AN: This is the first fanfic I ever posted so...yeah kinda nervous as to how you readers will perceive it. Sorry if Horace is out of character. I'm confused as to how old Horace really is because in the first book he said he was 83, then in book two he said he wanted to live to see his 105th birthday so I kinda assume he is 104.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Ransom Riggs is the owner of the book and its characters.

Courage-less.
Horace Somnusson (1907)

"My name is Horace Somnusson and I have rather...unusual dreams. Strange, frightening dreams to be exact. They started when I was six. I had dreamt of a ship, tall and grand. A beautiful majestic beast. There were people on board, laughing and playing around. I could see a family of four, two boys, joking around with their parents in the outdoor pool. A man and a woman, arms link, strolling down the deck. It was perfect. Then there was a whistling pitch. The next second there was an ear-shattering explosion and the ship exploded in flames. The passengers scream as they jump off the burning ship. Sun chairs, hats, cameras, and who knows what else were floating among the ocean. The cruisers flail around desperately, some were still. Then there was another explosion. The ship blew up again. Quickly the ship sank, the ocean wrapping its deathly hands around its deck and hull pulling it deep within itself, the passengers along with it. I woke up screaming, the shrieks of tens of innocent drowners banging in my head. Two years later the Lusitania sank by Germany's torpedoes.

Sometimes when I dream, they are not about death or destruction, although it is still frightening. Sometimes I would dream of people: children, mothers, fathers, the elderly. They were strange people with even stranger...abilities. I would dream of a girl, her body cascaded with fire, but she was never burned, even as it licks her arm and legs. I would dream of two siblings playing catch with a boulder, throwing it around like a beach ball. I would dream of a young boy talking to his clay dolls, then dissembling them like a mad man. I would dream of a girl, tethered by a rope, floating in the air as she slept.

Then there was the dream.

I am outside of a house, plain and ordinary. I could feel my dream body moving. I reach for the doorknob and twist it. It was unlocked. I stepped inside into an impossibly clean house. The lamp was on. It cast its luminescent light upon the dust free room. I walked through the house stopping for nothing. Through the living room, pass the bedrooms, into a dark hallway then I stop in front of an open doorway. Everything was silent. I did not understand why I stopped until I heard the sound of paper rustling. A smile crept on my face, a smile I did not want. I stepped forward into the room. Books of all size, shape, and color were piled on the floor. In the middle was a child with a blanket pulled over his head. His lap hold a book. I raised my hand. In it was a gun. I point it towards the child's body.

'R-run!' I wanted to scream.

I pulled the trigger.

...

I am now 13. My visions not only occur while I'm asleep but also while I'm awake. However they are unpredictable. They occur whenever they want and I have no way of knowing.

I was powerless.

Although it seem unlikely, I knew in my gut those people in my dreams are out there, real and alive. My mum and father thinks I am bonkers. And for quite some time I thought I was too. They took me to shrinks, they took me to doctors, they took me to every place they could think of that could rid me of my dreams.

Because those dreams are taking over my life." —Horace Somnusson/13

Horace stared at himself in the mirror. Slowly and precisely he trace the purple bags underneath his eyes, the disheveled tangle of his hair, the vacant look in his dirt brown eyes, his pale, to a point of sickly white, skin.

Then he promptly fall back in a chair, dramatically if I might say, and frown.

His new medication wasn't helping a bit for his mind-paralyzing nightmares. If anything it was having the opposite effect. They were more vivid and worry some than usual. He groan and drag a hand across his face. While most 13 year old would be worrying about friends and popularity and girls, Horace's worries are his nightmarish dreams and when it will all stop. For most of his life, Horace was homeschooled. His parents had refused to let their only son, their only heir, go back to a private school he attended before his dreams started ruining his life. And it had annoy Horace to no end that he cannot be trusted outside of his home. His parents are world renown fashion designers. To them their reputation is everything. The chance of their freak son landing a spot as the headline in the local newspaper was too large. So they kept him here, locked away until he is 'better'.

But he knew he won't get better. Not for a long time. Maybe never.

