Zombie Girl

Zombie Girl Handmade Zombie dolls, customized to your liking. All of my dolls are approximately 22 in tall and are $75 each. They come with a story and a death certificate.

Message me for fabric samples and lets design your very own Zombie đź’ś

Lyuba was a Romani-style gypsy traveler doll, crafted with immense care decades ago. She wore a vibrant, tiered aqua ski...
06/03/2026

Lyuba was a Romani-style gypsy traveler doll, crafted with immense care decades ago. She wore a vibrant, tiered aqua skirt made of crimson silk and emerald velvet, a sequined lace shawl draped over her waist, and miniature golden hoop earrings that jingled whenever the shop door opened.
While some dolls in the shop were vain or resentful of their dusty shelves, Lyuba was entirely full of love. She didn't possess magic that could turn lead into gold, but she possessed a different kind of sorcery—an endless reservoir of warmth and empathy.
Every night, when the antique shop owner locked the front door and the moon cast long shadows across the floor, the shop came alive. The other trinkets would often complain about their aches or the lack of sophisticated buyers. Lyuba, however, would hop down from her shelf, her golden earrings softly chiming, to visit anyone who needed comfort.
She sat with a cracked porcelain ballerina, whispering stories of grand, imaginary theaters where imperfections made the dance even more beautiful.
She listened patiently to an old, grumpy pocket watch that had lost its gears, assuring him that his history was still precious.
Lyuba’s heart was so vast that she loved the very dust motes dancing in the moonlight. She believed with every fiber of her cotton stuffing that her purpose was to wander, to connect, and to heal. She just needed a companion to wander with.
One rainy Tuesday afternoon, the shop door chimed, and a young girl named Mae entered with her grandmother. Mae was a quiet child, her eyes fixed firmly on the floorboards. Her family had recently moved to the city, leaving behind everything familiar, and Mae felt entirely adrift and lonely.
As her grandmother browsed the jewelry cases, Mae wandered toward the back of the shop. That was when she saw Lyuba.
Lyuba sat propped against a stack of vintage postcards. To anyone else, she was just an old doll with shiny button eyes. But to Mae, she looked like a secret waiting to be shared. Mae reached out and gently picked her up.
In that instant, though she couldn't speak aloud, Lyuba poured every ounce of her stored-up love into the interaction. Mae felt a sudden, inexplicable wave of comfort wash over her—like a warm hug on a freezing day.
"She feels like she knows me," Mae whispered to herself, tracing the edge of Lyuba’s lace shawl.
The grandmother smiled when she saw the doll in Mae's hands, noticing the immediate change in her granddaughter's posture. A few minutes later, Lyuba was wrapped in soft tissue paper and placed into a brown paper bag. Her days on the antique shelf were over.
That night, in Mae's new, unfamiliar bedroom, Lyuba was given the place of honor right on the pillow. As Mae drifted off to sleep, she hugged the little doll tightly.
Lyuba looked out at the strange new room through her shiny button eyes. She no longer had an entire shop of antiques to look after, but she had a new, grander mission. She was a traveler, after all, and she had finally found the person who needed her love the most. She spent the night casting a quiet, protective warmth over the room, ensuring that Mae’s dreams were filled with bright colors, open roads, and the sweet certainty that she was never truly alone.
Available $75

Deep within the heart of the Whispering Woods, where the sunbeams filtered through the canopy like spun gold, lived a ti...
06/01/2026

