In the early 1970s, Kerry Walton returned to his childhood town of Wagga Wagga, New South Wales, Australia, for his grandmother’s funeral. Drawn by childhood fears, he visited a long-abandoned house that had always unsettled him. Beneath the porch, he found something that would change his life—a wooden marionette doll with exaggerated features, glass eyes, and human hair. At first glance, it looked like the body of a child. Walton felt compelled to take it home. On the drive back to Brisbane, the doll seemed to shift inside the sack it was carried in. Jokingly, the brothers named it “Letta Me Out,” a phrase that would become both its nickname and a chilling echo of its legend. Letta’s presence quickly proved disturbing. Family members reported feeling faint, emotional, or sick around it. Dogs barked and lunged at the doll. Scuff marks appeared mysteriously on the floor, as if Letta had walked during the night. Rain was said to fall whenever Letta was taken outside. Some even claimed the doll screamed its own name. Curious and unnerved, Walton sought answers. Experts dated the doll to the mid-to-late 18th century, likely crafted in Romania by a Romani artisan. Psychics who examined Letta claimed it housed the spirit of a child who had drowned. During one session, a clock reportedly flew off the wall as the psychic described the child’s tragic death. Letta’s carved face features a slight smile, arched brows, and a prominent nose. Its original clothing disintegrated long ago, replaced with a green suit and frilled shirt. Walton has since embraced Letta’s notoriety, bringing it to public events and maintaining social media accounts for the doll. Despite its fame, Letta Me Out remains an enigma—an artifact of grief, folklore, and fear. Whether haunted or simply unsettling, it continues to provoke strong reactions and inspire stories wherever it goes.

Ep. 20 The Cecil Hotel

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