Inspired by the New York Times best seller Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs.
As time ticks by with every moment spent on the island of Cairnholm, Amber DeVine realizes she hasn't got much of a life at all. The days simply...
A dewy aroma drifted through the open windows and into the dimly lit dining room, filling me with a homely feeling I'd come accustomed to every morning. Only a few streaks of sunlight were escaping the thick array of clouds that seemed to settle across the island this week, giving an eerie setting to the already mysterious area.
I scrubbed the last bit of oil off my plate before setting Uncle Kev's breakfast on the bar table, and untying my stained apron. That morning, I had woken up early with a plan to go out and have some time to myself, not wanting to be involved in Uncle Kev's morning endeavors of trying to scratch that one part of his back he could never get, and eating like there was constantly something stuck in his teeth. Don't get me wrong, I love that old guy, but his idea of hygiene contrasts massively to mine.
It was just over six o'clock, and the Priest Hole opened up at seven, which gave me enough time to wander around before needing to head back. If I were to be honest with myself, I just wanted to get out for a bit, having been cooped up in that diner for a couple weeks. Coming up on the gravel road, it crunched under my shoes and gave a sense of life to the depressing and quiet atmosphere.
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Dew hung to posts, threatening to become droplets, and the morning fog stretched as far as the eye could see. In the distance, waves slapped against the hulls of ships, and seagulls cried out into the skies. A few early fishers had begun to load their boats, hoping to catch the larger swarms that surfaced around this time.
This was my home; it's hard to believe if I'd said that a few years ago, I would have dropped ship and ran, but looking at it now, it'd be difficult to leave it. Ten years, I've been here, it may not seem long compared to some of the folks on this island, but to me, it's almost half my lifetime.
As I came up to the end of the street, I spotted the museum, filling me with nostalgia from the many small adventures I'd seen through the eyes of my younger self. So many stories lined the glass showcases, with artifacts and photos to share, but my favorite exhibit by far was The Old Man. I remember it so clearly, now. Martin, the museum curator, had introduced me to him, displayed in a glass container at the back of the museum. He was the shriveled and mummified corpse of a man willing to sacrifice himself for his beliefs - strangled, drowned, disemboweled and knocked in the head.
"Bit of overkill, if you ask me," Martin would always say.
I peered through the glass doors of the museum, assuring it was opened, before sliding them open, the notable creak that always sounded off erupting from its hinges. "We're not open yet!" a voice said from behind a stack of papers on the front desk.
"Not even for me?" I replied.
Eyes hidden behind small frames peeked just above the clutter, and I could see the smile already igniting from within them. "Amber," Martin said sentimentally as the chair groaned from the weight being lifted. Footsteps echoed as a man, in his early twenties dressed in a light blue button-down, tie to match and grey trousers with a pair of slick dress shoes dangling just below walked around the desk to face me. His arms were behind his back in a professional manner, and his back was completely straight.