Horace never liked his parents. They were cold and harsh towards everyone but each other. He knew his parents did not love him. How could they? Their son was a freak. One day he told them, they will die, side by side, asleep in their bed as their mansion burned down around them. Like a beautiful halo. Then he smile sweetly at them and walked away.

Horace received more medication.

His medication never works though. Some were designed to help him stay awake, but it only made his day visions even worse. Some were suppose to give him a peaceful sleep without any dreams, but then he would hear whispers, snippets of people having a conversation. Eventually he stopped taking them and throw them in the trash. His parents would yell at him, but Horace knew they would. He had visions about them doing it. But he still takes some occasionally to appease his guardians.

When Horace was six, his parents would always be traveling, as their job requires them too. They were rarely home. And when they are home, they would be too occupied to pay any attention to Horace. The servants took care of him, but he found them sinister and unwelcoming. He spent all his time in his room.

When Horace was seven, his parents would stay home a bit more than usual because of his whining. He would tell them about his dreams, how real they seem and how it makes him cry. How the people die and what they did. His parents dismiss it as a stage all children go through.

When Horace was eight, he was put on medications. When he had came downstairs on a Saturday morning, he found his parents and servants huddle around a radio. And he knew, he knew, that somehow his life would be flipped upside down. His parents whipped around to face him. Horror, terror, and confusion in their eyes as they listen to the news of the Lusitania, the dream their son has been telling them in excruciating detail since he was six.

When Horace was nine, he could no longer go to school. One day he had fallen asleep in class for his new doctor told him not to sleep. His teacher went up to him and slam the ruler on his desk. He woke screaming, rambling on about the future of his classmates and teacher. "Jimmy, you will one day marry a blonde woman although she is as dumb as a pigeon, you grow to love her. Neil, in forty years, you'll be walking on the moon, oh wait, no that's not you. You're end up in the streets begging for food like a hobo. And Mrs. Fendor, you will die in three years, crushed by a German tank. Is it tea time? I am rather in a mood for tea,"

When Horace was ten, he started to tailor his own clothes. It quickly became a hobby, he spent all his allowance on cloth and materials. It made him feel powerful and in control. Something he is not. Plus, he thinks it makes him look rather dashing.

When Horace was eleven, he started to note down his dreams. What it was about. How the people look. The feelings that came with it. How often it would occur. The things he saw.

When Horace was twelve, he learned the value of money, and the power it carried along with it. It was the middle of the night. A dream had frighten him awake two hours ago and now he wander the halls, too awake to go back to bed. He heard his father whispering. So he tip-toed to the room and press his ear against the door. His father was harsh. The new cook he had hired was not living up to expectations. Ever since he saw his father threaten the cook with a lower wage, the cook was more bustier and efficient. So he bribe his servants for more fabric to tailor his clothes.

And when Horace was thirteen, he was free.

One day, Horace started to dream about a woman. She was strange just like the people in his other dreams, except she exerts power. Piece by piece, he began to dream the details. She ran some sort of orphanage. She has mystic powers. She can turn into a bird. She's looking for other children, the children in his dreams.

She's looking for him.

He had dreamt of her standing outside his mansion, walking slowly to the door, and knocking. She's coming for him.

So Horace waited. He knew it was crazy to be waiting a stranger that could possibly be a serial killer kidnapping children to eat their hearts and liver, but he was tired. Tired of living his life. Tired of his parents. Tired of his adventure-less life. He wasn't brave or heroic like the heroes in books. But he was courageous. He suffered through nightmares after nightmares, some often wake him up sobbing and paralyzed in terror. He saw kids die in war, mothers murdered while protecting their babies, fathers screaming in agony over the pain of a lost one, grandparents weeping by coffins of their children or children's children, he sees them all. He could feel their anguish. But he could feel their curiosity, their strength, their resilience, and their love. Horace is afraid of the world outside of the mansion, his barrier and blanket. But he was willing to give it all up if it means he'll be free.

If he would be loved and wanted.

So he waited.

Then the day came, the woman walked to his mansion. She knocked. And Horace opened the door, suitcase in hand.

"Miss Peregrine, I assume? My name is Horace Somnusson. And I am a peculiar."