Analysis: Memes, TikTok and anime collectors have turned the big-eyed doll from collectible toy to cursed object with a spooky back-story
Every so often in the shimmering landfill of internet culture, something crawls out that perfectly embodies our collective psyche. Sometimes it's a meme. Sometimes it's a conspiracy. And sometimes, just to keep things fresh, it’s a small, snaggle-toothed doll that people start setting on fire.
Enter Labubu, the eerily charming, big-eyed toy with a grin like it knows your browser history and teeth that would give a dentist nightmares. Created by Hong Kong-born artist Kasing Lung and mass-produced by POP MART, Labubu was part of Lung's story series The Monsters, which was influenced by the Nordic folklore and mythology that he enjoyed during his childhood in the Netherlands and Belgium.
Introduced in 2015 as a collectible designer toy, Labubu was cute. It was creepy. It was limited edition. And like many things that are both adorable and unnerving, the internet decided it must be possessed. And that’s when things got... folkloric.
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From RTÉ Radio 1's Today with Claire Byrne, all you need to know about the Labubu craze
Let’s start at the beginning, or, at least, a plausible beginning. Labubu was never meant to be evil. It was mischievous, sure, but in the same way puppies are mischievous: chaotic neutral. With its oversized head, tiny limbs and a grin that screams 'impish tax evasion', Labubu became an object of desire for collectors around the world. Each version, pirate, fairy, wizard, or inexplicably dressed as a carrot, only fuelled the fervour.
Then came the whispers. "Labubu moved on its own", someone said." I woke up with scratches and bruises". "My Labubu changed its appearance". In certain corners of the internet, sharp-eyed users noticed a resemblance to Pazuzu, a notorious demon from Mesopotamian myth. Pazuzu is not exactly the kind of guest you’d invite to a tea party. Historically, he’s been associated with storms and drought, but ironically symbolizes protection amidst chaos.
Nevertheless, TikTok began to swirl with tales of Labubu hauntings. One story which emerged is that the stuffing used to make the first batch of Labubu dolls was housed in the same warehouse in Iraq used to store archaeological artifacts such as Pazuzu Idols. The story goes that dust from a shattered idol ended up in the burlap sack that contained the Labubu stuffing.
From POP MART, interview with Labubu creator Kasing Lung
Like digital wildfire, the story spread. The Labubu doll wasn't just a designer figure anymore. It was a demon. A darling of darkness. The plaything of the algorithmic underworld.
As is tradition in the age of viral panic, people began burning them. Watching someone dramatically torch a designer toy on TikTok is surreal. It's also… weirdly logical. Fire has always been our species’ go-to for purification. When in doubt, torch it. Medieval witches? Fire. Fairy changelings? Fire. That box you kept under your bed with photos of your ex? Big Fire.
But burning a doll like Labubu isn’t just a safety measure. It’s a performance, a public ritual. A way to say, "I reject this cursed idol and also, please like and subscribe." It blends superstition with spectacle, and in doing so, it scratches two very modern itches: the fear that we are being haunted by forces beyond our control, and the need to broadcast that fear in high definition.
Here’s the thing: folklore used to marinate. It took generations for a story to become a legend, for a spirit to gain a name, for a ritual to be carved into tradition. Now? All it takes is one 15-second video, an eerie soundtrack and a filter.
Labubu’s metamorphosis from collectible to cursed object wasn’t orchestrated by a cult, a government or a religious order. It was TikTok moms and anime collectors. It was meme pages and unboxers. Digital folklore doesn’t come from above—it’s conjured laterally, sideways, virally. It replicates like a virus and mutates just as fast. One day, it’s "that weird, cute toy." The next it is possessed by a demon. And the thing is: everyone plays along. Some with tongue in cheek, some with actual incense and salt circles.
Let’s be honest: we want Labubu to be cursed. We want our mass-produced plastic to mean something more than "I impulsively bought this at 2am". We want narrative and we want magic. In a world where news feels indistinguishable from satire and every app is screaming at us, a haunted doll feels... quaint. It's also useful: Labubu becomes a proxy, a convenient vessel into which we can pour all the jittery nonsense of the now.
From Meme Culture, what secrets is the Labubu doll hiding?
Global warming? Economic instability? Late-stage capitalism eating itself like a snake with an MBA? Too big, too abstract. But a tiny goblin doll that’s maybe-possibly-possessed? That we can deal with. That we can post about. Burning Labubu isn’t about destroying a demon. It’s about reclaiming a tiny sliver of control over a world that feels increasingly haunted by unseen forces. It’s an exorcism of our own helplessness, filmed in 4K and set to ominous trap beats.
Part of Labubu’s power lies in its design. It’s not quite cute, but not quite creepy. It hovers in the uncanny valley wearing a bunny suit. Its eyes are too wide, its smile too sharp. It’s adorable, but in a way that makes you instinctively want to lock the door before you sleep.
This is not accidental. We are drawn to things that are both charming and unsettling, clowns, Victorian dolls, Furby, remember him? He also endured his fair share of suspicion. Labubu is perfectly engineered for myth. It teeters on the edge of believability, inviting stories to attach themselves to it like lint. And the stories came.
The haunted doll isn't a threat; it’s a symptom. A tiny, toothy scream from the subconscious of the internet
Labubu is a product, but it has become a totem, a digital age tulpa created through mass belief, irony and deeply repressed dread. It is the perfect urban legend for our time: mysterious yet purchasable, demonic yet collectible, feared and highly re-sellable on eBay.
In this, it mirrors us. We too are contradictory. We laugh at the idea of a haunted doll even as we pause before placing it on the nightstand. We play along, because the act of pretending, even just a little, makes the absurd feel manageable. We burn the doll, and in doing so, we signal to the universe that we're still in on the joke, still capable of ritual, still trying to make sense of the senseless.
Labubu isn’t cursed, but we might well be—by speed, by content and by an endless scroll that churns narrative into trend and back again before lunch. The haunted doll isn’t a threat; it’s a symptom. A tiny, toothy scream from the subconscious of the internet.
And so we watch, and we laugh, and we share. And some of us light a match. After all, what else are you going to do with your existential dread? Collect it?
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The views expressed here are those of the author and do not represent or reflect the views of RTÉ
