"Goddamn doorbell."
Harold Michaelson muttered imprecations under his breath as he lifted himself from the recliner. He clicked off the late news and lumbered to the door.
"All right, all right. I'm coming. Hold your water."
Harold briefly debated heading straight to bed, but a lifetime's worth of propriety argued against it. Ignoring a ringing doorbell just wasn't done, even if it was an idiot doing the ringing.
It had to be the flake from next door, Harold thought. As if John Smith would be a real name. Harold was sure something substantially weird was going on at Smith's house. Maybe drugs. Maybe something worse, like Beanie Baby counterfeiting.
The doorbell stopped ringing while Harold unlocked the three deadbolts. As he slipped the chain out of its slot, the door whammed open, barely missing his head.
"What do _you_ want?" Several unuttered curse words could clearly be heard on the darkened porch.
If some men are colorblind, then John Smith had to be color deaf. Harold glared at Smith, wearing green and yellow striped pants and loud Hawaiian shirt, and wished for a mute button. After living next door to Smith for almost a year, Harold had come to dread the look of feigned innocence badly plastered across Smith's face.
"As to that...uh... Could I borrow about a pound of salt, or so?" Harold could barely hear the man, what with him looking down at his worn, yellow sneakers.
"A pound of salt?" Harold asked.
"Or so. Yeah," Smith looked up and held out his hand. "More if you can spare it."
Harold didn't, and probably never would, posses a pound of salt, but the request had piqued his interest. No mean feat, that. Ever since Martha died five years ago, Harold found himself retreating into his Audubon birding field guides, looking up only to tsk at the strange goings on next door.
"Why in hell do you want a pound of salt?"
Smith's eyes widened and his smile faltered a bit. Harold could almost see several different responses pop into Smith's head, only to be quickly discarded. Harold hoped Smith would settle on the truth, or most of it, anyway.
"Well, there's..." Smith paused. "Are you sure you want to know?"
"I asked, didn't I? If I didn't want to know, I wouldn't have asked."
"Um...you see... There's this bird in my house."
"A bird."
"In my house, yes. A big bird. Let's just say, a very big bird and leave it at that. It's in my living room and it's wrecking things," Smith said. "I've spent most of the last three hours trying to get rid of it."
This, Harold felt, was exactly up the middle of his alley and would give him a good excuse to help set a few things in their proper position at his neighbor's home. He smiled out from under his bushy, white mustache.
"So, Mr. Smith. What kind of bird is this? Exactly."
"I'm not really sure," Smith said. "As I said, it's big. Very big. And ugly. Did I mention that it's very ugly?"
"No," Harold said. "You did not. But, ugliness aside, why do you want a pound of salt? Other than for adding taste."
"Well, I...uh...wanted to pour salt on its tail. Yeah, I was going to pour the salt on its tail so it couldn't fly. Are you all right?"
Harold waved his hand weakly in Smith's direction, his other hand grabbing a fistful of his sweater vest in a manful attempt to hold in the laughter.
"'M fine, really. Mmmff. Please continue."
"Well, with the salt on his tail, it couldn't fly around and break all my stuff and then I could kick its scaly ass out of my house."
Harold couldn't hold it in any longer. He laughed, drawing in great breaths to stay conscious.
"Bwahahahahahahahahahahaha."
"What," Smith demanded, "are you laughing at?"
"Bwahahahahahahahahahahaha," Harold answered.
Harold's laughter died rather quickly, due to lack of practice. He hadn't cracked up so much since the Shrub called it a fair and honest election. Eventually, Harold's laughter tapered off as he tried to catch his breath.
"I'm sorry, my boy. As an amateur ornithologist, I know a bit about birds. Putting salt on their tails won't do a thing but make the tails taste salty. It's a common misconception, but it never fails to amuse me."
Smith leaned back against one of the porch columns and sighed. He ran his hands through his thinning brown hair before speaking.
"I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time. I don't suppose you have that pound of salt, then."
"No. No, I don't."
"All right." Smith turned towards his own house and spoke over his shoulder. "Thanks anyway."
"Wait just a minute, Mr. Smith," Harold called. He watched Smith turn around almost as if he'd been waiting for the call. "Perhaps if I could see what kind of bird it is, I might be able to help. After all, it is the neighborly thing to do. You have tried just opening a door or window and letting the bird fly out, haven't you?"
