Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - BOOCarz

are empty. In a cruel twist of irony, they achieved the
immortality they’d been seeking. It’s believed that the
hollows can live thousands of years, but it is a life of
constant physical torment, of humiliating debasement
—feeding on stray animals, living in isolation—and of
insatiable hunger for the flesh of their former kin,
because our blood is their only hope for salvation. If a
hollow gorges itself on enough peculiars, it becomes
a wight.”
“That word again,” I said. “When we first met,
Emma accused me of being one.”
“I might have thought the same thing, if I hadn’t
observed you beforehand.”
“What are they?”
“If being a hollow is a living hell—and it most
certainly is—then being a wight is akin to purgatory.
Wights are almost common. They have no peculiar
abilities. But because they can pass for human, they
live in servitude to their hollow brethren, acting as
scouts and spies and procurers of flesh. It’s a
hierarchy of the damned that aims someday to turn all
hollows into wights and all peculiars into corpses.”
“But what’s stopping them?” I said. “If they used to
be peculiar, don’t they know all your hiding places?”
“Fortunately, they don’t appear to retain any
memory of their former lives. And though wights aren’t
as strong or as frightening as hollows, they’re often
just as dangerous. Unlike hollows, they’re ruled by
more than instinct, and are often able to blend into the
general population. It can be difficult to distinguish
them from common folk, though there are certain
indicators. Their eyes, for instance. Curiously, wights
lack pupils.”
I broke out in goosebumps, remembering the whiteeyed
neighbor I’d seen watering his overgrown lawn
the night my grandfather was killed. “I think I’ve seen
one. I thought he was just an old blind man.”