Haha, I updated so quickly. Please enjoy this next, mysterious tale. Is it Fact or Fiction?

The host is holding an object in his hand, which has long, yellow strands of hair coming down from the top of its head, accompanied with a green silk dress decorated with hearts.

"This toy has passed down for many generations, originating in the tombs of Egyptians to modern times to the houses and bedrooms of children, especially youthful girls. The resemblance of the toy taking the likeliness of a human creature has made this a popular playing mate for hundreds of years."

"Mrs. Dolletta Parson is a person who has a collective set of these well-known toys. Like almost fifty percent of other doll players, she believes they have the same characteristics of any other human being. Not to mention the fact that she's well over sixty years old. Her maid, Clara, has had almost enough with her passion for the inanimate toys. But is Mrs. Parson actually that irrational?"

Betty Knows

She was getting even more frustrated. Clara Stevenson was a middle-aged koopa troopa, and was working as a maid for the Parsons for three months. Only eager to be able to earn money, she applied for the job without knowing about the obsession of the woman she would be caring for, along with the supporting husband of hers. Dolletta Parson was sixty-three years old, and at least three times a day, she would be sitting down on her armchair, talking to her lined-up dolls along the top of the fireplace shelf.

After Clara did her daily cleaning of the house, she would always enter into the living room and see Mrs. Parson, having a doll in her lap and talking to it dearly as it were a human child. It aggravated her so much.

"Why can't the Parsons just have real children of their own?" she said to herself one night. "That stupid Dolletta is brainwashed. Her name says it all."

Exactly three months after Clara's first day of working, Mr. Parson was having a meeting with an architect in the living room. As he discussed the heavy issues of the further constructing, Mrs. Parson had nothing else to do but pick up the dolls one by one from the shelf, put them in her lap as she sat on her armchair. She patted her head, laughed occasionally, and gave the plush toy kisses for every minute that passed by. Clara was told to dust the shelf with the dolls that afternoon and she was rather upset by the order. As she entered the living room, she looked in disgust at Mrs. Parson, who was still talking to the doll as she gathered the small body into her arms.

"Oh, sweetie," said Mrs. Parson, patting it on her head as if she had won a spelling bee contest. "You're a good girl. Time to go back." She turned to Clara, who was staring at the line of dolls over the fireplace.

"Clara," said Mrs. Parson. "Can you do me a favor and put Charlotte back on the shelf, besides Amy? There's an empty space right there."

"Yes Mrs. Parson," Clara said in a fake tone of enthusiasm. Mrs. Parson smiled as Clara took the doll from her hands. She looked at the doll, Charlotte. What a stupid name. All the dolls had stupid names and stupid looks too. For a moment, Clara couldn't help but have the overpowering feeling of throwing it to the floor and stomping it into shreds, but with two overprotective people present in the room at that moment, she quickly put the doll back in her place.

"Oh my," said Mrs. Parson. "She's leaning forwards. My, Amy's back would become all shaped out like that."

Clara looked back at the doll besides Charlotte, who had her body slumped over at an angle. She wanted to pick up the doll and throw it into the old boo's face. Then start yelling at Mr. Parson about how much of a supporter he was with the irrational behavior of his wife. But she controlled herself.

"Let me just fix that," she said with a smile, and she went to straighten out the small body with her hand holding the duster. As she did so, she tried hiding a satisfying smile on what she was planning to do next. With the end of the duster handle, she voluntarily pushed one of the dolls away from the shelf as the doll plummeted five feet to the carpet floor. As Mrs. Parson gasped and got out of her seat, Clara immediately pretended to look shocked.

"Something the matter, dear?" Mr. Parson asked, looking away from his conversation from the table as he turned around. Mrs. Parson picked up the doll in worry. It was her favorite: Betty.

"I am so sorry!" Clara managed to say in her sorriest voice, "It was an accident because of my own clumsiness."

"Betty darling, are you alright?" the sixty three year old boo said in a panicked voice. "My, my, it's okay. Thank you Clara, she's just all right. Oh, Betty dear, don't worry! You'll be fine, just fine, sweetheart." She cuddled Betty into her hands, as she pulled the string that protruded out from her back. Mrs. Parson always liked Betty best, because as she always said, she was old enough to be able to speak.

"Hi, I'm Betty. I'm such a good girl," Betty said in her girly voice.

"Oh, yes you are!" Mrs. Parson cooed back. She pulled the string again.

"Betty loves Mommy and Daddy very much."

"And I love you, little sweetheart," Mrs. Parson said in her sweetest tone, before going back to sitting in her chair. She cuddled the doll and gave it a warm hug.

The architect went back to facing Mr. Parson at the table.

"I must say that your wife has a very strong sense of imagination," he said in a low voice. "But doesn't it concern you just…I don't know, just a little?"

"What can I do?" the elderly boo replied. "She's my wife, and whatever she believesin , I believe."

