn’t understand was, if Eric had the ability to scare someone to the point of mental breakdown, why would he be dragged behind a horse by Mack?
If he didn’t have such an ability, how should the diary and the words on the tent be explained?
What benefit did the original owner get from describing Eric so terrifyingly?
Most importantly, why did the gold pocket watch return to its original position?
Or, the thing ‘buried properly’ in the diary was not the gold pocket watch.
Polly couldn’t make a conclusion for a long time.
In any case, she finally knew the era she was in—1888, the end of the 19th century, the second industrial revolution had already begun.
No wonder the original owner could write a diary, there were obviously paper mills at this time.
Polly put down the diary, somewhat at a loss.
So, what should she do now?
The original owner stole Mack’s gold pocket watch and framed Eric. Eric was tortured by Mack to the point of being unrecognizable.
Most importantly, the gold pocket watch was still on her.
She was in a dilemma, with nowhere to go.
If she turned to Mack, the gold pocket watch would become a ticking time bomb.
If she tried to win over Eric…
Polly lowered her eyelashes.
Every word and sentence of the original owner told her not to trust Eric.
Eric could kill her at any time.
But she observed coldly, thinking that Eric was more valuable, more worth winning over than Mack, than anyone in the circus.
The only problem now was, how should she win him over?
At this moment, a commotion interrupted her thoughts.
Polly was startled, quickly hid the diary, walked to the tent flap, and looked out.
She saw a group of people pushing and shoving, the air filled with a nauseating mix of alcohol, sweat, and cheap tobacco.
“Did this thing really fall from the sky?”
“Do you think there’s magic on it?”
“If there was magic, would it let you pick it up?”
“I mean the kind of magic in the city. Have you been to Fifth Avenue? There’s a guy who put lightning in a glass ball… at night, it’s so bright!”
“Putting lightning in a glass ball, isn’t that just a gas lamp?”
“Idiot, I’m talking about electric lights, much more advanced than that gas lamp crap!”
The time of electric light popularization was indeed around 1888.
It seems she really traveled to the end of the 19th century.
Great. Polly silently breathed a sigh of relief, if she had traveled to the Middle Ages, facing arsenic face paint and leech whitening, she might have chosen to die.
The next moment, she suddenly saw clearly what the group of people were holding, her eyes widened.
Wait, isn’t that her backpack?
What’s going on?
She transmigrated into this girl disguised as a boy, but the backpack came with her.
Does this mean… she can still go back?
In the darkness, the group of people surrounded the bonfire, carefully studying her backpack.
Someone took out a dagger and scratched it a few times, but because it was made of cut-resistant fabric, after scratching for a while, only a shallow mark was left.
That person seemed to think it was a bit eerie, turned his head and spat, then left.
However, some people were very curious and refused to give up, constantly looking for a way to open it.
Fortunately, her bag had a hidden lock, even modern people would find it hard to open without knowing how, let alone people from the 19th century.
Half an hour later, the group of people finally gave up, cursing and throwing the backpack aside, hugging their shotguns and wine bottles, dozing off.
Polly watched this scene, her breathing gradually quickened.
Her chance had come.
The backpack had everything. First aid kit, snacks, canned food, tissues, spare phone, power bank… everything else could wait, but the first aid kit must be obtained.
If she remembered correctly, the first aid kit contained bandages, water purification tablets, energy bars, ibuprofen, electrolyte water, antibiotics, hemostatic powder, iodine swabs, and an emergency blanket.
With these, she could save Eric.
Polly cautiously waited another ten minutes, finally waiting for the group of people to all fall asleep.
They should be the circus guards, with sticky black beards, dirty nails, wearing tattered hats, with hunting knives and keys hanging from their waists.
What made her stiffen the most was the old-fashioned rifle standing next to them.
She could even see the grease on the barrel for maintenance.
This level of realistic detail made her feel a chill from the bottom of her heart.
Calm down.
Polly told herself, don’t pay attention to those details, keep moving forward, the backpack is not far away.
But, it’s really too real.
On the wooden table were leftover meals, she didn’t know what they ate, but a stench hit her nose, smelling like rotting raw meat.
The ground was covered with a few old newspapers, soaked with dark grease, drying three animal traps covered in grease.
Polly was seeing for the first time that animal traps were so big, so heavy, longer than her arm, and like guns, needed to be maintained with grease.