(Missed the prologue? Click here!)
Evil Walks
Chapter One: Cold Hearted Man
"Sometimes you can't see
The other side
It's too well hidden
From the naked eye
One time lover
With his heart in his hand
Two time loser
A broken man
Cold hearted man
He was a cold hearted man."
-- "Cold Hearted Man" by AC/DC
April 2008
"What the fuck?" asked Johnny Wesson, his brow furrowed in confusion. The tall, muscular man sat across from a short, nineteen-year-old girl clutching a video camera in her hands.
The girl, a bottled redhead named Haley Barker, repeated herself, "I want to interview you and your company for my vlog."
Johnny just stared at her. He obviously didn't want to waste his time if she was just screwing around. The famous ghost hunter had a very intimidating scowl, and Haley blushed apprehensively and looked down, unable to hold his gaze.
"I'm a film student at the local community college," she tried stumbling on, nervously adjusting her hipster glasses. "I have a vlog online, and--"
"The hell is a vlog?" Johnny spat the monosyllabic word distastefully.
"Oh, it's a video blog," Haley explained, but Johnny gave no sign of understanding. Older people really don't understand technology, she thought to herself. Of course, a onceover of Johnny's out of date hairstyle, old and worn leather jacket, and jeans -- an aged James Dean kind of look -- gave the impression that he was way out of touch with the modern 2008 world.
Then again, the man hunted ghosts for a living. He clearly was not entirely in his right mind.
Haley shifted uncomfortably on the stiff and stained red leather sofa, feeling even more ill at ease. They were meeting in the living room of Johnny's house, which apparently also served as his office where he met clients -- crazy people who wanted him to go all ghostbusters on their houses. Johnny Wesson was considered a national joke for his widely advertised business. A look into his background had piqued Haley's curiosity, and she wanted to know what made a person believe such insanity -- not just believe, but devote his entire life to. The idea intrigued her, so she'd called the number on his website and set up a meeting. Johnny must know about the internet if he had a website, right? Although it was a poor quality, amateurish site... Eventually, Haley answered, "It's a series of videos where I interview people and talk about their lives, like little documentaries."
Johnny nodded. Haley could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he processed this. "A wannabe Ken Burns?" he replied.
Haley shrugged and said, "Kinda, yeah." Inwardly she bristled at the term "wannabe," but outwardly she smiled nervously and tried not to regret coming here.
Johnny's dark green eyes gave her an even more intense look. "This better not be a fucking joke," he stated gravely. "What I do -- it's not for shits and giggles. It's not for fun. It's because the shit out there is real and dangerous, and you need to fucking understand that."
"I do," replied Haley in what she hoped was a reassuring voice. "I want this to be serious." She meant that, too. She put a lot of time and effort into her vlog in the hopes that it would help her launch her documentary career.
"This is serious shit," Johnny continued emphatically, either not noticing or not caring that he was being repetitive. "People have fucking died in my line of work."
"With a quick glance down at the note-filled legal pad in her lap, Haley queried in her best I'm-a-serious-filmmaking-journalist type voice, "People like your wife?"
Johnny visibly flinched. He stood up, went straight to his littered desk, and poured a shot of Jack Daniels in a sticky rocks glass that had obviously been sitting there for way too long. He downed the whiskey in one go and then walked back to leather armchair across the dirty coffee table from Haley. He sat down without a word and looked at her expectantly, the pain in his dark green eyes not fully hidden.
Fidgeting with her glasses again, Haley took a quick look at her notes before saying, "Your wife, Irene Wesson. The, um, the reports said she died during some kind of exorcism ritual. Not many details were released, and the official cause was listed as suicide, but she did die as part of your, er, line of work, correct?"
"That's fucking correct."
Haley waited a beat before inquiring, "Would you like to tell what happened so that people can understand just how dangerous what you do is?"
"No."
Haley's stomach churned at the look of anger on his face. She'd crossed some kind of line. Talking about his late wife was way too personal. She should have asked something else.
Then Johnny sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his motorcycle jacket as he leaned back in his chair. "But I will talk about other cases I've worked on," he consented. "People need to know what's out there so that they can protect themselves."
