March 18, 1948
This is the confession of a family man. A simple man that wanted nothing more than to leave his old life as a moderately successful Irish businessman behind and enjoy the wealth of underground Hollywoodland success. A man whose business burned secretly through the lenses of casting directors on all major lots. A man whose name was used discreetly, spoken only on the hushed lips of actresses wanting a big break, or the producers wanting a hot reel to “pre-screen” up-and-coming talent. Yes, this is the confession of a family man, who hid his nightmares behind the dreamy visage of a mansion that rested atop Sunset Blvd. It was, and still is a beacon of wealth, but as he would learn in due time, money can’t buy salvation, only a tainted form of happiness.
I, John William Walsh, am that family man. I helped make this town the hell that it has become. I shot those first films that women didn’t speak of outside of a casting call. I made my wealth off of the flesh and masqueraded as an honest, yet lucky businessman to the world. My success was secured, but looking back now, the money never really mattered. It didn’t buy my happiness. It bought me a loveless marriage to a woman with an illegitimate son. It bought the countless pets he owned that are buried in the yard. It bought the maid, who never meant anyone any harm but succumbed to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She now rests in a pile of ashes underneath the fireplace.
My money bought the bullet lodged in my stepson’s brain, and it bought the dagger that swiftly cut through my wife’s throat, revealing the humanity and horror that resided inside.
I suppose the money wasn’t all bad. The lust I produced brought something good to my daughter who used her wealth properly to improve her status with an East Coast education. I am proud of my Madeline, but circumstances and the current body count won’t allow me to rest on my laurels.
As I stand on the balcony that overlooks Sunset, I write this confession while breathing in the fumes that surround the false paradise of Los Angeles. I ignore the fact that behind me, the walls are covered in gore, my efforts lie in ruin, and that the blood of the innocent pours out of a toddler at the foot of the stairs leading to my gorgeous marble foyer. I watch the sunset over the city of stars, casting the shadow that I have thrived in for all of these years; filming sin in return for cash. Cash that only lead country girls to the next casting couch or musty Murphy bed.
This entry is my second confession today and I know that the Los Angeles police forces received my first letter. I can hear the sirens approaching up our usually quiet street. Some of the lights are already making the surrounding shrubbery of my estate bleed red and blue. I smile now, not out of happiness. Nothing I have done has brought me that. All my actions have bought me is the rope attached to this concrete balcony. This rope, that I will soon be fastening around my neck. This rope, that will surely be the grand finale of my Hollywood dream. Goodbye.
Little did I know, but my end was only the beginning of the hell in which I now reside.