“Robert did it.” …and then I didn’t sleep again for a week.

I find dolls terrifying.

I don’t think they’re cute or funny or a good toy for children at all. Stuffed animals are fine. I like stuffed animals. I might own a few more than a grown woman should. They are puffy and harmless and soft and most likely won’t kill you when you sleep. Notice the “most likely” there. I don’t rule anything out in the world.

But dolls are terrible. Dolls have dead, dead eyes and are not at all soft or puffy. They have hard faces and they could come to life when you are sleeping and strangle you with their scary hands and they could talk with their scary plastic mouths. Whenever I mention dolls, my beloved Elaine sends me this link. THIS DOES NOT MAKE MY DOLL PHOBIA ANY BETTER, ELAINE.

Then you think about all the horrible dolls on television and in the movies that want to eat your face like:

Chucky, who was a lot scarier before the movies got weird and campy, and…

Talky Tina, who was going to kill you (ugh, this doll terrifies me) and…

The effing clown-doll in Poltergeist. WHY DID THESE CHILDREN EVEN HAVE THIS TOY? What kind of parents would give their children a toy like this? AND THEN KEEP IT IN THEIR BEDROOM WHERE IT CAN EAT THEIR FACES AND SOULS AS THEY SLEEP?

Anyway, a couple days ago I found out a very terrifying doll-story. WORSE than the dolls above, you guys. SO MUCH WORSE. And I didn’t know it even EXISTED until recently and I kind of wish I didn’t know it, to be honest, because it is utterly horrifying, and possibly worse than that clip above of Jane Fonda getting eaten by dolls with chompy teeth.

Why is it worse? BECAUSE APPARENTLY IT IS REAL LIFE TRUE TALES. *gulp*

This is Robert “Gene” Otto. He was born in 1900 in Key West to a rich and artsy family. Their house was like an artists’ colony so I assume everyone was all high-strung and there was a lot of sex and people were talking about things like “this room has the best light” and “I NEED MORE CERULEAN! STOP STEALING MY CERULEAN!” all the time. I guess that’d be ok in small doses.

When Robert was 4, his nanny made him a doll. Some people say it was because she liked him; some people say it’s because she was putting a curse on the kid because his mother had fired her for performing black magic. She apparently wanted it to be VERY LIFELIKE: she put ROBERT’S OWN HAIR on the doll. Well, that’s not at all creepy and terrifying and voodoo-like. Are you ready to see the doll? Sure you are. (No, you’re not, actually.)

BRUH. This is AWFUL. Look at those DEAD EYES. Who wants to guess what this doll’s name is?

Robert. This doll’s name is also Robert.

But that didn’t sit well with young HUMAN Robert, so he said, “Yo, henceforth you need to be callin’ me Gene, yo, because my DOLL’S name is Robert, and that confuses us, because WE ARE ONE.”

He-Who-Will-From-Now-On-Be-Called-Gene was obsessed with his doll. He brought it with him everywhere. He dressed in a sailor suit all the time so he and his doll were wearing the same clothes. He insisted that a chair be put at the table for Robert the Doll at every meal. And – AND – check these terrifying tidbits of information out from the interwebs:

“In time, both parents and servents observed, when Gene and Robert were alone, TWO distinct voices could be heard coming from their playroom. When the silverware was found in disarray and Gene was blamed, he was quick to volunteer that ‘Robert did it.'”

“By all accounts the attachment to this toy was a strange one. It has been rumoured that the doll was imbued with powers through the use of voodoo by four servants, including the creator of the doll.”

Oh, well, this isn’t going to end well. THE DOLL TALKS. And it is a VOODOO DOLL. And it MESSES UP THE SILVERWARE.

After the family got freaked out by his behavior, they put the doll in an attic room.

“After numerous occurrences like these, Robert was banished to the turret room in the Victorian-style mansion. Children passing by on their way to school would notice Robert in one window in the morning and having moved to another window in the afternoon— yet he hadn’t been moved by any human who’d claim it.”

