Alvin J. Crow 9

Now the two girls huddle whimpering in a corner, crying grotesquely, in a grand portrayal of deep fright. They're hunched together, crouching in a corner, a blank plaster wall behind them.
Alvin propels himself forward once more, stalking, Frankenstein-like, slowly down the corridor.
Their burbling lamentations, hair in their eyes, clutching one another, every now and then letting out, as if involuntarily, a curse or yelp.
Here comes Alvin J. Crow, into the light, and it's here that the special effects make-up department comes into play. For Alvin is fully zombified and ancient, the ghost of an evil, corrupted old man, his ashen face glossy with lurid, festering scars, hair drastically whitened, as if with grey ash or a mound of talc, teeth dramatically yellowed, reddishly gleaming contact lenses in.
The way he shunts forward, grinning, it's as though he were blind, his hands held level in front of him in classic Frankenstein strangling pose, shuffling toward the two girls. All in all, a brave B-movie cliché, something as blatant and crude as a hammer horror zombie.
And yet, his intelligence! That festers and sparks on his dead face, twisted on his grin into perverted delight! A supreme diabolic intelligence, infinitely more harmful than the stupidity of a brain-dead zombie.
His cackle is transcendent: A great piece of sound effects trickery. The harsh, piercing sound of an old and thoroughly corrupted spirit delighting, with full childlike joy, in bloodlust. Note to the sound effects department; standard diabolic laughter, but the more blatant and maniacal the better. Combine it with, say, a wild theremin, a hollow sounding dully intoned note of doom, some shivering and swooping violins in agitation. This ain't the time for subtlety.