Portals, Possessions, and Prose: The Multifaceted World of The Babysitter Lives
The Babysitter Lives
Stephen Graham Jones
Audiobook
ISBN: 978-1797133133
Simon & Schuster Audio and Blackstone Publishing
Dr. Stephen Graham Jones is an undeniable titan in contemporary literature, having penned over thirty novels and story collections, punctuated by novellas, comic books, and hundreds of short stories. New readers might assume his work is only relatable to a Native audience, but they would be completely off the mark as his oeuvre transcends cultural bounds, resonating with a global audience and solidifying him as a universally celebrated master of horror. His engaging style, characterized by prose that feels as if it is being shared among friends in a hushed, post-midnight gathering, has garnered him not just the admiration of readers but a myriad of awards. He has won the Texas Institute of Letters Award for Fiction, the L.A. Times‘s Ray Bradbury Prize, the Mark Twain American Voice in Literature Award, the Locus Award, four Bram Stoker Awards, three Shirley Jackson Awards, and many others. Among the countless individuals inspired by his compelling work is myself. Once I turned the last page of his novella, Mapping the Interior, a mere four years ago, I knew I wanted to become a horror writer too.
In an era dominated by print and digital reading, Stephen’s choice to release The Babysitter Lives exclusively in audio is a brilliant nod to the rich oral traditions of many Plains tribes, including both his and my own. This method of storytelling, handed down through generations, captures the essence of community, shared history, and the mesmerizing power of the spoken word. When narrated by the talented Dakota actor Isabella Star LaBlanc, the tale isn’t merely told—it is vividly breathed to life, each emotion palpable, each twist tangible. Listening to it is a sensory immersion, reminiscent of the ancestral tales shared around fires, under open skies. Stephen writes much like he speaks in real life, with a rhythm and cadence that simultaneously feels like a rollercoaster’s thrilling drop and a serene cruise down an old yet familiar road. The oral format only amplifies the resonance of his words, creating an experience that is both intimate and expansive.
Now, I find myself engrossed in Dr. Jones’s poignant exploration of haunted spaces, cultural identity, personal trauma, and horror tropes ingeniously repurposed. In an eight-hour audiobook, he masterfully blends subgenres, ranging from haunted houses to possession to slashers. By elevating what is often seen as a pulpy literary playground—a babysitter tasked with keeping children safe on Halloween’s eve—he showcases his adeptness as a tried-and-true horror master.
Central to this narrative is Charlotte, an embodiment of contemporary complexity. To call her character rich would be an understatement. She is Indigenous, queer, and ambitious—a high-school senior caught in the anxiety-ridden whirlwind of impending SATs. Every facet of her identity adds depth and texture to the story, just as each layer of a rose adds to its intricate beauty. It is fascinating how Jones’s creative process, as described in his self-recorded acknowledgments section, mirrors the multi-dimensional character of Charlotte. He says that writing this story resembled those looping time-lapse videos of a rose blooming—revealing layer after layer, surprising him with each turn the story took. (Hey, we’re right there with ya, bud. What the hell is going on?)
Charlotte is introduced in what appears to be a typical babysitting scenario. Yet the Wilbankses’ home, which she derisively labels a “McMansion,” quickly transforms into something far more sinister. Ronald, one of the twins for which Charlotte is responsible, refers to invisible portals around the house as “funny places” after Charlotte accidentally steps through one. That is just the beginning.
Jones delves deep into Charlotte’s psyche and background, making her not just another character in a haunted house story but an emblem of Indigenous identity grappling with modern challenges. The line, “If a babysitter’s nightmare is a stranger in the house, then an Indian’s biggest fear is being white on the inside,” speaks volumes. It pinpoints an existential dread about loss of identity, with the house itself mirroring this sense of internal dislocation.
This theme is further emphasized when Charlotte encounters the culturally insensitive “Authentic Squaw” costume donned by young Desi, Ronald’s twin sister, complete with a braided wig, beaded headband, moccasins, and a fake buckskin dress—yup, the whole playing-Indian package. While it might appear as a minor element in the grand scheme of the story, it is anything but inconsequential. It serves as a microcosm of the broader issues of misrepresentation, commercialization, and commodification of Indigenous peoples. Charlotte’s silent tolerance of the costume is not apathy; it is a conscious choice to pick her battles. Her nonconfrontational response hints at the exhaustion that comes from constantly having to challenge racial ignorance. Many readers can resonate with this sensation, understanding that sometimes it is tiring to perpetually educate others.
Adding another layer is the allusion to colonization. The novella subtly touches upon possession as a trope, resonating deeply with the Indigenous experience (not to allude to anything monolithic, mind you). It signifies the loss of agency and self, harking back to the historical (and continual) colonization of Indigenous land and bodies. When Tia, or “Grey Mommy,” overtakes Charlotte’s body, it is a chilling representation of cultural and personal erasure. This invasion of Charlotte’s physical autonomy reflects a broader, more sinister theme: the colonization of Indigenous bodies and minds. The way Jones deftly represents such a profound trauma through a horror trope is impressive.
One of Jones’s most emblematic choices is his use of brass throughout the narrative. In various cultures, brass is revered for its purifying properties, believed to ward off malevolent forces. For Charlotte, an encounter with a brass dachshund statue becomes a crucial turning point in her confrontation with Grey Mommy. When she uses the brass dog to cauterize her wounds, it is both a reprieve and a binding to the mansion’s dark history. Much like the misleading grandiosity of the McMansion, the dual nature of the brass dog—serving as both a healer and a captor—reflects the seductive yet treacherous allure of upward mobility.
The term “McMansion” hints at a veneer of wealth, an opulence that hides a lack of genuine substance. This theme of class disparity is further accentuated by the (mostly imagined) haughty demeanor of the brass dog statue. Its inferred attitude, almost godlike in its condescension, places Charlotte beneath it, emphasizing that in this realm, she is an outsider not just because of her Indigenous identity but potentially due to her socio-economic status as well.
Stephen Graham Jones, however, does not stop there. Inserting the slasher framework adds another dimension of horror and complexity to the story. In The Babysitter Lives, Charlotte takes on the role of the Final Girl, but with a twist. Here, the Wilbankses’ home, with its twisting dimensions and haunting past, morphs from mere setting to antagonist—the very slasher Charlotte must confront.
In traditional slashers, transgressions often result in retribution. Charlotte’s intimate moment with Murphy in the time-rewind universe seems to draw the ire of the mansion, echoing this age-old theme. However, Jones flips the script. Instead of the usual formula where the Final Girl exacts revenge or escapes, Charlotte grapples with her fate. And instead of seeking revenge, the house craves a perpetuation of its own narrative. For example, the incident involving Charlotte’s mother driving under the influence and running over Arthur Lopez in the time-rewind universe is a manifestation of this cycle. The tragedy that befalls them is not random but a direct consequence of the house’s manipulation. Ultimately, Jones even flat out says as much near the end: “It’s the price the house exacts, for letting her step back through, into her life.”
Jones succeeds in taking what could be a typical horror tale and infusing it with profound reflections on identity, colonization, cultural appropriation, and the cyclical nature of trauma.
The Babysitter Lives is a testament to the fact that horror is not just about scares but can be a mirror to society’s deepest anxieties and suppressed histories.
And, to end on a lighter note: I will never look at lizards the same way again.
