How does one capture life in death so flawlessly, so that you flinch every time you enter Professor Crane's office, in fear that the crow mounted on his wall is in flight and about to peck your eyes out, despite the fact that you its coming, you know its there and you know it can't hurt you?

You wonder that every time you're asked into Professor Crane's office, and this time is no different.

'Corvus Brachyrhynchos' The plate underneath the bird says, the scientific name for the American crow.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Professor Crane's voice almost makes you jump out of your skin, as well as his sudden appearance just behind you.

Crane's lithe frame makes its way to the desk, his long, skeletal fingers clasped behind his back. "I performed the taxidermy on her myself."

Isn't it illegal to own a dead crow? You don't bring it up, as Crane seems to be in the middle of something.

"In fact, I remember the day I found poor Nightmare, lying motionless on the ground." His eyes glaze over as he recounts the memory, fingers now gripping the desk in front of him like a lifeline. "She had so much dirt in her feathers that I had to clean off, and she was so cold..."

He seems to remember himself, straightening from his hunched over position and adjusting his glasses.

"Did you that Nightmare's left eye is made of glass? As I carried her back to the house, through the fields, a piece of straw pierced her eye."

If you look closely, you can see bits of straw sticking out of the crow's body, meticulously placed.

"She'd been frightened to death by the scarecrow I'd made to protect the corn fields." Crane's eyes don't glaze over this time, but something in his voice makes your skin crawl. "Her poor heart just... Popped like a cork."

It's hard to imagine the terrifying taxidermied bird above Crane's desk as the beautiful raven that Crane remembers, but you nod sympathetically, listening to this story you didn't ask for.