Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children - BOOCarz

“That’s insane.”
“I suppose. Though I imagine we’re killing ourselves
right now in all manner of ways that’ll seem insane to
people in the future. And as doors to the next world
go, a bog ain’t a bad choice. It’s not quite water and
it’s not quite land—it’s an in-between place.” He bent
over the case, studying the figure inside. “Ain’t he
beautiful?”
I looked at the body again, throttled and flayed and
drowned and somehow made immortal in the
process.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
Martin straightened, then began to speak in a
grandiose tone. “Come, you, and gaze upon the tar
man! Blackly he reposes, tender face the color of
soot, withered limbs like veins of coal, feet lumps of
driftwood hung with shriveled grapes!” He threw his
arms out like a hammy stage actor and began to strut
around the case. “Come, you, and bear witness to the
cruel art of his wounds! Purled and meandering lines
drawn by knives; brain and bone exposed by stones;
the rope still digging at his throat. First fruit slashed
and dumped – seeker of Heaven – old man arrested
in youth – I almost love you!”
He took a theatrical bow as I applauded. “Wow,” I
said, “did you write that?”
“Guilty!” he replied with a sheepish smile. “I twiddle
about with lines of verse now and then, but it’s only a
hobby. In any case, thank you for indulging me.”
I wondered what this odd, well-spoken man was
doing on Cairnholm, with his pleated slacks and halfbaked
poems, looking more like a bank manager
than someone who lived on a windswept island with
one phone and no paved roads.
“Now, I’d be happy to show you the rest of my
collection,” he said, escorting me toward the door,
“but I’m afraid it’s shutting-up time. If you’d like to