Let me ask you, when was the last time you found a puppet cute?
And when was the last time you found a puppet creepy?
Puppets are a popular subject in horror, particularly in the weird horror tradition of Thomas Ligotti (see “The Clown Puppet” and many of his nightmarish stories), as well as his literary successors Jon Padgett (Secrets of Ventriloquism), Justin Burnett (The Puppet King and Other Atonements), and Gemma Files (“The Puppet Motel” from In That Endlessness, Our End). There are numerous other examples, too (Goosebumps’ Night of the Living Dummy, anyone?), because there is something just downright spooky about puppets that speaks to a sensibility of dread.
But why is that?
Like clowns, puppets are often associated with children’s entertainment. That already sets up an expectation of innocence—and innocence perverted in some way is bound to disturb us. But with puppets it’s also much more than this. There’s a whole philosophy around the horror of puppets based on mimicry and emptiness:
Puppets mimic humans. They are smaller models of ourselves. So, like with dolls, there is an element of the uncanny valley at play with something that is both like us and not like us.
Yet puppets are also, importantly, empty. They have no will or soul of their own and must wait for a puppeteer or ventriloquist to bring them to life. There is something existentially disturbing about this idea, about the emptiness within that shell, and what might fill it.
These two things coupled together—mimicry and emptiness—ask us to look inward. Are we empty? What makes us us? How do we know we are not merely brought to life by some alien or godlike puppeteers? What makes us alive, and the puppet not? And when, someday, we die, and our bodies become empty, will we be even more like the puppet?
Jon Padgett explains it best:
But it is not the dummy’s uncanny movements that are, by themselves, frightening. It is when the dummy is inert—perhaps sitting on a chair by itself after the show is over—that the real shivers begin. We know those staring, vacant dummy eyes can move back and forth. We know that still dummy head can swivel. We know that closed dummy mouth can open. We know that silent dummy can talk. What’s more, we now expect to see these signs of life even when the ventriloquist is nowhere to be found. The sight of a motionless ventriloquist dummy may drive us insane if we stare at it long enough, just as staring too long at a dead human corpse might. Somehow we are afraid (or perhaps hope) that both dummy and corpse will suddenly move again. And this fear (or desire) might make us wonder, consciously or subconsciously, whether our own animation (both physical and mental) is as artificial as the dummy’s.
[…] Aren’t we all terrified to one degree or another by our own inevitable dummyhood?
The next time you go see a puppet show, just remember: that puppet up there, dancing and performing for your entertainment? That puppet, with its glassy eyes and fixed smile, exaggerating the movements a human might make?
That puppet could be you.
How to Sell a Haunted House
This month’s book pick is How to Sell a Haunted House by Grady Hendrix.
When Louise’s parents die in a car crash, she travels 3,000 miles back home to reconnect with her estranged brother Mark, bury their parents, and sell their house. The only catch? The house might be haunted. At the very least, they need to figure out what to do with their mother’s collection of dolls and puppets… and one puppet in particular: the creepy clown called Pupkin, who has terrorized both Louise and Mark their whole lives.
The book is a bit madcap, in signature Grady Hendrix fashion, but I was hooked by the way the story reveals its layers as we get deeper into the mystery of this family. I also appreciated how the book was organized into parts based on the stages of grief. Ultimately, the book is not only an examination of grief, sibling rivalry, and the longing for childhood innocence, but it’s also a critique of the desire to coddle children and shield them from the reality of death.
Plus, you know, there are creepy dolls and puppets.
In the sudden silence, the dolls felt restless. The ones pressing against the glass doors of the doll cabinet felt like they’d just stopped moving. One of the German Dolly-Faced Dolls on the shelf looked like she’d frozen in the middle of lifting one arm. A clown on the back of the couch looked like he could barely hold in his giggles. They were patient. They were sly. They outnumbered her. (Hendrix 32)
Pairs best with…
The perfect pairing for this book is the Cotton Candy Cocktail. After all, it nicely perverts childhood innocence (cotton candy) with alcohol. Plus, clowns and cotton candy seem to go together like poison and a skull with crossbones.
However, I noticed in my journey through the booze-net that every single recipe for such a drink is different. It would appear that no two cotton candy cocktails are exactly the same. So I did what I usually do with recipes: looked at a bunch of different ones and combined the best of what I found.
The result is my own version of the Cotton Candy Cocktail. And for the first time, I made a video to show you how to make it and do a taste test. You can find the recipe below the video.
(Sorry for the low-res—my video editor husband is probably cringing—but don’t worry, I’ll have better equipment on hand next month!)
Ingredients
2 oz vodka (I said in the video this is two shots, but a shot is actually 1.5 oz, so mine was… a little strong)
One ball of cotton candy
Cream soda
Lemon
Directions
In a cocktail or martini glass, add a small ball of cotton candy. (Or a large ball. I’m not your mom.)
Pour vodka over the cotton candy, then top with cream soda. (I recommend a 1-to-2 ratio of liquor to mixer.)
Add a squeeze of lemon and garnish with a lemon slice.
Get drunk on childhood nostalgia, and stay away from clown puppets.
Writing Update
First things first:
I WON AN AWARD!!!!!
(Sorry for all the exclamation marks, but this is the first writing award I’ve ever won)
When the Night Bells Ring is the winner of the Bronze Medal for Horror in the 2023 Independent Publisher Book Awards. If you haven’t gotten a chance to check out the book yet, click the button below. It’s available in hardcover, ebook (only $3.49), or large print, with paperback coming this fall.
Okay, aside from all that, what am I working on?
I’ve recently finished a short story for a haunted house anthology that will be coming out in October. The story centers on a haunted nursery circa 1918, when a pregnant woman is isolating due to the flu pandemic. She begins communicating with something through the toys in the nursery as she fixes it up, all the while feeling ill at ease by the patterns in the rug, by the house’s big empty space, and by her fear of the flu. The story pays homage to “The Yellow Wallpaper,” which is one of my favorites. Keep an eye out for more info on this super cool anthology soon!
I also just finished edits for a story in another forthcoming anthology that was inspired by the experience of receiving ChatGPT written work from several students. The story is very much an academic’s rage and despair at having to contend with AI.
You know what I’ve just realized? This year will see my 50th short story published! I started sporadically publishing short fiction in 2011, but I didn’t really ramp up until about 2017. I know writers who are much more prolific than I am, but this feels like a milestone worth celebrating. You can find my full short fiction (and poetry) bibliography, with links, on my website.
About Me
Jo Kaplan is the author of the horror novels IT WILL JUST BE US and WHEN THE NIGHT BELLS RING. Her short stories have appeared in Fireside Quarterly, Black Static, Nightmare Magazine, Vastarien, Horror Library, Nightscript, and a variety of award-nominated anthologies (sometimes as Joanna Parypinski). Find her at jo-kaplan.com.
Brilliant! As the master said,
Mere puppets they, who come and go
—POE
(An epigraph I used for a poem. It's from Poe's "Conqueror Worm.")
Congratulations on the well-deserved award!