A sigh of relief escaped Haley's cherry-red lips. Just as she was asking about setting up her camera to film an interview, the front door flew open and then slammed shut. In stormed a girl with a whirlwind of attitude and a long, tan trenchcoat. With one hand she flung a manila file folder at Johnny. The papers inside spilled onto the floor. Johnny stood up and glared at her. Haley sat and stared awkwardly.
"Done and dead, bitch," the teenage girl snapped. "I'll give you the rest of the report paperwork tomorrow."
One of Johnny's boots kicked at the scattered paperwork. "I told you to hand everything to Eric before you came back," he barked at her.
"Suck my dick, Johnny," the brunette seventeen-year-old responded petulantly with a flick of her middle finger. She turned to flounce away, but Johnny grabbed her offending hand by the wrist.
"Goddamn it, Deanna, I've told you to watch your fucking language!" he roared.
Deanna glared at her father with bright green eyes. Their expressions were so similar that it was almost as scary as their tension and yelling.
Johnny hissed, "We have a guest," and gestured to the feeling-very-out-of-place Haley.
"Um, hi?" Haley stammered.
Deanna turned to Haley, and her entire demeanor instantly transformed. Her smudgy kohl-rimmed eyes lit up, and her expression changed into a cocky grin. Haley recognized that smile. It was the overly confident, flirty smile, promising naughty things, which Haley had seen on every guy who was used to girls falling for them; it was the type of smile Haley was convinced that hot guys who knew how attractive they were spent hours practicing in the mirror. And here was Deanna Wesson, a short, teenage girl with poorly-applied, smeared makeup, a bad haircut, and guy's clothing, giving her that same, "How you doin'?" smirk that Haley had seen from countless boys at every party or club she'd ever been to.
Haley stood up. She offered out her hand and greeted, "Hi, my name's Haley Barker."
Deanna's green eyes flicked up and down, pausing for a moment in the direction of Haley's cleavage. Her grin widened. "Well, hello, Haley," she replied in a blatant attempt to ooze sexiness into her voice. She grabbed Haley's hand and shook it while a stack of leather and gunmetal chain bracelets on her wrist clicked and clattered from the movement. She reeked of cigarettes, cheap gin, and the spicy-sweet notes of Thierry Mugler Angel Perfume. "I'm Deanna Wesson."
Johnny, who still gripped her other wrist, physically pulled Deanna back from Haley. "Miss Barker wants to interview the company for a documentary on ghosts or some shit like that," he said.
"It's a vlog, actually," clarified Haley with a gesture to the camera in her hand.
"Awesome," Deanna responded. She twisted her arm out of Johnny's grasp and folded her middle and ring fingers down into the rock hand. "Come upstairs to my bedroom, and I'd be glad to give you an interview. I just finished up a case, and I could thrill you with the details."
Haley found herself blushing despite herself. Though her efforts definitely came off as trying too hard, Deanna had a natural charm in spite of her profanity. "Sure," Haley said with a little shrug. "Tell me all about it."
"Stop fucking around, kid," growled Johnny, "and finish up your damn work."
Deanna scooped up her scattered papers and hollered out, "Bite me!" as she exited the room and stomped upstairs in her black Doc Martens.
"Um..." Words failed Haley.
Johnny sighed and facepalmed. "I apologize for my kid," he groaned. "Deanna can be a real brat most of the fucking time."
"I see," was Haley's response. She took a pen from her pocket and added to the notes on her yellow legal pad. "So your daughter is a minor but still an employee of your company?" she asked.
"Yeah," replied Johnny as he poured himself another whiskey. "Deanna might act like a fucking attention-starved idiot, but she's a damn good hunter. One of my best. Well, she could be if she stopped screwing around."
Note to self, Haley thought, talk to Deanna about why she goes along with her dad's crazy beliefs in ghosts.
Johnny Wesson, nationally recognized crazy ghost hunter with the foulest mouth Haley had ever heard, sat back down in his red leather armchair. "So are we filming this damn interview or not?"
Haley set up her video camera and pressed record.
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