Deep within the heart of the Whispering Woods, where the sunbeams filtered through the canopy like spun gold, lived a tiny elf fairy named Pip. Pip loved nature more than anything else in the world. While other fairies preferred the safety of the high treetops, Pip spent her days down among the mossy roots, chatting with crickets and racing with field mice.
Pip was a striking sight to see. She had beautiful, glistening eyes that looked just like polished obsidian buttons, twinkling with endless curiosity and mischief. Her outfit was a celebration of her favorite forest colors: a vibrant, bright orange dress made from spun silk-weed threads, overlaid with delicate floral lace that she had woven herself from wild jasmine petals. Wherever she went, she looked like a cheerful burst of autumn sun moving through the green forest floor.
Every morning, Pip’s favorite ritual was to greet the flora and fauna. She would fly from bloom to bloom, gently tapping the drooping petals of the bluebells to wake them up, or using a tiny droplet of morning dew to soothe a sun-baked fern.
One afternoon, while she was helping a family of lost ladybugs find their way back to a rosebush, Pip noticed that the great ancient oak tree at the center of the grove looked sad. Its leaves, usually a rich emerald green, were curling at the edges and losing their luster. The oak tree was the heart of the forest; if it was suffering, all of nature would suffer too.
Pip flew up to the lowest branch, her bright orange dress fluttering in the breeze. She pressed her hand against the rough bark and closed her shiny button eyes, listening closely. She could hear a faint, distressed hum deep within the trunk. A blockage of thick, dark moss had choked off the natural spring flowing beneath the tree's deepest roots.
Determined to save her beloved woods, Pip zipped down into the narrow, dark cavern beneath the oak tree. Her glistening eyes adjusted quickly to the shadows. Using the sturdy lace of her dress to tie back her hair, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. With the help of a few friendly earthworms she called upon, Pip carefully untangled and cleared away the suffocating moss, bit by bit.
It was hard, messy work, but Pip didn't care about getting her beautiful dress dirty. After hours of effort, a sudden whoosh echoed through the cavern. The clear, magical spring water broke free, rushing over the roots once more.
Pip flew back up to the surface just as the ancient oak let out a deep, rustling sigh of relief. Within moments, life surged back into the tree. Its leaves unfurled, shining brighter than ever before, and a gentle breeze carried a shower of golden acorns down to the forest floor.
The other woodland creatures cheered, gathering around the brave little fairy. Though her bright orange dress was now smudged with dirt and her floral lace had a few twigs caught in it, Pip’s button eyes glistened with pure happiness. She had protected the nature she loved so dearly, and the forest, in turn, would always be her home.
Available $75

The attic was quiet, save for the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of a grandfather clock downstairs, but inside the forgotten ce...
05/29/2026

The attic was quiet, save for the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of a grandfather clock downstairs, but inside the forgotten cedar chest, a tiny world was waking up.
Her name was Bramble, a doll stitched together from forest magic and a little bit of human imagination. Unlike the plastic toys downstairs that clicked and beeped, Bramble was made of the woods themselves. Her dress was a masterpiece of nature: a bodice woven from deep green moss, a layered skirt made of real skeleton leaves that rustled like paper when she moved, and a soft collar of white clover blossoms.
Spilling over her shoulders was a thick mane of spun-white yarn hair, braided with tiny twigs and secured with a single blade of dried grass. But her most breathtaking feature hung from her back. Bramble possessed a pair of translucent, iridescent wings, patterned exactly like a dragonfly’s but shimmering with a faint, warm golden light.
And, like all the most special dolls in the attic, her face told a story. Instead of painted eyes, she had two shiny white buttons.
Bramble blinked her button eyes and stretched her linen arms. Tonight was a special night. The moon was full, streaming through the dusty attic window and casting a long silver beam right onto the floorboards.
"Time to fly," Bramble whispered, her voice sounding like wind rushing through pine needles.
With a gentle flutter, her dragonfly wings hummed to life. She lifted out of the cedar chest, hovering a few inches in the air, leaving a faint trail of golden glitter in her wake.
Her mission tonight was important. The attic was home to many forgotten things, and sometimes, those things got lonely. Bramble flew across the room, landing softly on the edge of a dusty, cracked porcelain teacup. Inside the cup sat a small, rusted tin soldier who had lost his key and couldn't move.
"Hello, Arthur," Bramble said softly.
The soldier couldn't speak, but his painted eyes looked up at her filled with sadness.
Bramble smiled. She reached into her mossy bodice and pulled out a tiny drop of glowing morning dew, which she had captured on a dock leaf earlier that week. She tilted her hand, letting the magical droplet fall directly into the soldier's rusted keyhole.
Click.
With a soft mechanical whir, the soldier’s arm lifted in a stiff but proud salute. A tiny smile seemed to touch his painted lips.
"Thank you, Lady Bramble," a small, tinny voice squeaked.
"Keep watch tonight, Arthur," she replied with a wink.
Bramble took to the air again, looping gracefully under the rafters. She spent the rest of the night bringing little touches of the outside world to the indoor realm. She breathed life into a dried rosebud kept in an old scrapbook, making it bloom freshly all over again. She danced with the dust motes in the moonlight, turning them into glowing fireflies that illuminated the dark corners for the shy stuffed animals hiding under the eaves.
As the first blue light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, Bramble’s wings began to slow, their golden glow dimming. Nature’s magic was tied to the sun and the moon, and it was time for her to rest.
She fluttered back down into the cedar chest, smoothing out her leaf skirt and settling her golden yarn hair. As her button eyes closed for the day, she smelled the faint scent of pine and fresh rain—a reminder that no matter how long she lived in the attic, the magic of the wild would always be alive inside her.
Available $75