Oh, well, that’s not at all nightmare-inducing for those poor children. “What’s wrong, pookie, can’t sleep?” “I FEEL HIS EYES WATCHING ME MOMMY HIS EVIL DEAD BLACK EYESSSSSS!”

So then Gene got married. He became an artist like his parents, and supposedly was pretty good at it, which is nice. However, he wasn’t the best husband. He and his wife fought a lot. And apparently, it wasn’t his fault: it was Robert’s.

“Theirs was an average marriage, oddly punctuated by suddenly volatile behavior from Gene. As always, after each outburst was over, Gene would say, ‘Robert did it.'”

…Robert did what. Robert fought with your wife? No. YOU fought with your wife, and I think you’ve lost your everloving mind.

Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Gene hated that doll. Haaaaaated. Can’t say as I blame her. That’s creepy as hell, yo. So when old Gene kicked the bucket in 1972, Ann locked that doll in a trunk in the attic AND THEN LEFT THE HOUSE. Not even kidding. She took the hell off. She made a new plan, Stan. She hopped on the bus, Gus. She didn’t even look back. See ya, you creepy dead-eyed thing.

“She left Robert in his turret room and rented out the house. A strict provision in the rental agreement stated that Robert must stay in his room and it was strictly adhered to until Anne passed away in 1976, even though the residents actually put Robert in a trunk, then left the trunk in the turret room.”

I don’t know about you, but I’m not renting ANY home where there’s a proviso “you must keep the demonically-possessed doll in ‘his room’ at all times – what do you mean, ‘what demonically-possessed doll,” EVERY HOUSE HAS ONE, I assure you of that!” in the rental agreement.

Eventually, Ann died and the house was sold. That damn trunk of evil was still in it. The child of the owners found Robert the Doll and was all, “YAY NEW DOLL” (nothing I’ve read says she was blind, but I can’t imagine she had SIGHT and was STILL all “yay new doll” because THIS THING IS TERRIFYING WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU) and brought it down to hang with her other dolls.

“Robert waited patiently up in the attic to be discovered once again. The Ten year old daughter of the new owners was quick to find Robert in the attic, and added him to her other toy’s in her bedroom. It was not long before Robert unleashed his displeasure on the child… The little girl began screaming out in the night,claiming that the doll moved about the room, and would climb on her bed and attack her as she tried to sleep. Even after more than thirty years later, she steadfastly claims that ‘the doll was alive and wanted to kill her.'”

(Please ignore those typos and grammatical issues. I assure you they are not mine.)

Then all the websites don’t say what happened between the 70s and the 90s, which worries me. I can only assume that means Robert the Doll killed a billion children and ate their souls.

Now Robert the Doll is in the Fort East Martello Museum. According to one of the websites, you’d damn well better not mock him if you see him OR YOU WILL BE CURSED as will your progeny.

“If you choose to visit Robert in the museum and want to take a picture you need to ask politely and do NOT make fun of the doll! If he allows you to take a picture he will tilt his head to the side, if he does not tilt his head and you take a picture anyway bad things happen to not only you but to anyone you were with or family members. The walls in that room of the museum are covered in letters from people asking Robert to please take the curse off, and apologizing for making fun of him.”

TILT HIS HEAD? What the hell is happening here? I’m not visiting anything that is inanimate, yet moves, and has the potential to possibly curse me or family members. TERRIFYING AND TERRIBLE. You couldn’t pay me enough money to visit this museum. NO NO NO.

So if you have kids that are SUPER-ATTACHED to something creepy, it’s probably best you just burn it; burn it with fire. Then bury it. And salt the earth. Because if there’s anything I’ve learned from all the horror stories I’ve read, it’s that these damn things come BACK. And they’re PISSED at you. AND THEY WILL EAT YOUR FACE AND ALSO YOUR SOUL.

Let’s talk about something nice tomorrow, ok? Kittens and rainbows and such? Because seriously. UGH.