Introduction
(VOICE-OVER - Anchor): "October 12th, 1978. What should've been a bustling night at the old Strikes & Spares Bowling Alley turned into a tragedy that birthed a legend. Walter 'Big Walt' Kowalski and Don 'Donnie' Marcelli—local hustlers, party-throwers, and alleged conmen—died under mysterious and gruesome circumstances involving a faulty pinsetter and a bottle of warm beer."
(Imagine grainy photographs, yellowed
ANCHOR: "Their deaths uncovered thousands in debt, a trail of unpaid tabs, and more questions than answers. But what the public remembers isn't just the financial fallout—it's the haunting. The rumors. The whispers of two painted faces roaming the streets even now. So we turned to someone who doesn't just study local legends... he lives them."
The Teller of Tales
(Scene shifts to a dimly lit bar in Deep Ellum. Neon bleeds across bottles behind the counter. The camera slowly pans toward a figure sipping from a sweating glass.)
REPORTER(VO): "Meet A. Jay F. Roy—storyteller, folklorist, and chronicler of the strange. Locals call him 'The Destined Teller of Tales.'"
REPORTER (in frame, seated beside Roy):
"Mr. Roy, do you know anything about the Deep Ellum Duo?"
ROY (leans back, cigarette unstubbed, voice slow): "Do I know them?" (He smirks slightly.)"I know the sound of pins dropping when no lanes are open. I've seen dollar bills curl into ash without flame. Walter and Donnie... they weren't just crooks. They were entropy in polyester."
(The bar goes quieter. The camera zooms slightly, catching the glint in Roy's eyes.)
ROY (CONT'D): "They died under machinery, sure. But they didn't leave. Not really. They haunt the city—not out of vengeance, but out of habit. Like bad credit, they come back around."
(The lights flicker. A bowling pin sits ominously on the shelf behind the bar. It wasn't there a moment ago.)
ROY (quietly): "You want the rest? Come with me."
The Backstory of Bad Decisions
(ROY, his fingertips tapping the glass, his voice slow as molasses): "Most folks think ghosts wear sheets and rattle chains. But in this neighborhood, they wear clown paint and carry bowling pins like old grudges. Walter and Donnie weren't born mean—they grew into it like mold in a jukebox. Started with dirty money, then got creative with their crooked ways."
(The camera pans slightly. A beer glass slides an inch across the bar—no hands nearby. The bartender glances, says nothing.)
ROY: "Strikes & Spares Bowling Alley was their altar to bad decisions. The lanes? Didn't work. The shoes? Held together with hope and duct tape. They threw parties they couldn't pay for, drank beer they couldn't afford, and owed more than God forgives."
(Imagine a flicker of old photos—Walter laughing beside a busted pinsetter, Donnie throwing dice behind a stack of IOUs.)
The Fatal Night: October 12, 1978
ROY: "October 12th, 1978—some say it was the coldest night Deep Ellum ever saw. Not by weather… by fate. Lane Seven gave up that night. The machine seized. And instead of paying a tech, they decided to fix it themselves. Drunk. Loud. Confident like men who don't know they're about to meet the floor."
(A slow pan to a bowling pin resting in the corner. It wasn't there before.)
ROY (leans in, whispering now): "They say Walter climbed up into the rack like he was wrestling a ghost. Donnie, nervous little thing, tried guiding the reset arm below. The pinsetter dropped... and so did their story. Flattened like bad credit."
(A pause. Even the air seems to still.)
The Mockery of a Funeral
ROY: "The funeral? Oh, it wasn't a goodbye—it was theater. Jazz the artist got stiffed by those two, so when he was asked to 'make them presentable,' he grabbed clown paint and potato sacks. Their faces—mockery incarnate. Smiles stretched too wide, eyes painted in regret and rage."
(The bartender slowly lights a cigarette with a match. The smoke curls sideways, defying physics.)
The Haunting Continues
ROY (with weight now): "But they didn't stay buried. No sir. They come back every year, same night. October 12th.
You'll hear pins rolling in alleys with no lanes, smell stale beer in bars that don't serve it, find cash registers missing just $47.83—same amount they left behind."
REPORTER (off camera): "Are you saying the hauntings are still happening?"
ROY (smiles with no humor): "Didn't say it. Just told you what folks see. Two burlap sacks in the moonlight. Painted faces twisted by debt. One tall, one small. They follow folks who wear too much gold or talk too loud about stock portfolios."
(A distant sound—pins scattering across asphalt.)
ROY: "Deep Ellum remembers. It keeps score. And those two? They were the reckoning before the check arrived."
The Location Visit
(Cut to: The Alley Behind Where Strikes & Spares Once Stood. The reporter holds a mic tightly. Roy is now silhouetted in the sodium glow.)
REPORTER: "Is this where it happened?"
ROY: "No. This is where it keeps happening. Walter and Donnie didn't die in Deep Ellum. They died of it."