The air at the Meadowlands Music Festival smelled like crushed clover and woodsmoke, but Marley Moon smelled like patcho...
05/14/2026

The air at the Meadowlands Music Festival smelled like crushed clover and woodsmoke, but Marley Moon smelled like patchouli and pure sunshine.
With a quick shake of her head, Marley’s chestnut-brown hair caught the stage lights, revealing the secret hidden in her tresses: vivid streaks of electric blue, fiery orange, and deep violet. It was a literal rainbow crown that bounced every time she skipped toward the front row.
Marley didn't just dress for the weather; she dressed for the vibe. Her outfit was a carefully curated tribute to the golden age of groove.
Before the headliners took the stage, Marley took a detour to the "Healing Grove," a patch of ancient oaks at the edge of the festival grounds. While others were scrolling on their phones between sets, Marley was busy pressing her palm against the bark of a white oak.
"The trees have the best rhythm," she’d tell anyone who asked. "They’ve been swaying to the wind long before we brought the speakers."
She spent an hour braiding wild daisies into her fringe, turning her jacket into a living garden. To Marley, nature wasn't just a backdrop; it was the lead singer.
As the sun began to dip, the bass of the funk-rock band Solar Flare started to thrum through the grass. Marley didn't just walk toward the sound—she vibrated toward it.
She hit the center of the crowd just as the drummer broke into a heavy, syncopated beat. Marley closed her eyes behind her cool shades and let go. The fringe on her arms whipped through the air like rhythmic streamers. Every time she jumped, the rainbow streaks in her hair flashed like a neon sign under the strobes.
She wasn't just watching the concert; she was part of the frequency. Between the dirt beneath her bells and the stars above her head, Marley Moon was exactly where she belonged—right in the middle of the magic.
Available $75

Deep within the Great Pyramid of Giza—specifically in the "extra-cozy" sub-basement—lived a mummy girl named Mila.Unlike...
05/11/2026

Deep within the Great Pyramid of Giza—specifically in the "extra-cozy" sub-basement—lived a mummy girl named Mila.
Unlike the other ancient residents who spent their days moaning about the humidity or complaining about their stiff joints, Mila was a whirlwind of sunshine and gauze. She was widely known as the happiest girl in the Afterlife, and she certainly looked the part.
A Very Vibrant Wrap
Mila wasn’t your average dusty relic. She spent hours perfecting her look, which was a delightful blend of "ancient tomb" and "boutique chic":
But the true secret to Mila’s charm lay in her eyes. Instead of the usual empty sockets or withered gaze of her peers, Mila had found two beautiful, polished black button eyes.
They weren't just buttons; they were like deep, shimmering ink wells that caught the flickering light of the wall torches. They gave her a look of permanent wonder and kindness.
"Oh, Mila! Your eyes are simply mesmerizing today," the High Priest Mummy would say, adjusting his golden mask just to get a better look.
Everywhere she skipped, mummies would stop in their tracks. Some would offer her fresh papyrus flowers, while others would simply wave their bandaged hands, drawn in by the twinkle of her button gaze. They couldn't help it—her happiness was contagious. One afternoon, Mila decided to throw a "Bandage Ball" in the main sarcophagus chamber. She put on her brightest orange bows, polished her button eyes until they gleamed like onyx, and baked "sand-cookies" for everyone. As the music played—a catchy tune played on ancient harps and bone flutes—Mila danced, her yellow pigtails bouncing and her orange necklace clicking. Seeing her so joyful, even the grumpiest old mummies forgot they were thousands of years old. They realized that you’re never too old (or too wrapped up) to have a little fun.
Mila lived every day with a stitched-on smile and a heart full of gold, proving to everyone in the pyramid that life after life was actually pretty sweet.

Wicked Wanda is a little different, I put wire in her arms and legs making it easy for her to pose.In the corner of a du...
05/05/2026

Wicked Wanda is a little different, I put wire in her arms and legs making it easy for her to pose.

