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That’s the viral Labubu doll, a zoomorphic creature with nine sharp teeth and a scruffy face. The hashtag #Labubu has racked up millions of views, and videos of people unboxing, collecting, or warning about these dolls have dominated FYPs from New York to Bangkok. It’s not just hype—a 1.2-metre mint-green Labubu sold at auction in Beijing for $170,000 in June 2025. What’s the secret sauce that makes something as simple as a plush toy the center of a global social media frenzy—and the source of so much fear and controversy?
Labubu started as the creation of Hong Kong illustrator Kasing Lung, who introduced the character in 2015. Labubu, along with its “tribe” called The Monsters, was inspired by Nordic folklore and features a mischievous, slightly fierce look: oversized ears, wide eyes, and a devilish toothy grin. Pop Mart, a fast-growing Chinese retailer, picked up the licensing in 2019, turning Labubu into a blind-box collectible. By 2025, they had released more than 300 different Labubu figurines, from $15 vinyl minis to $960 “mega” plushes, not counting rare pieces auctioned for six-figure sums. In just the first half of 2025, Pop Mart reported $670 million in revenue from Labubu and The Monsters, accounting for over a third of the company’s total sales. That’s more than twice the annual GDP of some small Pacific island nations.
The appeal is obvious: each Labubu blind box is a surprise, with rare “secret” figures thrown in. Scarcity stokes the rush—unboxing videos feature screams of delight and bitter disappointment. Celebrity endorsements only add fuel: Rihanna, Cher, and Blackpink’s Lisa have all been spotted with Labubu accessories, rocketing demand in East and Southeast Asia, especially Thailand, the Philippines, and Singapore. In October 2024, collectible Labubus even appeared as “devotees” in Singapore’s Nine Emperor Gods Festival, drawing huge crowds of young fans to the temple and sparking debate about pop culture in religious spaces.
As Labubu mania exploded on TikTok, so did rumors that the dolls were cursed, possessed, or even connected to demonic forces. By early 2025, conspiracy theories about Labubu’s origins were trending on TikTok and Reddit. Some users—without evidence—claimed Labubu’s distinctive smile imitated the ancient Mesopotamian demon Pazuzu. Others posted viral videos of themselves burning, smashing, or destroying their dolls to ward off bad luck. Pakistani actress Mishi Khan publicly warned that Labubu might attract negative spiritual energy or jinn, echoing widespread rumors but not citing direct proof. Designers and cultural analysts pushed back, insisting that Labubu’s look was rooted in European folklore, not any occult symbolism.
In July 2025, authorities in Iraq’s Kurdistan Region announced a ban on Labubu dolls following media reports and social media speculation about the figures. In Russia, lawmakers criticized Labubu dolls, raising concerns about their appearance and the lack of Russian-language labeling, and pointed to complaints that the toys caused fear in kids.
These anxieties didn’t start in a vacuum. Labubu’s design—fuzzy body, jagged grin, and “ugly-cute” vibe—reminds many of haunted dolls from global folklore. Annabelle, the Raggedy Ann doll said to be haunted and kept in Ed and Lorraine Warren’s Occult Museum, became famous as the inspiration for The Conjuring movies. Robert, a doll on display in Key West’s East Martello Museum, is another notorious example—rumored to move on its own and curse those who disrespect it. On TikTok, videos explaining these legends often get stitched with Labubu unboxings, fueling theories that the toy “channels” the same supernatural energy.
The hype also unleashed a wave of counterfeits. So-called “Lafufu” dolls began flooding the market, sometimes featuring more than nine teeth (a telltale sign), blurry QR codes, and no Pop Mart branding. Some collectors even started hunting Lafufu versions for their oddball appeal. Pop Mart responded with lawsuits, including legal action against 7-Eleven in California for selling fakes. Quality concerns cropped up too: in April 2026, The New York Times reported that some Labubu dolls contained Xinjiang cotton, which is banned under the Uyghur Forced Labor Prevention Act.
On top of that, Pop Mart’s blind box business model—where you don’t know what figure you’re buying until you open the box—has drawn fierce criticism. Editorials in The Verge and The Times called out this artificial scarcity, arguing it pushes buyers, especially young fans, into compulsive spending and obsessive collecting. The emotional high of the “unbox” can quickly spiral into frustration and financial stress when fans chase rare variants or try to complete a set. Critics have labeled the trend a form of modern consumer “idolatry,” pointing out how social media amplifies envy and FOMO as fans post their wins and losses online.
Fights over Labubu have even happened in real life. In May 2025, Pop Mart temporarily pulled Labubu from all 16 of its UK stores after customers clashed in shopping malls trying to get the latest figure. The demand was so intense that the company’s website crashed at least once due to high traffic. In Thailand, the Labubu craze bled into religious culture: 2024 saw the rise of Labubu Buddhist amulets and sacred tattoos, with some Thais believing the doll could bring luck and wealth. These practices drew their own criticism from Buddhist monks and skeptics, who questioned whether it was appropriate to treat a commercial toy as an object of spiritual power.
Meanwhile, global news coverage amplified the cycle. The New York Times, CNN, and BBC reported on the phenomenon, with The New York Times comparing Labubu’s “chaotic-cute” appeal to characters like Stitch from Lilo & Stitch and Toothless from How to Train Your Dragon. In 2025, Labubu even made a cameo in an episode of South Park, where the dolls became more expensive because of tariffs and were parodied as Satanic ritual items.
Who’s really affected by the cursed doll trend? Collectors, obviously—especially young people who feel pressured to keep up with viral content and limited drops. Parents and educators worry about the psychological impact of the scary stories and the materialism behind obsessive collecting. Religious and cultural leaders debate whether Labubu’s presence in rituals and temples is a creative way to engage youth or a disrespectful commercialization of tradition. Retailers and brands face backlash over counterfeits, quality issues, and accusations of promoting unhealthy consumer habits.
Is the criticism justified? On one side, concerns about overconsumption, counterfeit goods, and the distress caused by curse rumors are rooted in real incidents—fights, website crashes, and reported bans. The psychological impact on especially young children, who might be frightened by the dolls or swayed by online rumors, is difficult to dismiss. On the other hand, claims of actual curses, demonic possession, or supernatural harm remain firmly in the realm of rumor and urban legend. Designers and analysts have repeatedly denied any occult intent, and the doll’s folklore-inspired look is not unique in toy history.
The community is still debating several big issues. Should social media platforms do more to limit misinformation about toys and viral trends? Is it ethical for brands like Pop Mart to use scarcity and blind boxes to drive massive sales—and should there be stricter age limits or spending caps? Are bans on “scary” toys legitimate public health measures, or just overreactions to internet panic? And in cultures where toys cross into ritual or spiritual life, who gets to decide what’s appropriate?
In 2024, collectible Labubu dolls appeared as “devotees” in Singapore’s Nine Emperor Gods Festival, drawing huge crowds and sparking debate about the intersection of pop culture and religious tradition.