The Secret Garden
A really weird-looking guy in a daft hat.
‘Ghosts! Don’t talk to me about ghosts!’
People bang on and on about the supernatural as if it’s something fantastic to be found and understood, some lovely mystery to be experienced. It’s not. It’s bloody horrible. It’s all little scary ghost-girls and dead children and people with blood coming out of their faces and bits hanging off and these freaky things that were never human but can’t stay away from us, like leeches or lampreys or those floppy things that come up from the bottom of the ocean in nets. And they won’t leave you alone, no matter how much you yell at them or paint runes on your hands or wear tinfoil hats or anything. Bastards.
So no surprise that you’ve ended up on a piece of shit TV show like Spook Spotters. With your help they’re able to home in on some genuine hotspots on the supernatural map – which they then trample all over like a bunch of goons. The spirits don’t like it, but who gives a shit, right? You’re just the guy with the Kirlian camera, the ecto-scanner, the very expensive machine that goes ping, and a whole bunch of other Ghostbusters bullshit. Most of it works, too. Well, sort of. Anyway, it gets you paid and lets you pursue your dream.
What’s your dream? To expose the bastard undead for what they are, of course. Parasites, each and every one of them. You want nothing more than to make the rest of the world see what’s hiding on the other side of the shadows. Nasty, ugly, evil little fuckers. Gonna make them all pay.
You really, really don’t like being called “Weird”. Everyone calls you it, and you just nod and grin, like it’s some big joke that you’re in on as well. But you hate it. Sometime soon you’re going to snap. Just snap like a brittle twig and show them all that you’re not to be trifled with. Then they’ll be sorry. Oh yes, then they’ll rue the day they messed with the Hammer. (Yeah. The Hammer. That’s what you call yourself in your head. Go figure.)