Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - BOOCarz

to do something, the children sank heavily into chairs,
stared listlessly out locked windows, paged through
dog-eared books they’d read a hundred times before,
or slept.
I’d never seen Horace’s peculiar talent in action
until, one evening, he began to scream. A bunch of us
rushed upstairs to the garret where he’d been on
sentry duty to find him rigid in a chair, in the grips of
what seemed to be a waking nightmare, clawing at
the air in horror. At first his screaming was just that,
but then he began to babble, yelling about the seas
boiling and ash raining from the sky and an endless
blanket of smoke smothering the earth. After a few
minutes of these apocalyptic pronouncements, he
seemed to wear himself out and fell into an uneasy
sleep.
The others had seen this happen before—often
enough that there were photos of his episodes in
Miss Peregrine’s album—and they knew what to do.
Under the headmistress’s direction, they carried him
by the arms and legs to bed, and when he woke a few
hours later he claimed he couldn’t remember the
dream and that dreams he couldn’t remember rarely
came true. The others accepted this because they
already had too much else to worry about. I sensed he
was holding something back.