Clara looked at Mrs. Parson, her hands clenched at her sides. She gave her the look of annoyance and anger before heading off from the room.

Tonight, she told herself. Tonight it will end.

It had just turned nine o'clock at night, and the Parsons were sleeping. Clara picked up Amy from the shelf and bashed her with her fist. She threw it to the floor stomped on it with her sharp stiletto heels. With fury and craziness shadowing over her mind, she grabbed five dolls, a fourth of the collection Mrs. Parson had, and threw it into the blazing fire she had created in the fireplace a minute ago. She smiled, her eyes starting to tear and swell up from the heat as she saw the precious dolls of the old lady turn into wasted cloth, then into ashes. She picked up Charlotte.

"Oh, little sweetie heart," she said in her sweetest voice. "I love you, I love you…GO TO HELL!" She spat in its face and threw the doll into the blazing fire as well, watching it melt with satisfaction. She then saw Betty.

"Betty darling, I was so sorry you almost died this afternoon because of my own recklessness," she said in her sweet voice once again. She spotted a pair of scissors on the side table right besides her, and she picked it up with her hand. As she went to pick up Betty from the shelf, she pulled her string.

"I love you very much," Betty said.

"And I hate you!" Clara screamed at the top of her voice. She held the pair of scissors high above her, ready to strike into the doll's body and rip it into nothing but torn up shreds.

"Stop!" cried a voice from behind her. Clara froze, dropping the pair of scissors on the floor as she turned around at lightning speed. It was Mr. Parson, looking at her with an astonished look on his face.

"Uh, Mr. Parson!" she said in a quick voice. "I was just straightening things out! Just finishing the dolls and putting them back---"

"No, Clara," he said, his voice cold and distressed at the same time. "No. I saw what you had done." Clara looked back at him with a stunned look on her face.

"Turn off the fire," he demanded. "My wife will be upset with you. I will give you the paycheck for this month, but I tell you, I highly suggest you use it for professional help."

"What?" Clara said in a quiet gasp.

"You're fired, Ms. Stevenson," he said. "I want you to leave this house. Tonight."

"But…but…" she stammered. Her face suddenly fell to the look of rage, and she threw the doll that she was holding at Mr. Parson, who stepped back in alarm and caught it. She headed out of the room.

Within thirty minutes Clara had her bag of luggage besides her, and with only looking back at Mr. Parson once, she went out through the garage door and slammed it behind her. The elderly boo looked out the window and saw her car exit from the garage door and enter into the street. Once he saw that, he was sure she was gone. He went back upstairs to go to bed.

With Betty in his hand, he placed her on the bed between him and his sleeping wife. Without a sound, he turned off the lampshade and went to bed.

Mr. Parson was sure that Clara had left for good. But she didn't. She stole the keys from the counter in the house for the garage door and entered back inside the house. She unpacked her luggage, as if she had never been planning to leave the place for at least the next year. She got the remaining dolls lying on the shelf and put them in an organized fashion above the fireplace. Then she went upstairs, into the room where Mr. and Mrs. Parson were sleeping. She took the cyanide bottle from her pocket, and poured doses inside of each of their open mouths. She left the bottle, open, in the hand of Mrs. Parson, and left the room. From this way, she thought, they'll be no suspecting of anything else except suicide. Nobody knew anything. She went downstairs as the clock struck twelve. The elderly couple was dead.

But she was wrong. Someone had seen the entire thing.

"An elderly boo couple, the husband fifty-seven, and the wife sixty-three," the police officer explained. "Seems nothing else but suicide. Took their own lives with cyanide; a bottle of it was found in the wife's hand."

"Yup, got it," the detective said. "So they were discovered 7:00 this morning by…who?"

"The koopa troopa maid, her name is Clara Stevenson," the officer explained. "Hey, how about if you don't mind talking to her about this? She's in the living room of the house, but she seems quite distraught."

"Right away," the detective said, and he followed the order.

He found Clara, who was sitting on one of the wooden rocking chairs with a look of grief on her face. The detective took a seat besides her on another one of the chairs.

"I know this might be a hard time, Ms. Stevenson," he explained to her, "But I want you to tell me as much as you know about the Parsons and your relationship with them."

She looked up, tears still visible in her eyes. "I was with them for three months, as a maid. They were the best people I've ever met in my entire life. Even better then my own parents. I loved them dearly, as they loved me. Mr. Parson was the easiest person I had ever met. He never got mad. Mrs. Parson was the most sane, caring woman. She was like a second mom…" The tears suddenly came pouring, as she put her hands over her face.

"I'm sorry for this hard time," the detective said compassionately. "I just need to know one more thing. How were the Parsons?"

"They," Clara said between sniffs, "They were so unhappy. So old. They would always be talking about how difficult their lives were. It troubled me these few months, and I once told Mr. Parson that he and his wife needed to seek professional help."