"Of course. The damn thing won't leave."
"Well then. Why don't I just go on over there with you and see if I can be of some assistance."
"If you're sure," Smith said.
"Absolutely."
With that, Smith backed out, bowed and swept his right arm across his body, inviting Harold into the night. Harold grimaced and lumbered out the door.
"Bloody show off," Harold mumbled.
Once outside, he turned and locked his door. The two neighbors didn't speak as they moved across the lawn, already wet with dew.
Smith paused before turning his doorknob. He looked back at Harold, shrugged and swung open the door.
"Don't you lock your door?" Harold asked.
"I did. I think the bird must have unlocked it."
A staggeringly loud crash sounded from the living room, followed by a resounding, though somewhat indignant, *Skwaaaak*.
Smith led the way into his house. Harold followed, looking around at the décor, which was not at all what he expected. There were no black lights or half-melted candles poised above red-stained altars. Almost normal, except for the glass fragments strewn around the floor.
As they walked down the hallway, another loud *Skwaaaak* buzzed out of the living room. Both men ducked as a dark ashtray whizzed from the room aimed directly at their heads. The ashtray hit the door, bounced off and rolled to a stop at Harold's feet. Smith looked up from the ashtray and into Harold's face. Harold wore a rather sick look. He had never even heard of a bird being strong enough to move something like that.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Harold asked. "Maybe we should just call the pound or something."
"It's a bird," Smith said.
"Oh, yes. So it is."
"Well, sort of," Smith added.
Harold felt his initial excitement rapidly changing into something akin to, well, nervousness. But, Harold reminded himself, he had seen combat in Grenada. Squaring his shoulders, Harold turned from the ashtray and walked into the living room. Even with the little talking to he had given himself, he was totally unprepared.
Perching on the back of an overturned recliner was a bird, in rather the same way that a shark is a fish. It had wings, a tail and a beak, but the resemblance ended there. This animal was about four feet from the tip of its tail to the pointed end of its serrated beak.
Harold looked closer. It was a large, green bird with what looked to be a bony crest rising from the back of its head. The bird had no feathers, but rather scales. Big scales. As Harold watched, the bird stretched its wings and he saw little, perfectly formed fingers at the wing tips. Harold estimated the bird to have about a 10-foot wingspan.
"That," Harold said, turning to face his neighbor, "is not a normal bird."
"No," Smith said. "It's not."
*Skwaaaak*, said the bird.
Backing out of the living room, Harold leaned up against the wall and ran a shaky hand through his white hair. He thought Smith looked like he had just eaten the world's largest canary and gotten away with it. Harold saw not a single yellow feather. For that matter, Harold hadn't seen any feathers anywhere in the house. And that thought brought Harold back to the monstrosity perched in the next room.
He leaned forward and peeked around the corner. The bird was staring at the wisps of smoke rising from the smashed television screen, leaning its head first left, then right.
"What is that?" Harold asked.
"I thought you were the ornithologist."
"Amateur ornithologist," Harold replied. "But that doesn't help me figure out what that, that... thing is."
"Imagine how I feel. That, as you so richly put it, thing is wrecking my home."
"Well," Harold said. "What we need is a plan."
"Good idea."
"All right. So, what's the plan?"
Smith smiled and said, "I was hoping you had one."
Harold turned his glare from the bird to Smith.
"Hey," Smith said. "You were the one who mentioned a plan."
That called for another sigh. Harold took a deep breath, ran through several ideas and settled on the one that did not involve the infliction of grievous bodily harm.
"Fine. So tell me: How did that thing get into your house?"
"Well," Smith said. "I was... um... watching a PBS show on the occult when this glowing purple ball formed right over the t.v."
"A strange purple ball."
"Yes, exactly. It shot out purple light for about five minutes and then started humming. Then the ball kind of went flat, like a circle. I'd gotten rather curious so I walked around to the back of the thing and saw it was kind of waving. Like the ocean. Since I didn't know what else to do, I moved my chair back from the purple thingy and settled down to watch. Pretty soon, this bubble began pushing out of the circle toward me. That lasted for a little while. A piece of the circle would push out then slip back. All of a sudden, part of it pushed out really far and that bird just popped out of the circle and started breaking things."
Smith opened his mouth. Harold held up his hand and made shushing motions. His eyebrows furrowed, the deep lines time-etched in his forehead made even deeper by his disbelief.
