Come Celebrate With Us

dolls-ala-mode

TIL that literally everything can be made creepy with dolls.

Did I ever tell you guys about the time we were driving through South Jerseylike, deep deep South Jerseyand saw a community of people decorating their properties by nailing dolls to trees? It wasn’t Halloween or anything; it was like July. We stopped for a yard sale at one and saw they had dolls nailed to the house, too.

Anyway these things are just doll catalogs, but I’d like to imagine they’re coffee-table books for the sort of person who’d nail a doll to their house.

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I Heard You Like Haunted Dolls

melting-baby-doll

“Yessssss,” Mr. Pigsnucker said, as he dug the doll out of his backyard and brushed the remains of its former owner off of it. “Someone will definitely want to buy this.”

(The weird thing is when you press its hand, it just says “I hate Mondays.”)

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It’s a World of Tears

its-a-small-world-dolls

The only thing creepier than the animatronic dolls from the “it’s a small world” ride at Disney are the dolls you can take home with you to LIVE IN YOUR HOUSE.

…Like these guys have, for the past year or so, lived in my house. I can’t remember if I’ve shared them before, but since they’ll soon be entering the Yard Sale Catch and Release Program (credit: Yard Sale Bloodbath), I figured it was time. I’ve been terrorizing guests with them long enough; it’s someone else’s turn.

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Bury it Deep

I visited a sale yesterday that was in someone’s house (which always sets off my creeper alarm, but at least this time the door was open). A man walks out of it as I approach:

“You’re too late,” he tells me.

“Huh?” I respond. Too late for what?

“You’re too late. It’s not yours.”

It’s 9:23 in the morning. I look around, thinking maybe the yardsale was yesterday, and this guy wants me to get the HELL off his porch? But no, that pile of soiled Beanie Babies in the living room suggests otherwise, sir. I respond again with: “…huh?”

“You’re too late for this. It’s not yours.” I still don’t know what the hell he’s talking about until he starts shaking the ratty old computer chair he’s carrying out of the house.

“HAH HAH HAH!” I respond, a little too loudly. You’re making a hilarious joke! I get it. I smile, to make sure he knows I get it. He glares at me in return, then pushes past, muttering something under his breath about how the chair was his, goddammit. This is WHY I don’t talk to strangers, in case you’re wondering.

Apropos of nothing, I found this inside (next to the Beanie Babies):

partially-rotted-doll

…Yeah, I’m thinking that one can go right back to the graveyard where they found it.