The detective had told Clara to follow him to the bedroom, the last place the Parsons had spent their lives in. The bodies and bottle of potassium cyanide were taken away, but everything else remained untouched.

"Heck, this is obviously an easy case," the detective thought. "I can't help but feel the need to write 'suicide' on the case file. This is a waste of time."

Clara stepped up besides him as the detective simply looked around the room, observing everything he could. The room was the room anyone could have dream of. It had a plush carpet floor, a king size bed, and fancy cabinets littered in the right spots.

"All this, not to mention the entire, elaborate house, and they still decided to take their own lives?" he asked Clara.

"I could never imagine it," she said, still sniffing from her crying.

"But Mr. Parson had just hit a jackpot in the stock market, just a few days ago," he said. "Nearly twenty thousand coins was the profit he had made."

"I believe…money never really mattered to him," Clara said quickly.

"And these dolls of Mrs. Parson's," he continued. Clara looked up as he stepped forwards to the bed. The detective had admired the details of the dolls in the living room, and saw one of them in the center of the bed, face up.

"I was told that she took very special care of them, and even talked to them," the detective said with a smile.

"Oh, yes," Clara said, managing to smile herself. "She was such a unique person. That one is Betty, on the bed."

The detective reached forwards and grabbed the doll, bouncing it lightly in his hands. He noticed the string on the back, and he pulled it.

"Mommy and Daddy, I love you very much" the doll spoke.

"Oh," the detective said in an interested voice. "How cute." Clara smiled.

"No, please don't hurt Mommy and Daddy, Ms. Stevenson!"

The detective froze, and turned to Clara. She had sunk back into the wooden chair she was sitting in, her face pale and stricken with fear.

"I…" she stammered. "I don't understand! Why did she say such a thing?" The detective could do nothing else but pull the string again, his fingers trembling the slightest bit.

"Please Ms. Stevenson; don't put that stuff in their mouths!"

"What the hell are you saying?" demanded Clara, grabbing the doll from the detective's hands as all he did was stand in shock. He watched Clara, a face of rage displayed on her face.

"Don't lie, Ms. Stevenson, be a good lady," the doll said.

"What am I lying about?!" Clara nearly screamed, tears of terror appearing in her eyes. "Bad Betty! You're the one lying! BAD BETTY!"

"Why did you kill them Ms. Stevenson?"

"I…I…" She held the doll with both hands, looking at her straight in the face. Clara's face of rage and terror suddenly matched the one she had displayed in the living room, except this time, the feelings were real as tears streamed down her face once again.

"What else could I do, Betty? What else could I have done? They fired me!" She started to sob, her shoulders trembling as she took a sharp object that represented a small knife from the counter, and she raised it above Betty. The detective slowly walked over to Clara and took the knife away, along with the doll on the floor

"Ms. Stevenson, I think we'll need the doll at the evidence exhibit at court."

"Did this story really happen? Why was the doll speaking all about the murder, as if she were a living human? Perhaps a prankster at the factory who created the doll made the strange messages built inside the toy as a joke. But why were the words never heard before, until that very moment? And why did the doll use the word 'Ms. Stevenson? Or perhaps, Mr. or Mrs. Parson built in the message themself, in fear of their psychopathic maid. Not likely, with that fact that the murder so sudden and unexpected by both of them. Or maybe Mrs. Parson was not being irrational after all with her dolls for many years. Perhaps they did contain the characteristics as any other being, especially Betty."

The host turns the doll in his hands around; there is a string on the back as he pulls it.

"Mr. Host, I love you very much." He smiles and shrugs.

"Could this story be fact, or are we simply just pulling a string of lies on you?"

Wario: What?! I told the people that I didn't want an absurd story!

Peach: Umm, this show is called Beyond Belief? None of these stories have logical explanation?

Flurrie: Hey, maybe it might be true. There are still possiblities left undiscovered.

Wario: FICTION

Klepto: Umm, I sensed major flaws throughout that story. Not flaws, really, but just stuff that can't happen. How on Earth could Betty have talked about the killing?

Peach: Well, I myself think it's true.

Wario: What are you, some type of doll player?

Peach: I used to play with dolls when I was five and six years old. I always thought they were real.

Lugi: Ayaya, that story was creepy! The doll talking was just a...I have a fear for dolls to be honest. Anyway, I say a no, in fear of this story being true. Gosh, I hope I'm a right.

Klepto: FICTION

Peach: FACT

Wario: Peach, what the heck?

Flurrie: FACT. You'll see who's right. This story has chances of being true.

Luigi: FICTION. No way.

You'll find out if this story is true or false at the end of this show. But next, two people who fall in love are closer than they had ever imagined to be, on Beyond Belief, Fact or Fiction

Did this story really happen? What do you think? Stay tuned for the next part of this show.