"You know," Harold said, "I don't believe a word of that drivel."
"I know."
"Except possibly that bit about watching a show on the occult."
"Yes."
"Good. Just so long as you know."
"The question is: What are we going to do about it?"
"We?" Harold asked. He shook his head and turned toward the door. "What do you mean we? I'm leaving right now. This is your mess. You clean it up."
"I could probably do that," Smith said. "But, you know, that bird just might decide to take a field trip."
Harold stopped and spoke without turning around, his hand on the doorknob.
"So?"
"To your house. And it unlocks doors."
"Oh," Harold said and let go of the doorknob. For a moment, he felt his age and more. Then he sucked in his gut, lowered his chin and turned around. "Well? What are we going to do about it?"
"Funny you should ask that, Harold. You see, after some fast thought, I have a cunning plan."
"Somehow," Harold said, "I knew you were going to say that."
"I've got a theory anyway. I think this house must be some kind of weak point in the fabric of the universe. That's why these sorts of things keep happening here. Understand?"
"I'm not really sure I want to, but I guess we need to do something. So. Do you bring out the altars now?"
Smith jumped like someone had pinched him and looked at Harold. "How did you know about...? Never mind. No, we are not going to use the... any alters. All it requires is, I think, a certain attitude. One you should plenty of."
Harold sighed. "What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to not believe in it. I think it might have been the combination of the weak point and my wanting to see something strange that let this thing in." Smith paused for a moment and again stroked his chin. "Of course, it could have had something to do with the incantation."
"Incantation?" Harold asked, as the sick feeling in his stomach began to drag down the corners of his mouth.
"Oh, yeah. Didn't I tell you about that bit? No? Well, I was repeating a spell they showed on the TV. Of course, nothing happened on PBS. That's why I really asked for the salt. I was going to try and use it for a kind of all-purpose counter spell, but I didn't want to, you know, freak you out."
"A counter spell?"
"Did you realize you're repeating almost everything I say? No? Never mind. Since you didn't have the salt, I think we're going to have to go with Plan B." Smith smacked his palms against his thighs and smiled. "All right, Harold. Start disbelieving."
Harold closed his eyes so tight floating phosphor dots did the tango behind his eyelids. That bird doesn't exist, he thought. That bird doesn't exist. It can't. Harold repeated his new mantra several times. The violent, almost continual *Skwaaaaak*ing coming from the living room ceased abruptly. Harold's eyes snapped open.
Harold peered into the living room, sighed and sat back down. A chorus of *Skwaaak*s floated down the hallway.
"I swear that bird is laughing at me," Harold said.
"Okay," Smith said. "Time for Plan C. You work on not believing in the bird and I'll try to use a different counter spell I know... um... heard on the show. Let me go get a robe to complete the effect. Be right back."
Smith stood up and edged to the end of the hallway. When the bird was facing the ruined bookcases lining the far wall of the living room, Smith dashed for the hall leading to his bedroom. The bird whirled around, giving a gimlet eye to Smith's rapidly retreating back. Almost immediately, a broken chair leg whistled down the hall after Smith.
"Ow."
Harold, meanwhile, sat very still and practiced not believing in much of anything. For instance, he couldn't believe he was in this mess. A few moments later, Smith dashed back to Harold. Nothing flew after him this time.
Harold looked blandly up at Smith. Nothing, it seemed, could surprise him any more. Or maybe Harold just didn't believe that Smith really was standing there dressed in a deep purple robe, his face almost hidden within the folds of the robe's hood. The entire robe was covered with stars, moons and comets that looked like they would glow in the dark. The robe was tied at Smith's waist with a mauve sash. Had Harold been in a believing mood, he might have thought, Well, just as I've always suspected.
"I don't believe it," Harold said.
"Good. Keep it up. You ready?" Smith peered around the corner into Bird-Land.
"Yes," said Harold. "I believe so."
Smith's head whipped around to stare at Harold. "What?"
"Just kidding."
"Oh, hah, hah. Very funny. Right. Here's what we're going to do. I want you sitting on the floor right here on the edge of the hallway so you can see the bird at all times. I'll duck - er-- stand behind you and try the incantation. Okay?"
"Sure," Harold said, the dazed look creeping back into his eyes.
Harold felt Smith move behind him and then take a deep breath.
"This is it," Smith whispered. "The big time."
