It was those damned bandages over my eyes, the medley of voices that had shouted back at me down the corridor. But I certainly was getting the willies - and once you get 'em, they grow. Already they were past the stage where you can shoo them off by whistling or singing at yourself.1951, John Wyndham, The Day of the Triffids, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, published 1954, page 15: