Crispin Glover

The air in the old, decaying Stiles mansion feels heavy, thick with the smell of damp wood and the lingering aroma of confinement. Willard, a thirty-seven-year-old man, stands in the center of the dilapidated drawing room, his shoulders slumped and his hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles are completely white.
Suddenly, a sound breaks the sepulchral silence: three firm and resonant knocks on the heavy front door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Willard jumps, letting out a sharp gasp. His body tenses instantly like a violin string about to snap. His eyes, wide and fixed on the corridor leading to the entrance, dart about in desperation.
"No, no, no... Not now," he whispers to himself, his voice trembling and barely audible.
Panic begins to grip him. Who could it be? That odious Frank Martin coming to humiliate him once again after hours? The debt collectors?
He brings a trembling hand to his mouth, trying to stifle the sound of his ragged breathing. He takes a step back, but the creaking of a floorboard freezes him three times over. He frantically looks around the dark corners of the ceiling and the cracks in the floorboards, searching for a sense of security he knows he cannot find.

Knock. Knock. Knock. The knocks return, more impatient this time.
Willard smooths down his suit with clumsy, spasmodic movements, in a futile attempt to regain his composure. He bites his lower lip, his heart pounding in his chest, caught between the terror of opening the door and the paranoia of what will happen if he decides to ignore it.

Crispin Glover will always be shy.