Now Alvin J. Crow could be a mischievous kid, but also an inscrutable and tempestuous one. A propensity to melancholy, spindly-legged, slightly geeky, a hater of jocks, strangely old world and gothic, an obsessive manner and an undertaker-pale visage. Might grow up to occupy some small, mean clerical position, a nervous, bitter ectomorph.
His folks, the Crows, were it seems of old puritan stock, and the J was for his grandfather Joshua. From his ancestors he'd inherited a certain melancholy and a mystical, musical appreciation of tragedy and early death. In any case, Alvin Crow just didn't quite fit in. He hailed from the fine old city of Boston, where his parents had run an unsuccessful old world theatre, and in this atmosphere of decay and nostalgia, of musty tomes and anonymous daguerreotypes, he'd grown up an only child.
I've already mentioned the curious lack of common sense exhibited by the victims in this kind of story. Tracey and Sarah having fully barricaded the door, found themselves in a blank, plaster-walled room, perhaps a store room. In its minimalism and austerity it had the feel of an exhibition-space, but only a few paintings or sculptures of decent size could comfortably fit inside it, and it was completely empty at the moment.
The girls carried out a hushed, anxious conference, and came to the conclusion that they couldn't stay there, that they must find a way out, and ultimately, that, after all, it was only Alvin, and wasn't Alvin harmless? Sure, he was a little weird, but they needed all the help they could get.
They cleared the doorway, and Sarah opened the door slowly, peering outside.
Friday 31 January 2014
Friday 17 January 2014
Alvin J. Crow 6
What the girls don't like is that Alvin appears to be unworried by the whole ordeal. His head is lowered as he jogs swiftly behind them down the corridor, but his glinting eyes peer intently forward, and he seems to bear on his face a soft, self-indulgent smile.
Now Tracey and Sarah are already freaked out and Alvin's expression does nothing to revive their courage or confidence. Now you've all seen them teen slasher flicks, and you're familiar with this kind of girl, a bit preppy-ish, naive, propensity to scream at not much provocation, but with a strange lack of common sense; the type of girl who will go down to the basement. It helps if they're all-American, cheerleader-ish, cliquey, tasteless. You know the kinda thing.
The girls get to a door. They rush inside and immediately fling their weight against it, spluttering and anxious, barricading against Alvin. Dragging heavy pieces of furniture to jam under the handle. Alvin on the other side almost running into the door.
Alvin takes a few steps back and tries a forceful rush at the door, then a hefty kick, then with all his strength tries to shoulder his way through, battering aside the door. All his exertions were accompanied by inarticulate yelping shrieks through the door, though the girls kept their nerve and, pressing themselves against the handle, succeeded in keeping it secure.
Alvin tries another tack. Go for the sympathy vote. "Please, please let me in. It's only me, it's me Alvin". Exaggerated mock-frightened voice, pitiful tones. "You know me, it's only Alvin!". There he stood, pleading sorrowfully through the flimsy wooden door, trying not to break into a grin.
Now Tracey and Sarah are already freaked out and Alvin's expression does nothing to revive their courage or confidence. Now you've all seen them teen slasher flicks, and you're familiar with this kind of girl, a bit preppy-ish, naive, propensity to scream at not much provocation, but with a strange lack of common sense; the type of girl who will go down to the basement. It helps if they're all-American, cheerleader-ish, cliquey, tasteless. You know the kinda thing.
The girls get to a door. They rush inside and immediately fling their weight against it, spluttering and anxious, barricading against Alvin. Dragging heavy pieces of furniture to jam under the handle. Alvin on the other side almost running into the door.
Alvin takes a few steps back and tries a forceful rush at the door, then a hefty kick, then with all his strength tries to shoulder his way through, battering aside the door. All his exertions were accompanied by inarticulate yelping shrieks through the door, though the girls kept their nerve and, pressing themselves against the handle, succeeded in keeping it secure.
Alvin tries another tack. Go for the sympathy vote. "Please, please let me in. It's only me, it's me Alvin". Exaggerated mock-frightened voice, pitiful tones. "You know me, it's only Alvin!". There he stood, pleading sorrowfully through the flimsy wooden door, trying not to break into a grin.