(Roy gestures to the brick wall. Scrawled across it in fading paint: "Closing Time!" The letters warp slightly in the camera lens—as if the wall itself rejects being captured.)
ROY (CONT'D): "Every October 12th, like clockwork. Lights flicker in the building that isn't here anymore. Rooms 20 and 3 light up—same ones they were found in. Same time. 3:02 AM."
CAMERAMAN (panicking slightly): "But that alley leads to a hotel now, right? It was rebuilt years ago."
ROY (voice deeper now, thicker): "You ever wonder why no one stays in those rooms twice? Why the boutique changed names four times in five years? Walter and Donnie don't haunt wood and drywall. They haunt debt. They haunt arrogance. And they never forget."
The Encounter
(Suddenly—the scene distorts. The street bends, lights elongate. A gust sweeps through that carries the scent of stale pretzels and spilled malt liquor. And then—voices. Off-camera. Wrong voices.)
UNKNOWN VOICE (high-pitched, giggling): "Customer service!"
UNKNOWN VOICE (gravelly, cold): "Time to collect…"
(The crew turns. Down the alley stand two figures. One tall, hunched like a collapsing chimney. One short, twitching like a busted jukebox. Burlap faces stitched and sagging. Bowling pins raised—not in sport, but in judgment.)
ROY (facing them calmly): "Evening, partners."
(The Duo pause. Their faces twitch. Donnie giggles—the sound like keys rattling inside a bird's ribcage. Walter tilts his head, his painted blue tears gleaming in the streetlight.)
REPORTER (trembling): "What do we do?"
ROY (with finality): "Offer them something. Loose change. A cold drink. An apology."
(Slowly, Roy pulls from his coat pocket—a single dollar bill, folded like a funeral prayer—and lays it on a warped bench beside the alley's shadow line.)
(The Duo stare. Then—without sound—they vanish. Not by movement. By absence.)
The Aftermath and Conclusion
(The news crew packs up. The anchor summarizes the story back in the studio, her face pale under makeup.)
ANCHOR: "Tonight, we heard a tale not written in headlines, but etched in alleyways. Whether you believe in the supernatural or not, one thing remains certain: the legend of the Deep Ellum Duo continues to captivate locals and visitors alike. Every October 12th, at 3:02 AM, some say you can still hear the sound of pins falling... and the echo of debts that will never be paid."
Follow-Up Coverage: A Living Legend
(Transition to a more reflective tone, as if reading from a newspaper article.)
NARRATOR (Voice of Leah Kincaid, Senior Cultural Correspondent, Dallas Chronicle):
"On the evening of October 12th, as the lights flickered across Elm Street and the shadows stretched long over pavement etched with music history and midnight regrets, our news team met a man whose voice could conjure ghosts more vividly than any camera ever could. His name is A. Jay F. Roy, and locals call him The Destined Teller of Tales. He doesn't just know stories—he embodies them. Seated at a quiet corner of a Deep Ellum bar, where the jukebox hasn't worked in years and the bartenders whisper before midnight, Roy agreed to tell us the tale of the Deep Ellum Duo. Not for fame. Not for entertainment. But because 'some legends deserve breath.'"
"He leaned in, swirling his glass slowly, as if stirring the past back to life. 'Walter and Donnie weren't just crooks,' he began. 'They were noise in human form.
Polyester saints of spite and bad decisions. They died under a pile of machinery they tried to sweet-talk into submission. And Deep Ellum never forgave—or forgot.'"
"From there, Roy wove a tale so vivid we swear the temperature dropped. He described how the Duo haunted the alleyways, not out of vengeance, but habit. How their painted clown faces emerged from burlap sacks stitched with old bar tabs. How bowling pins rolled down empty streets when the clock struck 3:02 AM—exactly the time their bodies were found, crushed beneath the greed they lived by. He spoke of 'Customer Service' spoken in unison, of registers mysteriously short $47.83, and of cold laughter echoing through boutique hotel corridors where Strikes & Spares once stood. 'They show up for the confident ones,' Roy told us.
'Businessmen. Realtors. Influencers in leather loafers. If you look rich, they'll look at you. And if you're in crisis? Well, that's when they lean in close.'"
"But what struck us most wasn't the ghosts—it was Roy. His delivery. His cadence. Each phrase layered with regional grit and poetic dread. It wasn't an interview. It was a ritual. At one point, the camera captured a bowling pin that hadn't been there before. The crew doesn't remember placing it."
The Echo Endures
"Since our segment aired, dozens have sent in their own sightings and memories. From rooftop pins to bursts of Donnie's giggle caught on recording devices, the legend continues. But more than that—Roy's voice continues.Retellings have emerged from college dorms to truck stops, each echoing his final words to us: 'Deep Ellum remembers. And so will you.'
They say folklore dies when its teller does. They clearly haven't met A. Jay F. Roy."
For more on the Deep Ellum Duo Click Link below