Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - BOOCarz

I could already predict Dr. Golan’s explanation:
That house is such an emotionally loaded place for
you, just being inside was enough to trigger a stress
reaction. Yeah, he was a psychobabble-spewing
prick. But that didn’t make him wrong.
I turned back, humiliated. Rather than crab-walking,
I let go of the last of my dignity and just crawled on my
hands and knees toward the gauzy light coming from
the mouth of the tunnel. Looking up, I realized I’d seen
this view before: in a photograph in Martin’s museum
of the place where they’d discovered the bog boy. It
was baffling to think that people had once believed
this foul-smelling wasteland was a gateway to heaven
—and believed it with such conviction that a kid my
age was willing to give up his life to get there. What a
sad, stupid waste.
I decided then that I wanted to go home. I didn’t
care about the photos in the basement, and I was sick
of riddles and mysteries and last words. Indulging my
grandfather’s obsession with them had made me
worse, not better. It was time to let go.