Gah!

[lapsedmodernist]

For all you aspiring home decorators, here's an idea if you want to scare the shit out of your guests.

Who is your favorite? My favorite is Mother's Pride # 2 and Blue Boy #2. Blue Boy # 1 sucks, but if you can make sense of this description, you get a prize:
Blue denim cap, blue denim top, blue denim jean, blue bunny. This boy is blue #2 so he is going to stand in the corner.

Comments

[fatangryroses.livejournal.com]

Little Boy Blue.

Eeek. I think that is ultra-creepy personally. Plus the hair looks soooo fake. They could at least use real human hair!

[lapsedmodernist.livejournal.com]

They could at least use real human hair!

That would make it extra-creepy! More so than it is already, obviously. Who the fuck would buy this?

wellwellwell; you call them time out dolls

[tomorrow-devil.livejournal.com]

I used to play D&D with this guy Chris M who lived in Manassas. We rarely played over his house because his parents were some kind of Christian and they thought D&D was of the devil. The first time I went over there, I saw these dolls.
As a matter of fact I've seen a few houses with these dolls. Ey, they're just weird, and bee, they literally haunt you. The first time you see any particular doll, you inevitably think it's a real little kid. It's best to just never return to homes that exhibit dolls like that, especially ones where the doll marms are brave enough to put their golems in plain sight.
Repeated exposure does nothing for the terribleness. I, at least, never got sufficiently numbed to the M's dolls, which were in the living room leaning on the back of the sofa. When you sat on the sofa, the fact that you knew that they were right there behind you didn't help. Eventually there came an occasion where I was left alone in the living room. The lack of qualia, yet the persistent, quieted semblance of a living child, was more horrible than the first-time confusion.
The M's dolls were at their least terrifying when I was liquored up. After dozens of encounters, I finally had the courage to smack them around a little bit. But only in passing - I knew that if I moved them too much, Chris's parents would notice and then accuse him of having someone over. Worse, my drunkeness made me feel sympathetic towards the dolls and I didn't have the heart to hit the pitiful little golems more than a few times each.
After that, I started wondering about their agency (but not in so many words). There's a certain cold spark that these "time out" dolls have, like motionless intelligence; or a three-dimensional snapshot of a human child. Albeit, I don't like mannequins, which would probably make me nervous in a dark room, but man . . . those dolls honestly bug the fuck out of me.