At a table at a skuzzy pub just up the street from the haunted house, a journalist sits, listening to her source ramble on and on about mysterious disappearances, ancient secrets, strange conspiracies and immortality.
She's being good. Has promised that she will listen, and she's trying her best. But it's all so very ... cheesy. Or maybe not cheesy, exactly, but certainly derivative, troped-out and, somehow, comfortingly familiar.