In the corner of a dusty attic, nestled between a trunk of moth-eaten velvet and a stack of forgotten records, lived Wicked Wanda.
While her name sounded like a warning, Wanda was less of a nightmare and more of a masterpiece. She was a vision in monochrome and citrus, sporting a black-and-white striped shirt that hugged her stitched torso and matching striped legs that seemed to tingle with untapped energy. Her most prized possession, however, was her skull-patterned skirt—a flared masterpiece that billowed out whenever she caught a draft from the floorboards.
The Midnight Recital
Wanda didn't just sit on a shelf; she waited for the clock to strike twelve. The moment the pendulum hit the midnight mark, Wanda didn't just wake up—she exploded into motion.
Wanda had a flare for dance that would put a prima ballerina to shame. She didn't care for slow waltzes or stiff minuets. She was a whirlwind of jazz hands and high kicks. Her striped legs would blur as she performed sharp, syncopated tap routines on the wooden slats of the attic floor.
Click-clack, stitch-and-snap!
Her skull skirt would twirl, the tiny faces on the fabric seeming to laugh along with her. She used the shadows cast by the moon as her stage lights, leaping over stacks of books and pirouetting around the legs of old chairs.
The Grand Finale
One night, a stray breeze blew through the attic window, catching her orange and black hair and making it dance like real flames. Wanda took center stage on an old gramophone. As it spun slowly under her weight, she performed a flawless series of spins, her striped legs a dizzying spiral of black and white.
When the sun began to peek through the rafters, Wanda didn't collapse in exhaustion. She simply smoothed her skirt, adjusted her fiery hair, and settled back into her spot. As the humans woke up downstairs, they often wondered why they heard a rhythmic tapping in the ceiling all night. They called it "settling pipes," but Wanda just sat there with her stitched smile, her button eyes gleaming, waiting for the next song to begin.
In the corner of a dusty attic, nestled between a trunk of moth-eaten velvet and a stack of forgotten records, lived Wicked Wanda.
While her name sounded like a warning, Wanda was less of a nightmare and more of a masterpiece. She was a vision in monochrome and citrus, sporting a black-and-white striped shirt that hugged her stitched torso and matching striped legs that seemed to tingle with untapped energy. Her most prized possession, however, was her skull-patterned skirt—a flared masterpiece that billowed out whenever she caught a draft from the floorboards.
The Midnight Recital
Wanda didn't just sit on a shelf; she waited for the clock to strike twelve. The moment the pendulum hit the midnight mark, Wanda didn't just wake up—she exploded into motion.
Wanda had a flare for dance that would put a prima ballerina to shame. She didn't care for slow waltzes or stiff minuets. She was a whirlwind of jazz hands and high kicks. Her striped legs would blur as she performed sharp, syncopated tap routines on the wooden slats of the attic floor.
Click-clack, stitch-and-snap!
Her skull skirt would twirl, the tiny faces on the fabric seeming to laugh along with her. She used the shadows cast by the moon as her stage lights, leaping over stacks of books and pirouetting around the legs of old chairs.
The Grand Finale
One night, a stray breeze blew through the attic window, catching her orange and black hair and making it dance like real flames. Wanda took center stage on an old gramophone. As it spun slowly under her weight, she performed a flawless series of spins, her striped legs a dizzying spiral of black and white.
When the sun began to peek through the rafters, Wanda didn't collapse in exhaustion. She simply smoothed her skirt, adjusted her fiery hair, and settled back into her spot. As the humans woke up downstairs, they often wondered why they heard a rhythmic tapping in the ceiling all night. They called it "settling pipes," but Wanda just sat there with her stitched smile, her button eyes gleaming, waiting for the next song to begin.
Available $75

The copper-scented air of Oakhaven was thick with the rhythmic thrum of piston engines, but for Lyra Valerius, the city’...
04/28/2026

The copper-scented air of Oakhaven was thick with the rhythmic thrum of piston engines, but for Lyra Valerius, the city’s industrial heartbeat was just background noise to the symphony of her own invention.
Standing atop the brass-railed balcony of the Aether Observatory, Lyra was a vision of controlled chaos and clockwork elegance.
The Architect of Gears
She was draped in a gown of deep burgundy silk, tailored to withstand the grime of the workshops while maintaining the silhouette of high society. The bodice was reinforced with brushed gold filigree, mimicking the skeletal structure of a bird’s wing. Over her shoulders hung a mantle of heavy velvet, pinned by a brooch that was actually a functioning barometer.
Her most striking feature, however, wasn't the lace-up leather boots or the utility belt cinched at her waist—it was her hair. Spun like metallic silk, her locks tumbled down her back in a gradient of molten gold and wine-red, woven through with tiny copper wires that hummed with a faint static charge.
The Ascent
As the sun dipped below the smog-line of the lower city, Lyra didn't just watch the sunset—she mirrored it. The gold in her hair caught the dying light, glowing with an intensity that rivaled the streetlamps flickering to life below.
She wasn't just a girl in a pretty dress; she was the living embodiment of the Age of Steam. She stepped off the balcony, not into a fall, but into the sky, as the hidden thrusters in her golden bustle hissed with pressurized steam, carrying the girl in burgundy toward the clouds.
Available $75

