Raven

In fifteen minutes she could lock the doors, switch off the fluorescents, and go home.  Lord, but her feet hurt; she knew better than to wear heels to work.  Sure as she did, the head librarian would have her running up and down the stairs all evening.  The old biddy hated her because she was young and thought e-books should replace the moldy old antiques stored on floor after floor of this museum.  Yep, computers were the libraries of the future, for sure.

         The heavy outer door creaked as it admitted someone; cursing under her breath, she said flatly, “Closing in fifteen minutes, come back tomorrow.”

         Her customer was a small man in a shiny black overcoat of some plastic substance.  His oily blue-black hair stood straight out all over his head except for the front, which flopped forward over tiny squinting eyes behind rimless glasses.  The glasses were supported by a tremendous nose liberally dotted with overlarge pores; his mouth was a short lipless line and his chin nonexistent.  He pecked on the marble counter with a sharp-taloned yellow finger.  “Only take a minute, one minute, a minute of your time.  Need a print-out, one copy, a copy of Poe’s poem please.”  His voice was unexpectedly deep and scratchy. 

         Which Poe poem?” she asked.  This weirdo probably didn’t even know the name of the stupid poem and she’d have to go find the first line reference section and look it up, which would take forever, and . . .

         “The Raven.  Of course,” answered the little man with a sharp cackle. “What else would a bird like me be interested in?”

The hair rose on the back of her neck and she felt a sudden reluctance to turn her back on him.  Edging backwards she grabbed the keyboard, punched in the codes and hit the print key.  As the machine hummed to itself, she snuck another look at the stranger.  Yes, the stringy hair was closer to feathers than human hair; that enormous nose more a beak than a fleshy nose.  A prolonged shiver cat-footed down her spine and raced back up again.
She slid the paper across the counter toward him and said nervously, “Forget the ten cents fee.  On the house.”

“What a dear little chick you are,” he cawed, folding the paper small and tucking it under a glistening wing. “Well, nevermore and all that,” he added with a polite bob of his head.

Hopping to the door, he shoved it open and then, with a great leap, launched himself upward.