Jon was listening to music when the creature came down the chimney. It landed in the coals on leather-webbed feet, sparks and soot whirling into the air, and in his great shock Jon bucked his ipod cleanly off his lap. The next instant a pair of bulbous eyes—too large for their sockets and without lids—fixed him to the couch.

"You ruined the punch line," it said.

"I. I. What?"

It emerged from the fireplace, shin high and shuffling, a little piece of Hell trailed by rolling embers. "You killed the joke, you murdered it, and now you stammer. Nothing bleeds a joke dry like a stammer."

Jon's jaw continued to flap, unhinged by the absurdity standing before him: platypus feet, chicken legs, amphibian torso, and a not-quite human face strung together into motley anatomy. "You. You. You."

"I. I. I did my part. I knocked." The tip of a tongue, notched into three wiggling prongs, flicked from lips that sagged on one side and perked up smartly on the other. There were no teeth to speak of inside its mouth—no teeth rooted in gums, at least. But deeper, where a tonsil might have dangled, sharp forms caught the light and winked. "You. You. You say, Who's there? How difficult is that? Say it. Who's there?"

"You're not real."

"Is that so?" With a clawed hand that featured an opposable sickle in place of a thumb, the creature picked Jon's ipod up off the floor and held one of the earbuds to a small cavity on the side of its head. "Drake," it groaned. "At least your taste in music is worth a laugh."

"You're not real. You can't be." Jon's voice sounded detached, a radio transmission from another planet. "You're . . . ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? You do me no justice with this dictionary word. I'm silly and sally, a wacker-mack-fally. I'm the bad dream of Dr. Seuss."

At that moment, a dark, ashy shape spread its wings and sailed from the hearth. The crow flew several laps around the living room before landing lightly—almost prissily—on the creature's bald skull. It had one foot instead of two, and on that foot were toes instead of talons. Tiny pink toes, complete with tiny trimmed toenails.

Jon said the only thing he could think to say. "You have a bird."

"How incredibly rude of you to make assumptions of ownership. Maybe the bird has me. Or maybe the bird is me, and I'm nothing more than the shoe it wears when it wants to dance." The creature gave a sideways jig with the crow clenching onto its head, digging those neat little toenails into its scalp. "Get it? A shoe? Bah! You're as dull as a moon rock on Mars."

Jon stared at the crow. The crow stared back. Its eyes were black and curious and cheerful—its eyes were all of these qualities and so much more—and as it regarded Jon from its perch, a peculiar thing happened. A thing that shouldn't have been possible . . . unless the crow's beak was not hard but soft. Like flesh. Like lips.

It smiled.

"That's it," Jon said. "I'm dreaming. I'm asleep. I'll wake up now. I'll wake up. I'll—"

The crow gave a tremendous, chuckling HAW.

Jon cringed away and wrapped his arms tight around his chest, making a straight jacket. He had glimpsed something as the crow laughed at him—something so unspeakable it cast a shadow over the room.

"See? Wide awake." The creature took a seat. Its behind was bright red like a baboon's, but the skin paled to pink down its legs, which it crossed Indian style. "Now, where were we? I knock on the door, then you say, 'Who's there?' Go on."

"Who's there?" Jon heard himself answer.

The creature's eyes gleamed wetly. An excited tear spilled over its cheek and rode the curve of its mouth. "Again. Say it again."

"Who's there?"

A noise like grinding bones came from the creature's throat, and when it spoke again, it was with a familiar voice. A woman's voice. "I lost the key, honey. Jon? Can you let me in?"

Jon's breath stopped. "How do you know my name?"

The creature quivered eagerly, biting into its legs with stiletto fingers. On its head the crow nodded its head. "Answer. Turn the handle. Answer the door."

"No."

"You answer the door. But no one's there. Everything's dark, and the driveway is empty, and all that road leading out from the cabin into the woods, that's empty too. So, you call out, "Mom?"

Jon tried to stand, but his legs were dead.

"You call out for your mom, and that's when you"—the creature sprang up, its knobbly arms spread wide—"see me standing at your feet! Get it? You think your mother is out there and what you get is me!"

"How—how did you know I was waiting for my mom?"

The creature plopped back to the ground, sighing. "A joke is never any good when you have to explain it." It fetched a smoking ember from the carpet and began to carve idly with one crescent-shaped thumb. Shavings drifted through the air, turning from orange to black as they cooled. "How about a new one then?"

Wind shrieked in the eaves. The crow was grinning now. Inside its beak, glinting in even rows and shining red with blood, were teeth.

"Why did the woman with no skin on her feet and no tongue in her mouth cross the road? Go on, give it a guess. Why did she crawl across the road?"

Someone banged on the door.

On the bottom of the door.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

"Who's there?" Jon screamed, and tipped forward off the couch, unconscious.

The crow's smile faded.

"To warn her son," mumbled its other half.

Another wasted punch line.