Let’s all go back, back, back to thirty-one years ago today…
On a hot summer night, much like this one, a pregnant woman found herself in an old, abandoned sanitarium named Whittier Presbyterian Hospital. The place was deserted, except for the haunted screams of the damned. Or, like, sick people.
This woman checked into a room way up on the thirteenth floor. It smelled of used bandages and its stash of moist towelettes was terrifyingly low. There was an energy in the air, an electricity that this woman couldn’t deny. The doctors made her as comfortable as possible. They said that everything was going to be okay.
Little did she know that her life was about to change forever. You see, after a few hours of some gross stuff that I’d rather not get into, the woman had a newborn baby. A son. And against all odds, that son would grow up to one day become a beloved blogger with ginger hair and a penchant for embarrassing himself in foreign lands. That child was named Evan Purcell.