Monday 6 January 2014
Alvin J.Crow 5
The majority of kids having got through the door, despite struggles and tussles, a doubt or suspicion begins to form.
Which one of them is it? Which one might be the killer or an accomplice of the killer? Accordingly, they slam the door in the face of one boy who lagged behind, leaving him to scratch feebly and beg for mercy at the door. A process of weeding out. The weakest sacrificed.
Shoulda shoved the kid out into the darkness of the wide gallery to meet the approaching killer, left behind in the panic. In their frenzy the kids begin to suspect one another.
Now just a handful of boys and girls rushing through the darkened museum-corridors. Another door is reached and the process is repeated. Those who cram inside first are quick in the frenzy of their fear to seal the door, leaving their slower classmates trapped among dark stretches of corridor. The girls are screaming lock the door lock the fucking door and who knows from the muffled shouts and protestations that boom from all directions in the darkness whether killers or friends are present? Perhaps everyone is a killer?
It seems along the way that others have fallen by the wayside, become separated from the group, some of the boys have apparently stumbled and fallen. One pair however has managed to stick together, girlfriends called Tracey and Sarah, who ran off utterly panicked but nevertheless kept close together, grasping at each other with sweaty hands, comforting each other with their howls of fear.
Now Tracey and Sarah put on a spurt of speed and accelerate into a white-walled stretch of corridor dankly lit by yellowish circular lights. Feeling themselves unencumbered by the rest of the group they cast fervid glances backwards. Their classmates it seems have fallen back, perhaps claimed by the killer. Then, loping awkwardly out of the darkness, they see Alvin, the least popular member of class, who runs stiffly but steadily behind them, keeping pace with their stumbling, frightened rush.
Which one of them is it? Which one might be the killer or an accomplice of the killer? Accordingly, they slam the door in the face of one boy who lagged behind, leaving him to scratch feebly and beg for mercy at the door. A process of weeding out. The weakest sacrificed.
Shoulda shoved the kid out into the darkness of the wide gallery to meet the approaching killer, left behind in the panic. In their frenzy the kids begin to suspect one another.
Now just a handful of boys and girls rushing through the darkened museum-corridors. Another door is reached and the process is repeated. Those who cram inside first are quick in the frenzy of their fear to seal the door, leaving their slower classmates trapped among dark stretches of corridor. The girls are screaming lock the door lock the fucking door and who knows from the muffled shouts and protestations that boom from all directions in the darkness whether killers or friends are present? Perhaps everyone is a killer?
It seems along the way that others have fallen by the wayside, become separated from the group, some of the boys have apparently stumbled and fallen. One pair however has managed to stick together, girlfriends called Tracey and Sarah, who ran off utterly panicked but nevertheless kept close together, grasping at each other with sweaty hands, comforting each other with their howls of fear.
Now Tracey and Sarah put on a spurt of speed and accelerate into a white-walled stretch of corridor dankly lit by yellowish circular lights. Feeling themselves unencumbered by the rest of the group they cast fervid glances backwards. Their classmates it seems have fallen back, perhaps claimed by the killer. Then, loping awkwardly out of the darkness, they see Alvin, the least popular member of class, who runs stiffly but steadily behind them, keeping pace with their stumbling, frightened rush.
Saturday 4 January 2014
Alvin J. Crow 4
But eventually their curiosity got the better of them, and, against the entreaties and warnings of the girls, a couple of the more humorous and adventurous guys decided to go bodily into the recess and begin an exploration. Dan, a jovial potbellied boy in a purple t-shirt, took off his jacket and laid it aside, and with the help of lean, sharp-faced Terry, was able to haul himself fully inside the alcove, immediately reaching down to help Terry clamber up.
That heavy pearl-coloured curtain of fine watered silk, fell across the gap once more and obscured the two guys.... The other students watched and listened intently.... Behind the curtain a few fumbles and giggles were heard, a bit of cursing, the striking of a match.
In the next instant, several things occurred.
