What makes dolls so creepy? To the point, in fact, cherished childhood playthings have become a staple of so many horror movies?
Consider the who’s who of frightening dolls that come to life on the big screen. We’re talking Chucky, Annabelle and, more recently, the technologically advanced M3GAN. That’s not to mention the dolls that appeared on the small screen. Remember Talky Tina on “The Twilight Zone?” The doll that does everything really does. Including warning an abusive stepfather she’s going to kill him and then making good on the promise.
As a writer who dabbles in what I’d like to believe are scary stories, I’m always looking for ways to twist my tales. I’ve already written about the ghostly crew of a doomed locomotive, a vengeful chef who makes killer pizzas and an automobile navigation system with the ability to peer into the future. What’s next? I remain equally vigilant for monsters that terrify not only the protagonists of my stories, but also the readers. Hopefully, at least a little. Preferably, a whole lot.
I found some inspiration on a recent Saturday night while watching the rerun of an old, made-for-TV movie titled “Trilogy of Terror.” For those unfamiliar with the movie, the 1975 production stars Karen Black in the leading roles in each of three segments. In the final segment, she portrays Amelia, a young woman who lives alone in a high-rise apartment building. The segment begins with her admiring the birthday gift she just purchased for her anthropologist boyfriend — a wooden fetish doll depicting a fierce warrior with long black hair, pointy white teeth and a spear. A scroll warns the doll contains the evil spirit of a Zuni hunter, but a gold chain encircling the doll keeps the spirit trapped within. It’s not long before the chain falls off, of course.
What ensues has been described as the scariest 25 minutes of TV as a 13-inch-tall fetish doll grabs a kitchen knife and attacks Amelia despite her best efforts to drown the doll in a bathtub, trap it in a suitcase and stab it with a screwdriver. Amelia believes she’s finally safe after tossing the doll into an oven and watching it burn. Spoiler alert: she’s wrong.
Another doll. Another blood-curdling confrontation.
Maybe dolls become so frightening when playthings intended to foster joy and security instead turn malicious, shattering the expectations of safety. Perhaps a vestige of superstition lingers from a time when dolls were used in rituals and believed to offer links to the supernatural.
There’s also that unsettling foray into the uncanny valley. That’s the term for the psychological reaction to an object that looks almost human, but its lack of life makes us feel uneasy. In graphing the response to objects that appear human, comfort initially rises with realism, but then plunges as brains detect mismatches that trigger apprehension. One study found people were particularly unnerved by objects they believed had the ability to sense and experience things.
That explains why millions of moviegoers and TV viewers react the way they do to dolls that come to life. As well as the widespread fear of dolls, puppets and mannequins. That sweating, shortness of breath and sense of dread you experience could be pediophobia.
More than 50 years after the fact, I still recall the ambivalence I felt about the doll in my grandparents’ mountain cabin.
Ella was ancient even then, attired in a long green dress and matching bonnet. She perched on a swing suspended from one end of the ridge beam that ran the length of the one-room log cabin. In the bright light of day, Ella’s hand-drawn face peered out from under her bonnet, her eyes and smile warm and genial. Illuminated at night by the amber glow of a kerosene lantern, she looked different. Less friendly and more ominous. Were those shadows flickering across her face? Or did her innocent smile suddenly turn into a knowing leer?
I swear there were times I’d wake up to a creak, creak, creak that kept pace with the old clock that ticked away the small hours of the night. I’d look up from my bed and watch Ella swing.
I’m sure it was the wind that blew through holes in the chinking between logs or slipped through the gaps around the single-pane windows that pushed Ella on her swing. Surely Ella couldn’t swing on her own. Could she?