Reel to Real – A Dale T. Doll Nightmare

  Reel to Real – A Dale T. Doll Nightmare Humans, I’ve observed, have an extraordinary knack for stumbling upon trouble—though, in this case...

 Reel to Real – A Dale T. Doll Nightmare

Humans, I’ve observed, have an extraordinary knack for stumbling upon trouble—though, in this case, I dare say Barry didn’t so much stumble as he dove headfirst into it. It began one dull afternoon in the Brick Bunker, where Barry was rummaging through a box of dusty oddities. I, of course, watched from my perch, exercising my usual cocktail of curiosity and judgment.

“There’s nothing of value in there,” I said, ever helpful. “Unless you count your unparalleled talent for collecting junk.”

Barry ignored me, as is his custom, and pulled out an object of intrigue: a VHS tape, labeled DO NOT WATCH in menacing red ink. Naturally, my interest piqued. The label practically screamed curiosity. But Barry, in his infinite wisdom, attempted to toss it in the trash.

“Wait!” I said. “Did you not see the label? Clearly, this is meant to be watched. Reverse psychology, Barry! It’s practically daring us to unravel its secrets.”

Barry muttered something dismissive—likely questioning my judgment, which he shouldn’t—but thankfully inserted the tape into the ancient VCR. The machine groaned, its motors grinding like the bones of regret, and the screen crackled to life.

Ah, and there it was—the title card for The Marionette Murders, accompanied by grainy visuals and static that could cut through the thickest nostalgia. “Oh, a slasher flick with puppets,” I said with a smirk. “How utterly original. Let me guess—vengeful puppets, bad acting, and all the fake blood they could afford with pocket change?”

And I wasn’t wrong. The movie was a predictable tale of a deranged puppeteer whose marionettes, enchanted or cursed or some nonsense, came to life and exacted revenge on the cast. Barry half-watched, half-scrolled through his phone, while I maintained my running commentary.

Yet, as the film progressed, I began to notice peculiarities. Shadows in the Bunker stretched unnaturally. A faint creaking sound echoed—almost melodic in its eeriness—and strings began appearing in odd places. Barry, oblivious at first, grew visibly uneasy when he reached for his coffee mug and found it ensnared by a thin, unyielding string.

“Did you do this?” he asked, glancing toward me. I gave him the side-eye.

Barry unplugged the TV, but the cursed tape didn’t care. The movie continued to play, and I, being the astute observer that I am, pieced it all together.

“It’s a cursed tape,” I declared with triumph. “Classic horror trope. But this puppeteer has underestimated my wit—and your remarkable lack of survival instincts.”

Yet, as the puppeteer’s hollow eyes burned through the screen, his voice dripped with a malice that sent even my circuits buzzing. “You think you’re safe, little doll? You’re already part of my story—a marionette I created decades ago, abandoned on a film set and forgotten. Now, you’ll dance on my strings forever.”

For once, I was speechless. Me, a creation of curse? The revelation hit like a sledgehammer, and the strings tightened around the Bunker, wrapping around my perch, my arms, my very essence. They weren’t just props—they were claiming me, pulling me back into a nightmare I didn’t even remember. Barry, finally awake to the danger, stumbled and knocked over a stack of VHS tapes, sending the ancient VCR sparking and smoking. The screen crackled, and the marionettes on-screen turned, their wooden faces twisting toward their master in a grotesque rebellion.

“No more,” I snarled, channeling every ounce of my wit and rage. “I’m not your puppet—I’m Dale T. Doll, chronicler of horrors, not their victim!” With a mental shove I didn’t know I possessed, I rewrote the film’s ending in real time. The marionettes lunged at the puppeteer, their strings snapping like guitar strings in a rock anthem, tearing him apart pixel by pixel until the screen went black. But the victory wasn’t clean. The TV exploded in a shower of sparks, and the strings around me loosened—only to slither into the shadows, waiting.

Barry stared, pale and trembling, clutching a broken tape case. “Why is the VCR smoking?” he muttered, oblivious to the life-and-death struggle we’d just endured.

I placed the melted, charred remains of the cursed tape on a shelf, now labeled DO NOT WATCH (OR ELSE). But as I turned away, a faint creak echoed through the Bunker—a melodic, eerie sound, like the ghost of a marionette still dancing. I caught a glint of string in the corner of my eye, lurking in the dark. It wasn’t over. The puppeteer might be gone, but his curse lingered, a thread in the fabric of my existence I couldn’t quite snip.

Humans, you may be prone to folly, but let it be known that I, Dale T. Doll, have just danced with the devil—and I’m not sure who led. For now, I remain sharp, observant, and, admittedly, a little less certain of my own story. Until the next nightmare, watch your tapes closely—and your dolls even closer.

Yours in eternal wit (and newfound wariness),

Dale T. Doll.