First, the strong overhead gallery lights were all dramatically dimmed at once, and from behind the curtain a frenzied, nauseated scream of fear was wrenched up from someone's throat. For a few seconds more the quivering light of a match could be seen through the silk curtain.
Vain, struggling hands punched at the material, muffled anxieties burst forth, as though distorted into an alien tongue. As hands clawed at the curtain spastically, the other students watched transfixed. Someone inside was struggling to get out, to break free, and was wrestling with the silk curtain, as though it was made of lead. His voice muffled, suffocated by some heavy force.
And then, from below the bottom of the curtain came a sudden splattering of dark liquid, as though someone inside had simply emptied a bucket of blood down the pristine white plaster wall. It happened with shocking suddenness.
What happened next is rather shameful to relate. The remaining students took to their heels and fled. They bolted toward the door from which they had come. Without organisation, without dignity, as one man. Shrieks of hysteria and shouts of panic and confusion, loud frenzied curses, scrambling and scratching to haul the door open and press through.
That heavy pearl-coloured curtain of fine watered silk, fell across the gap once more and obscured the two guys.... The other students watched and listened intently.... Behind the curtain a few fumbles and giggles were heard, a bit of cursing, the striking of a match.
In the next instant, several things occurred.
First, the strong overhead gallery lights were all dramatically dimmed at once, and from behind the curtain a frenzied, nauseated scream of fear was wrenched up from someone's throat. For a few seconds more the quivering light of a match could be seen through the silk curtain.
Vain, struggling hands punched at the material, muffled anxieties burst forth, as though distorted into an alien tongue. As hands clawed at the curtain spastically, the other students watched transfixed. Someone inside was struggling to get out, to break free, and was wrestling with the silk curtain, as though it was made of lead. His voice muffled, suffocated by some heavy force.
And then, from below the bottom of the curtain came a sudden splattering of dark liquid, as though someone inside had simply emptied a bucket of blood down the pristine white plaster wall. It happened with shocking suddenness.
What happened next is rather shameful to relate. The remaining students took to their heels and fled. They bolted toward the door from which they had come. Without organisation, without dignity, as one man. Shrieks of hysteria and shouts of panic and confusion, loud frenzied curses, scrambling and scratching to haul the door open and press through.
Thursday 2 January 2014
Alvin J. Crow 3
Now all the kids are curious, especially the guys who are young and lairy and may have something to prove, and who think the whole thing comic. The girls think it creepy and are holding back a little, arms folded. But the guys, the older ones too, gawk and wonder at the curtain, tugging at it, full of a morbid desire to reveal its secrets, almost as though what might be concealed was something salacious, something stark, grim, sexual.
The mysteriousness, arcanity, strange frozen life of the museum exhibit.
Now they began to be determined to view what was inside this secret alcove. A plan was formulated. They approached the exhibit carefully and by hoisting one another up were able to lift the curtain almost fully aside. One of the older guys balanced precariously, supported by a younger kid, his arms holding the pearl curtain aloft while he peered curiously and anxiously inside the recess. Another boy, lean and hungry-eyed, managed to grip its outside ledge and, hauling himself up, looked boldly in.
All the kids could see now what the pearl-coloured curtain had concealed; apparently nothing. The recess went back far deeper than expected, so far in fact that its farthest wall could not be seen, and the interior lay swathed in thick, impenetrable shadow, a threatening void like the darkness that fills a drippy, narrow-walled cave.
Maybe, then, the exhibit lay in shadow, and needed to be illuminated or activated. Since it was hard to hell how for the recess went back, it could be possible that the artefacts or figurines rested against the far wall. To the kids who peered inside the alcove, trying to penetrate the gloom, the impression received was of air and space, so that they perhaps were looking into more of a full-sized room than a mere recess, which receded into the wall for several metres. The kids became convinced, conjecturing among themselves, that this unusual exhibition-space must contain something.
Yet, they had a natural trepidation, which was like the ancestral fear of early man peering into the deepest recesses of a newly-discovered cave, listening out for the bear's breath.
The mysteriousness, arcanity, strange frozen life of the museum exhibit.
