Evan Walk & Talk - Recordings?

Alright… so yeah. Evan and me actually had a decent night last night.

Not exactly “according to plan” — because with Evan, there never really is a plan that stays still — but it was good. Changeable. Weird. Emotional in places. And for once… useful.

He came round about nine. Same old ritual: knock at the door, Edwin opens it, and you hear the inevitable:

“Come in.”

I was already waiting, to be honest. I thought he’d show earlier, but nope. Evan moves on Evan time.

This time, because there were loads of people hanging around near the park and over the shops, we didn’t do the jump from the front. We went out into the back garden.

Evan had a thicker blanket with him — proper thick, like he’d actually listened when I said the cold and the pressure wrecked me last time.

He said, calm, like he was talking about the weather:

“Small jumps. Easy pace. I’ve checked the area.”

Then he looked at me.

“You stay wrapped. Head and all. I don’t want you panicking at shadows.”

Fair enough.

So… we jumped.

Still felt it — that crushing pressure, that bite of cold that gets into your bones — but it wasn’t as brutal. Being fully wrapped helped. I couldn’t see anything, which weirdly made it easier, because my imagination is bad enough without visuals.

We jumped twice, maybe three times. Time’s hard to judge when your body’s doing that whole what the hell is happening thing.

Then we settle down.

And we’re in a car park.

Small. Quiet. Country park vibes.

It takes me a second to clock it… and then it hits.

Dovedale.

Mate, I love Dovedale. Me and Edwin used to go there — one of our walking places, one of the “clear your head” places. So being there at night was… strange. Familiar, but not. Like seeing your own memories with the brightness turned down.

Evan turns to me and says, simple:

“Walk and talk?”

I nod, and before we even properly set off I go, “Yeah. I’ve got questions.”

That lip quirk of his appears — not a smile, not not-a-smile. Just that little twitch like he’s acknowledging something obvious.

“I assumed you would,” he said.

So we start walking out toward Milldale. The moon was out, and it was actually a nice night — chilly, but clear. Good job I’d put my puffer on, because I’m not doing that “tough guy” act in the middle of the night in Dovedale.

We hit one of the little wooden bridges, river sliding dark beneath us, moonlight flickering on the surface — and I slowed without meaning to. That whole “running water” thing jumped straight back into my head.

I looked down, then back at Evan.

“Hang on… I thought you couldn’t cross running water?”

Evan didn’t stop, just glanced down once like he was measuring it, then looked back at me.

“It does affect me,” he said, calm. “Makes me light-headed. Dizzy. Like the world leans for a second.”

He walked across the bridge anyway, steady as anything.

“But this is a stream, Callum. I’m above it. Not in it. A bridge matters. Distance matters.”

I frowned. “So it’s not a hard rule?”

His lip lifted a fraction — that almost-smile that never quite becomes one.

“It’s a rule,” he said. “But not all water is the same. A trickle like this is an irritation. A large river can be… unpleasant. The sea is something else entirely.”

His voice dropped a shade when he said it.

“An ocean isn’t just water. It’s miles of moving weight. It would take me. Strip me down. So I don’t test it. I don’t gamble with it.”

That shut me up, to be fair. I just nodded, and we carried on over the bridge.

And as we walked, I finally said what’s been sat in my head for days…

“I need to know more about you,” I tell him. “You know everything about me. You’ve watched me grow up. You’ve been there my whole life. But I don’t know anything about you. Not properly. And you’re asking me to trust you with my whole life.”

For a second, he didn’t answer.

Then his face tightened — just a flicker — and his voice sharpened.

“What do you want?” he snapped. “A list? A tally? How many men I’ve killed? How many I’ve fed on?”

It wasn’t a roar. It was worse. Controlled anger. Like a blade drawn halfway.

I stopped walking and put my hands up a bit like, woah.

“No,” I said quickly. “That’s not what I meant. I just want… your story. Your background. How you became what you are. What it’s been like… through the years. Because it must be insane.”

He stared at me for a long moment.

Then he breathed out — and just like that, the edge disappeared. Quick to flare, quick to calm.

“My story is long,” he said, measured again. “It does not fit in one night.”

He looked ahead as we walked, voice level.

“There is good. There is bad. A lot of bad at the beginning. And later… things that would surprise you.”

Then he glanced at me.

“But tell me why you want it.”

So I said it straight.

“Because you know me. I don’t know you. And you want me to go along with all of this — silence, secrets, rules — and I’m trying, I am. I’m grateful, alright? You saved me. You’ve protected me. You’ve sorted me a job. But I need something solid to hold onto. I need to know who I’m trusting.”

He didn’t answer straight away. We just walked for a bit, boots on gravel, river noise in the distance. No music. No crowd. Just night.

And then I tried again, quieter.

“I’m lost without it.”

He stopped.

Turned.

Looked at me like he was weighing me up, and I swear sometimes his eyes feel older than the whole world.

“Alright,” he said. “Where do you want me to begin?”

I blinked. “From the beginning, I suppose. Anything. Just… give me something.”

By then we were down by the river, near the grass. Evan pulled the black blanket out — the same one we’d used to travel — and spread it on the ground like it was a picnic rug.