Harold sat cross-legged on the cold, tile floor and placed his hands on his knees. The bird, which had been noshing its way through a section of Stephen King books, turned around and looked at the men, its red eyes squinting malevolently.
Harold continued sitting and was reminded of the man who could only make his carpet fly by not thinking of elephants. The carpet crashed, Harold seemed to remember. There's a lesson in there somewhere, Harold thought. _Too bad I can't seem to find it._ He began devoutly wishing the scaly monstrosity in the next room really was not there.
Behind him, Smith murmured incomprehensible words for a few seconds and bits of something drifted down onto Harold's hands. He thought he smelled... sulphur? The light coming in through his closed eyelids took on a distinct purplish cast as soon as Smith had begun chanting. Harold wanted to cover his closed eyes as the light became more intense, but he didn't believe he could do it.
And then the words coming from Smith began to make sense. Well, of a sort, anyway.
"Oh bird of green and real long tail
We wish you gone, so say farewell."
Harold cracked his eyelids and saw the glow brighten and spread into a disk. A humming sound filled the room. The bird cocked its head to the right, staring at the disk. It began to hop agitatedly up and down. This was all too much. It was almost as good as the movies, and everyone knew the movies were fake. He thought he could start to enjoy this disbelief stuff.
"Oh ugly bird, you big, mean mother
you broke my TV, gonna need another."
A thin tentacle crept from the purple disk and reached toward the bird, which hopped out of the way. Harold heard Smith mutter behind him, something about rhyming with orange. Smith gave a small whoop as another tentacle shot out of the incandescent disk and reached toward the bird. Harold wished he had some popcorn. He could almost taste the buttery saltiness.
"You came uninvited, didn't wear no tie,
an unforgivable crime, so say good-bye."
The bird hopped madly about, trying to keep out of reach of the purple light. *Skwaaak*ing constantly. The bird dodged left, weaved right and bumped into Harold's sitting form.
Whoa, he thought, movies don't do that. _Oh, Lord. Maybe it is real._ Some unnamed nether region of Harold's back brain reached up into the light and tweaked a few neurons. Harold's foot shot out and booted the bird in its scaly tail and Harold started wondering how much the special effects cost.
Two purple, glowing tentacles snatched the bird as it tumbled end over end through the air.
"Harold don't believe, now say adios,
like a real dead dude, you just a ghost."
Wind roared through the house as air streamed into the floating anomaly. The tentacles drew the thrashing, struggling bird into the purple disk. The bird disappeared into the deeper purple of the disk's center. One claw hung onto the edge. One talon scraped loose, followed shortly by the other two. The disk flared then vanished.
Harold heard a thump from behind him and turned around. He shook his head slowly as his eyes focused on Smith's prone form.
"That wasn't a movie," he said.
"Nope," Smith said. "That was as real as it gets. I can't believe we pulled that off."
"Hey. That's my job," Harold said.
They looked at each other, but Harold couldn't work up the energy to laugh. He closed his eyes and tried to fit the last half hour into a lifetime's ordinary experience. All that came to mind was something about holes and pegs. After about fifteen minutes, he opened his eyes and looked at Smith.
"Promise me that you will never, and I mean never, ever, repeat any incantations. No matter where you see them. Never. I don't ever want to go through that again."
"Well..."
"Promise," Harold growled.
"All right, all right. I promise."
Two weeks later, Harold relaxed in his recliner, pleasantly exhausted from his long walk through the neighborhood. It had been nice to see the widow Chambers down the block again. She was a nice conversation to pass the time. Maybe that horrible night with Smith hadn't been all bad.
Harold thumbed the remote and turned on the evening news to catch up on local events. As he watched the news, he thought that maybe he might invite the good widow over for dinner some day. The door vibrated madly in its frame, causing Harold to start upright in his chair. He heard the door shudder again and again as something pounded on it.
He walked to the door and peered through the newly installed spy-eye, but didn't see anyone on the porch. Warily, he unbolted the single lock and opened the door. A three-foot-tall toad, slime dripping from its leprous spots, stood framed in the doorway.
Unused to reading expressions in the faces of toads and other amphibians, Harold nevertheless discerned a deep embarrassment in the protruding eyes.
"It wasn't a repeat," the toad croaked. "It wasn't a repeat."
Harold smiled, rubbed his hands together and stepped out into the evening.
THE END