Now they began to be determined to view what was inside this secret alcove. A plan was formulated. They approached the exhibit carefully and by hoisting one another up were able to lift the curtain almost fully aside. One of the older guys balanced precariously, supported by a younger kid, his arms holding the pearl curtain aloft while he peered curiously and anxiously inside the recess. Another boy, lean and hungry-eyed, managed to grip its outside ledge and, hauling himself up, looked boldly in.
All the kids could see now what the pearl-coloured curtain had concealed; apparently nothing. The recess went back far deeper than expected, so far in fact that its farthest wall could not be seen, and the interior lay swathed in thick, impenetrable shadow, a threatening void like the darkness that fills a drippy, narrow-walled cave.
Maybe, then, the exhibit lay in shadow, and needed to be illuminated or activated. Since it was hard to hell how for the recess went back, it could be possible that the artefacts or figurines rested against the far wall. To the kids who peered inside the alcove, trying to penetrate the gloom, the impression received was of air and space, so that they perhaps were looking into more of a full-sized room than a mere recess, which receded into the wall for several metres. The kids became convinced, conjecturing among themselves, that this unusual exhibition-space must contain something.
Yet, they had a natural trepidation, which was like the ancestral fear of early man peering into the deepest recesses of a newly-discovered cave, listening out for the bear's breath.
Alvin J. Crow 2
Now all the group has once again assembled together and pass curious and bright-eyed through a dark corridor into a high-ceilinged, austerely white art space. They wander dreaming over the creaking, varnished floorboards whispering humourously to one another. A certain ironic reverence for art.
Midway down the gallery-space they are confronted with the main exhibit; a heavy silken curtain draped high on the wall, presumably concealing something. By catching lightly at the bottom of this curtain and tugging it partially aside the kids could see that behind it there was a hollow or depression in the wall, a sort of alcove that receded far back into the wall, forming almost a sort of room of its own, although as the curtain not be parted completely it was impossible to see what, if anything, lay inside this dark alcove.
The curtain concealing it was of heavy white silk, hanging dully, grey shadows on pure-gleaming pearl. It looked genteel, decorous, sinister, one heavy wedge of silk which could apparently not be parted, and whose purpose it seemed was to act as a veil of something disgraceful. Emblazoned across the curtain were these mysterious words: CRUCIATUS CORPUM, done in a large, ornate, arcane script with twisting, fluid filials and loops, like the handwriting from some sixteenth century manuscript, full of flourish and menace. What then was concealed behind the curtain? Might it show an exhibit of waxwork figures, showing ancient torture methods? The Spanish Inquisition perhaps, the twisting of knots, grim flagellations and torsions, wracked bodies. Scenes from the Crusades. Instruments used to torment accused witches, cages and stocks. Sawney Bean has had his hands and feet hacked off, and is being prepared for the auto da fe... The exhibit could be from any one of several stages of history.
Midway down the gallery-space they are confronted with the main exhibit; a heavy silken curtain draped high on the wall, presumably concealing something. By catching lightly at the bottom of this curtain and tugging it partially aside the kids could see that behind it there was a hollow or depression in the wall, a sort of alcove that receded far back into the wall, forming almost a sort of room of its own, although as the curtain not be parted completely it was impossible to see what, if anything, lay inside this dark alcove.
The curtain concealing it was of heavy white silk, hanging dully, grey shadows on pure-gleaming pearl. It looked genteel, decorous, sinister, one heavy wedge of silk which could apparently not be parted, and whose purpose it seemed was to act as a veil of something disgraceful. Emblazoned across the curtain were these mysterious words: CRUCIATUS CORPUM, done in a large, ornate, arcane script with twisting, fluid filials and loops, like the handwriting from some sixteenth century manuscript, full of flourish and menace. What then was concealed behind the curtain? Might it show an exhibit of waxwork figures, showing ancient torture methods? The Spanish Inquisition perhaps, the twisting of knots, grim flagellations and torsions, wracked bodies. Scenes from the Crusades. Instruments used to torment accused witches, cages and stocks. Sawney Bean has had his hands and feet hacked off, and is being prepared for the auto da fe... The exhibit could be from any one of several stages of history.
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