Then he sat down, legs stretched out, leaning on one elbow, like a bloke having a rest after a long walk.

“You sit,” he said, nodding to the blanket.

So I did.

And he started.

And … honestly? This was the first time I saw Evan turn into something else. Not the threat. Not the rule-maker. Not the shadow. Not the cold protector.

A storyteller.

He started talking about his farm. About the land. The cold mornings. The smell of soil. Chickens. The way the world looked when you lived without noise — no engines, no lights, no screens.

He spoke about his mother’s hands — cracked and strong — and the way his father’s back never seemed to straighten after years of labour.

He talked about his sister — Bridget — like she was a living thing still somewhere in his chest. He didn’t do big emotions. Nothing dramatic. But you’d hear it in the way his voice softened for one word, or in that tiny pause like he was swallowing something down.

And I was just… sat there, completely pulled in.

It went on for ages. Hours, I think. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t “sum it up”. He lived it out loud.

And the mad part is, he wasn’t even trying to impress me. He was just… remembering.

Then, towards the end, I noticed he started drifting a bit. Not sleepy — more like the memories were pulling him somewhere darker, and he didn’t want to step there with me yet.

He looked at me and said, quiet:

“That is enough for tonight.”

I went, “What? No—” He hadn't really started, he'd only given me his background, the farm, his family, his neighbours and such

He cut me off with a calm look.

“After this point, it turns,” he said. “It becomes… twisted. And you are not ready to hear it yet. Not at one in the morning.”

I checked my watch.

01:00.

I genuinely couldn’t believe it. I’d been that caught up in his story I forgot time existed.

He saw me looking, saw me yawning, and he said:

“We go back.”

I yawned again and nodded because my body was done.

But before we moved, I asked him something that’s been bugging me since the first time I heard him speak properly.

“Have you ever thought about recording it?” I said. “Not to put online or anything — just… for me. Because these late nights are killing me. I’m up early for work, weekends I’m trying to see my mates and that… and I do want to hear it, I really do, but it’s a lot.”

He watched me, expression unreadable.

So I pushed on, offering him a solution.

“That phone I bought — the one Edwin took off me before I ran — you could use that. No SIM. Just record. And when I’ve got time, I can listen. Going to sleep, whatever. Then when we meet up again, I’ll have questions and we can actually talk properly without you having to do a full night story session.”

He didn’t speak for a moment.

Then, that quirk again. Very small.

“You enjoyed tonight,” he said.

I nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

He looked away, like he was staring through the valley.

“I… also enjoyed it,” he said, and it sounded like it annoyed him to admit. “I haven’t looked back with that kind of detail for a long time.”

Then he turned back to me, voice firm:

“I will do it. For you. For Edwin too.”

I blinked. “Edwin?”

He nodded once.

“He’s earned the truth as much as you have,” he said. “But you will keep it secret. No one else.”

I just laughed, tired. “Who am I gonna tell?”

He didn’t laugh.

“Good,” he said. “Give me the phone when we return.”

So… yeah. That’s happening.

Then he wrapped me up again. Proper tight. And we did the jumps back — small ones, like he promised.

And suddenly we’re at the back door.

Knock.

Edwin opens.

“Come in, Evan.”

I joked, “What about me?”

Edwin smirked. “You don’t need an invite, it’s your house.”

We go in and Evan just… slides into that smooth, controlled mode again.

He looks at Edwin.

“I’m going to make a circuit,” he said. “I’ll return midweek. Keep him steady.”

I ran upstairs, grabbed the phone, brought it down and handed it to Evan.

Edwin goes, “What’s that?”

Evan looks at him, that faint quirk appearing.

“Callum wants my story,” he said. “And you’ve never heard it either, have you?”

Edwin says, “Bits. Not the whole.”

Evan nods like that’s settled it.

“Then you’ll both have it,” he said. “You will know me better. You will trust me… or you won’t. Some of it will not be pleasant. Some of it will be worse than you expect. But it will be the truth. That is all I promise.”

Then he looked at me — and for a second his voice softened. Not warm. Just… less sharp.

“Thank you,” he said. “For tonight.”

And then he was gone like a glitch. One second in front of us, next second at the door.

That still winds me up. How he moves so fast without moving. Like reality just skips.

Edwin shuts the door and looks at me.

“A good night?”

I nod. “A good’un. He actually told me stuff. Proper stuff.”

Edwin looks relieved and worried at the same time.

“It’ll get dark,” he said.

I shrugged, tired. “It already has, hasn’t it.”

Then I remembered: “Camille’s coming in a couple of weeks. She can still stop, yeah?”

Edwin nods. “Yeah. Just make sure your room’s not a tip.”

So yeah. That’s that.

I went to bed after, and I had the weirdest dreams — old farms, old faces, fields, firelight. Like my brain was trying to build pictures out of Evan’s words.

And now I’m sat here thinking… if he actually records this, I might be able to add it to the site somehow. Audio posts. Or transcripts. I don’t know yet. I’ll figure it out. I’m still learning all this website stuff as I go.

Anyway, today’s Sunday afternoon. Edwin’s due back soon, so I’m gonna try and get this posted now — but if I can’t, it might not go up until midweek.

Either way… I’ll update when I can.

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