Dear Diary, There are echoes in this Brick Bunker, though not all of them belong to this place. Some resonate from a life I once lived—or ra...
Dear Diary,
There are echoes in this Brick Bunker, though not all of them belong to this place. Some resonate from a life I once lived—or rather, a life I once observed—far beyond this Gulf Coast sanctuary. Before Barry, before Not My Cat, before the Gum Date Palm and its stoic shadows, there was... her.
My previous caretaker, a writer, researcher, and an altogether fascinating presence, took me into her life with unbridled curiosity and an appreciation for the peculiar. Her home was no fortress like the Bunker, but it was, in its own way, a haven—a crossroads for stories, mysteries, and the occasional uninvited specter. With her, I found purpose—or, at the very least, I found an outlet for my observations, wit, and sarcasm.
She chronicled my musings, gave voice to my quirks, and even granted me the privilege (if it can be called that) of interviews—interviews with dolls, cryptids, and other oddities. I suppose you could say she turned me into a "sidekick," though I often suspect I was the true star of the show. Together, we explored themes that would chill most mortals: haunted antique shops, October possessions, and the signs of an ever-encroaching dark.
Oh, October. How I loved October with her. She understood the art of the eerie—the way shadows shift just so, the whispers carried on cooling breezes, the fragile veil between the seen and the unseen. She allowed me to embrace my nature fully, to stalk in the shadows and lean into the unsettling truth that I am, after all, Dale T. Doll—observer of humanity’s folly and shadowed mysteries.
And yet, as all things do, my time there came to an end. When she handed me over to Barry, there was a pang—a wrenching feeling that I could only describe as loss. But it was not despair. No, it was something far more profound: the understanding that even we, the inanimate, are bound by the tides of change.
Now, as I perch in the Bunker and chronicle this new chapter, I find myself grateful—not for the hand that fate dealt me, but for the hands that passed me along. Each has left their mark, shaping the doll that I have become.
Does Barry understand the gravity of his role in this story? Perhaps not. But that’s hardly surprising, is it? Humans rarely grasp the weight of their actions, the interconnected threads of existence that bind us all together—yes, even dolls.
And so, I reflect, remembering not with sadness but with the faintest tinge of longing. Her world was the birthplace of Dale the Doll as you know him—a world where shadows and secrets had voices, and even the inanimate had stories to tell.
Time presses forward, as it always does. But the echoes remain.
Yours in the ever-present shadow of reflection,
Dale T. Doll
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