“Of all tyrannies, that of the majority is the worst.
The real danger is the gradual acceptance of evil.”
C. S. Lewis
Toys Dressed in Darkness
I know I return to this subject now and again, but at this time of year my unease returns with force. My wife said as I dropped her off to work, "Pick up a few platters to take with us tomorow evening." So, as I iwalked through the supermarket, I found myself pausing—not over prices or products, but over a display of children’s toys. There, among what should have been symbols of joy and imagination, were skulls, hollow-eyed figures, and characters that looked more sinister than playful. I remember thinking: why is this here, and why is it meant for children?
Once noticed, the images lodged themselves in my mind and became impossible to ignore. They are no longer confined to a single toy rack or seasonal novelty. Children’s books, cartoons, and video games increasingly feature skeletons, occult-looking figures, and skeletal creatures resembling the walking dead. They stare out from glossy covers and glowing screens, stripped of context and presented as harmless fun. Yet something about them feels profoundly wrong.
I find myself asking why we, as adults, so readily place such imagery into the hands of children. Childhood is a time of trust, curiosity, and moral formation—a period when the imagination is especially open and unguarded.
There is a story about two young fish who meet an older fish. The older fish asks, “How’s the water?” After swimming on, one of the younger fish turns to the other and asks, “What’s water?”
And so it is with socialisation. What surrounds us becomes invisible. What we introduce in these early years quietly shapes a child’s sense of what is normal, acceptable, and even desirable—often without notice or question. When skulls and symbols of death are turned into toys, darkness is no longer something to be approached with caution; it becomes something to be played with.
Some will say I am overthinking it. They will argue that children understand the difference between fantasy and reality. But I am not convinced it is that simple. Repetition has power. What is constantly seen loses its shock. What loses its shock soon loses its moral weight. When sinister imagery becomes familiar, it stops troubling the conscience.
Standing in those aisles, I cannot help but wonder whether our fascination with the macabre reveals something deeper about our culture. Why are we so drawn to what is dark, grotesque, and unsettling? Why does evil—or at least the appearance of it—sell so well?
Scripture gives language to the unease I feel but struggle to articulate. In Ephesians 6:12 we are reminded that our struggle is not merely with visible forces, but with powers of darkness that operate beyond human sight:
“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this world’s darkness…”
This verse does not invite paranoia, but a sober, pragmatic awareness. Evil rarely announces itself loudly. More often it enters quietly—softened, disguised, and normalised.
I find myself wondering whether such influences are at work when darkness is packaged as entertainment for the young. Why else would we be so eager to dress death in bright colours and market it as play? If there are forces that benefit from moral confusion and spiritual dullness, then turning sinister imagery into something cute and collectible makes a troubling kind of sense.
This is not a call to ban imagination or deny children adventure. There is a vital difference between storytelling that acknowledges darkness and an industry that glamorises it. Children can learn courage, goodness, and hope without being steeped in images that empty death of its seriousness and evil of its consequence.
What troubles me most is not a single toy or book, but the quiet acceptance of it all. No one seems to question it anymore—and perhaps that is the greatest concern of all. When darkness no longer shocks us, we stop guarding against it.
As I leave the supermarket and carry on with my day, the images stay with me. They raise a question I cannot easily dismiss: if we do not protect the hearts and imaginations of our children, who will? And if we fail to notice what is shaping them, what kind of world are we silently preparing them to inherit?