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.
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