creepy-looking fingers.
But it’s his eyes that prove so startling. They’re by far the biggest I’ve ever seen, at least twice the size of mine. Almost totally white, except for a dark, tiny pupil at the center of each. As soon as I see him, I immediately think, Owl Man . I almost say it out loud, but catch myself in time. Dad would hit the roof if I insulted one of his guests.
“So this is the infamous B Smith,” the man chuckles. He has a smooth, cultured voice. He sounds like a radio presenter, but one of the old guys you hear on a Sunday afternoon on the station your gran listens to.
“Yeah,” Dad says. He runs a hand over my head and smiles as if he’s in pain and trying to hide it. “How was school?”
“Fine,” I mutter, unable to tear my gaze away from Owl Man’s enormous, cartoonish eyes.
“Some people think it’s rude to stare,” Owl Man says merrily, “but I’ve always considered it a sign of honest curiosity.”
“Sorry,” I say, blushing at the polite rebuke.
“No need to be,” Owl Man laughs. “The young should be curious, and open too. You should have nothing to hide or apologize for at your tender age. Leave that to decrepit old warhorses like your father and me.”
Dad clears his throat and looks questioningly at Owl Man. “Anything you’d like to ask?” he says meekly.
“Not just now,” Owl Man purrs and waves a long, bony hand at me. “You may proceed. It has been nice seeing you again.”
“Again?” I frown, certain I’ve never met this guy before. There’s no way I could have forgotten eyes like that.
“I saw you when you were a child. You were a cute little thing. Sweet enough to eat.”
Owl Man gnashes his teeth playfully, but there’s nothing funny about the way he does it and I get goose bumps up my arms and the back of my neck.
“I’m going to my room,” I tell Dad and hurry out without saying anything else. I half expect Dad to call me back and bark at me for not saying a proper good-bye, but he lets me go without a word.
I find it hard to settle. I keep thinking about the guy in the kitchen, those unnaturally large eyes. Who the hell is he? He doesn’t look like anyone else my dad has ever invited round.
I surf the Web for a while, then stick on my headphones and listen to my iPod. I shut my eyes and bop my head to the music, trying to lose myself in the tunes. Sometime later, opening my eyes to stare at the ceiling, I spot Owl Man standing just inside the door to my room.
“Bloody hell!” I shout, ripping off the headphones and sitting up quickly.
“I did knock,” Owl Man says, “but there was no answer.”
“How long have you been standing there?” I yell, trying to remember if I’d been scratching myself inappropriately over the last five or ten minutes.
“Mere moments,” he says, his smile never slipping.
“Where’s my dad?” I ask, heart beating hard. For a crazy second I think that the stranger has killed Dad, maybe pecked him to death, and is now gearing up for an attack on me.
“In the kitchen,” Owl Man says. “I had to come up to use the facilities.”
He falls silent and stares at me with his big, round eyes. At the back of my mind I hear Mum reading that old fairy tale to me when I was younger. All the better to see you with, my dear.
“What do you want?” I snap, not caring about insulting him now, angry at him for invading my privacy.
“I wanted to ask you a question.”
“Oh yeah?” I squint, wondering if he’s going to make a pass at me, ready to scream for Dad if he does.
“Do you still have the dream?” he asks, and the scream dies silently on my lips.
“What dream?” I croak, but I know the one he means, and he knows that I know. I can see it in his freakish, unsettling eyes.
“The dream about the babies,” Owl Man says softly. “Your father told me that you had it all the time when you were younger.”
“Why the hell would he tell you something like that?” I try to snap, but it
But it’s his eyes that prove so startling. They’re by far the biggest I’ve ever seen, at least twice the size of mine. Almost totally white, except for a dark, tiny pupil at the center of each. As soon as I see him, I immediately think, Owl Man . I almost say it out loud, but catch myself in time. Dad would hit the roof if I insulted one of his guests.
“So this is the infamous B Smith,” the man chuckles. He has a smooth, cultured voice. He sounds like a radio presenter, but one of the old guys you hear on a Sunday afternoon on the station your gran listens to.
“Yeah,” Dad says. He runs a hand over my head and smiles as if he’s in pain and trying to hide it. “How was school?”
“Fine,” I mutter, unable to tear my gaze away from Owl Man’s enormous, cartoonish eyes.
“Some people think it’s rude to stare,” Owl Man says merrily, “but I’ve always considered it a sign of honest curiosity.”
“Sorry,” I say, blushing at the polite rebuke.
“No need to be,” Owl Man laughs. “The young should be curious, and open too. You should have nothing to hide or apologize for at your tender age. Leave that to decrepit old warhorses like your father and me.”
Dad clears his throat and looks questioningly at Owl Man. “Anything you’d like to ask?” he says meekly.
“Not just now,” Owl Man purrs and waves a long, bony hand at me. “You may proceed. It has been nice seeing you again.”
“Again?” I frown, certain I’ve never met this guy before. There’s no way I could have forgotten eyes like that.
“I saw you when you were a child. You were a cute little thing. Sweet enough to eat.”
Owl Man gnashes his teeth playfully, but there’s nothing funny about the way he does it and I get goose bumps up my arms and the back of my neck.
“I’m going to my room,” I tell Dad and hurry out without saying anything else. I half expect Dad to call me back and bark at me for not saying a proper good-bye, but he lets me go without a word.
I find it hard to settle. I keep thinking about the guy in the kitchen, those unnaturally large eyes. Who the hell is he? He doesn’t look like anyone else my dad has ever invited round.
I surf the Web for a while, then stick on my headphones and listen to my iPod. I shut my eyes and bop my head to the music, trying to lose myself in the tunes. Sometime later, opening my eyes to stare at the ceiling, I spot Owl Man standing just inside the door to my room.
“Bloody hell!” I shout, ripping off the headphones and sitting up quickly.
“I did knock,” Owl Man says, “but there was no answer.”
“How long have you been standing there?” I yell, trying to remember if I’d been scratching myself inappropriately over the last five or ten minutes.
“Mere moments,” he says, his smile never slipping.
“Where’s my dad?” I ask, heart beating hard. For a crazy second I think that the stranger has killed Dad, maybe pecked him to death, and is now gearing up for an attack on me.
“In the kitchen,” Owl Man says. “I had to come up to use the facilities.”
He falls silent and stares at me with his big, round eyes. At the back of my mind I hear Mum reading that old fairy tale to me when I was younger. All the better to see you with, my dear.
“What do you want?” I snap, not caring about insulting him now, angry at him for invading my privacy.
“I wanted to ask you a question.”
“Oh yeah?” I squint, wondering if he’s going to make a pass at me, ready to scream for Dad if he does.
“Do you still have the dream?” he asks, and the scream dies silently on my lips.
“What dream?” I croak, but I know the one he means, and he knows that I know. I can see it in his freakish, unsettling eyes.
“The dream about the babies,” Owl Man says softly. “Your father told me that you had it all the time when you were younger.”
“Why the hell would he tell you something like that?” I try to snap, but it
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