Miss Peregrine: Future Books

Prologue

A/N: This is going to be like, about in 1965, and I'm making Victor still be alive, and Abe just went to America. I read many other FanFictions that are similar but not that much, so I decided to make one of my own!

Millard was looking through the library hoping to find a book that he haven't read yet, when he spotted an unusual book. 'Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, Huh, weird, is seems like it's about us,' he thought, so he ran into the kitchen and asked Miss Peregrine, "Hello Miss Peregrine! I found this book in the library, can I read it?"

Miss Peregrine furrowed her brows, "Umm, Why are you asking me for permission?" But once she saw the book she had a change of mind, "Huh, interesting, we still have about an hour until dinner, maybe we can read it all together, gather everyone into the study room,"

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Once all the children gathered together, Miss Peregrine started reading,

I had just come to accept that my life would be ordinary when extraordinary things began to happen. The first of these came as a terrible shock and, like anything that changes you forever, split my life into halves: Before and After. Like many of the extraordinary things to come, it involved my grandfather, Abraham Portman.

"Grandfather? I thought Abe was in America?" Emma said, hurt,

"Now Emma," Miss Peregrine said, "This is probably in the future,"

Growing up, Grandpa Portman was the most fascinating person I knew. 

"Of course he is, he's Peculiar!" Hugh exclaimed,

He had lived in an orphanage, fought in wars, crossed oceans by steamship and deserts on horseback, performed in circuses, knew everything about guns and self-defense and surviving in the wilderness, and spoke at least three languages that weren't English. It all seemed unfathomably exotic to a kid who'd never left Florida, and I begged him to regale me with stories whenever I saw him. He always obliged, telling them like secrets that could be entrusted only to me.

When I was six I decided that my only chance of having a life half as exciting as Grandpa Portman's was to become an explorer. He encouraged me by spending afternoons at my side hunched over maps of the world, plotting imaginary expeditions with trails of red pushpins and telling me about the fantastic places I would discover one day. At home I made my ambitions known by parading around with a cardboard tube held to my eye, shouting, "Land ho!" and "Prepare a landing party!" until my parents shooed me outside. 

Victor wrinkled his nose, "That seems like a LOT of imagination for such a young boy," 

"Well this is the the future," said Horace, "Maybe all normals have huge imagination,"

"Well this boy is Abe's grandson!" Victor said, "Maybe he's peculiar?"

"But don't Peculiars often skip a generation or ten," Fiona asked,

"True, but-''

"Shush!" Miss Peregrine said sternly, "Quiet down or I'll stop reading," 

And everyone obeyed,

I think they worried that my grandfather would infect me with some incurable dreaminess from which I'd never recover—that these fantasies were somehow inoculating me against more practical ambitions—so one day my mother sat me down and explained that I couldn't become an explorer because everything in the world had already been discovered. I'd been born in the wrong century, and I felt cheated.

I felt even more cheated when I realized that most of Grandpa Portman's best stories couldn't possibly be true. The tallest tales were always about his childhood, like how he was born in Poland but at twelve had been shipped off to a children's home in Wales. When I would ask why he had to leave his parents, his answer was always the same: because the monsters were after him. Poland was simply rotten with them, he said.