The after-hours air in Neitherworld was a thick, neon-tinted fog, smelling faintly of mothballs and old carnival popcorn...
04/27/2026

The after-hours air in Neitherworld was a thick, neon-tinted fog, smelling faintly of mothballs and old carnival popcorn. Beetlejuice—the ghost with the most, the bio-exorcist extraordinaire—was currently lounging on a tombstone that looked suspiciously like a recliner, picking dirt out from under his blackened fingernails.
"Liiiiiii-dee-ah!" he wailed, his voice cracking like dry parchment. "Come on, Babes! This place is dead. And not the 'fun' kind of dead where people lose their heads and play soccer with 'em. It’s boring!"
From the shadows of the Maitlands' attic, a pale, stoic face emerged. Lydia Deetz stepped through the shimmering veil of the chalk-drawn door, her black camera dangling from her neck like a heavy talisman. She looked around at the swirling purple sky and the jagged architecture of the afterlife with the practiced boredom of a seasoned tourist.
"I have a math test tomorrow, Beej," she said, adjusting her lace veil. "And my dad is on a 'therapeutic drumming' kick. I came here for the silence, not the spectacle."
Beetlejuice tumbled off his stone chair, landing in a heap of striped fabric and messy moss-green hair. He scrambled up, his head spinning 360^{\circ} before snapping back into place with a wet pop.
"Math? Puh-lease! Why count numbers when you can count... I don't know, shrunken heads? I’ve got a guy! Best inventory in the afterlife." He leaned in close, his breath a toxic cocktail of mold and licorice. "I’m hurt, kid. Truly. I thought we were a team. The Prince of Darkness and the Princess of... whatever it is you’re wearing today. Gothic Chic?"
Lydia sighed, but a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "It’s a funeral shroud, and it’s vintage."
"Exquisite! Love the 'just-unearthed' look," he cackled, manifesting a moldy bouquet of dead roses out of thin air. "Look, if you're stressed about the test, let's go haunt the teacher. I can turn his grade book into a swarm of carnivorous locusts. It’ll be a hoot! Educational, even!"
"No haunting the faculty," Lydia commanded, though she took a seat on a nearby crumbling wall. "And no 'helping' me study. Last time you tried to help with history, you almost started a civil war in the kitchen sink."
Beetlejuice clutched his chest, looking genuinely offended. "I was just adding local color! History is written by the winners, Lydia, but it’s narrated by the guys who were there. And let me tell you, Napoleon? Total jerk. Shorter than you’d think, too."
He sat down next to her, his frantic energy settling into a rare, quiet buzz. For a moment, the chaotic landscape of the Neitherworld felt almost peaceful. A Sandworm roared in the distance, a sound like grinding tectonic plates, but neither of them flinched.
"You really okay, kid?" Beetlejuice asked, his voice losing its raspy edge for a split second. "You seem... gloomier than usual. And I know gloom. I practically invented it."
Lydia looked at her boots, the black leather scuffed from years of walking the line between two worlds. "It’s just hard. Being the only person who can see the cracks in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm halfway to being a ghost myself."
Beetlejuice stood up, his stripes shimmering with a sudden, eerie light. He grew three feet taller, his shadow stretching across the graveyard like a jagged inkblot.
"Hey! Don't rush it! You've got plenty of time to be dead. Being dead is easy. You just sit around and wait for some idiot to say your name three times. But being alive? That’s the real freak show, Lyds. That’s where the juice is!"
He shrank back down to size and offered her a hand—well, a hand that briefly detached from his arm to wave at her before reattaching.
"Now, how about this: No locusts. No hauntings. Just a quick trip to the Neitherworld Diner. I hear the 'Un-Happy Meal' comes with a toy that actually tries to bite your fingers off. My treat."
Lydia looked at the chaotic, decaying spirit in front of her. He was loud, gross, and technically a professional menace, but he was the only one who didn't try to make her "normal."
"Fine," she said, standing up and brushing the dust off her skirt. "But if you try to marry me again, I’m calling the Sandworm."
Beetlejuice grinned, his teeth a yellowed keyboard of mischief. "Harsh! But fair. Totally fair."
As they walked off toward the neon lights of the ghostly town, the Strange and Unusual girl and the Ghost with the Most, the Neitherworld felt a little less like a waiting room and a little more like home.
"So," Beetlejuice whispered, "About that math teacher... what if I just turned his shoes into custard? Just the shoes! Think about it!"
"Beetlejuice, no."
"Custard, Lydia! It’s a classic!"

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