Content warnings: gore, character death, anxiety and depression, suicide and suicidal ideation.
Are you craving a quick scare to kick off your summer reading? Maybe you’re a sucker for a fresh spin on a haunted house? Do you have a soft spot for characters who can never quite get it right? Consider “The Caretaker” by Marcus Kliewer, author of the Reddit thread-turned-bestseller “We Used to Live Here.”
“The Caretaker” introduces Macy, a chronically underemployed young woman struggling to stave off eviction and support her teenage sister Jemma in the wake of their father’s death. Desperate for cash, she takes a peculiar but well-paid job housesitting for an old widow on the Oregon coast. She assumes the “rites” included in her duties – locking doors, turning off lights, chasing rabbits – are just quirks of the homeowner, or maybe part of an elaborate prank.
The strange set of so-called rites provide an engine for the story, something for Macy to strive toward and fall short of. We’re told that failure to follow the rites could free the entity possessing the house and put all humanity in peril. They seem simple enough, but despite her best effort, Macy always drops the ball in ways that are as frustrating as endearing – she hesitates too long before turning off the light, she’s spotted by someone at the front door, she releases a wild rabbit rather than burn it alive. Macy steadily unlocks new rules, worse consequences and more intense versions of the possession. We’re constantly rooting for her to succeed, and we’re constantly screaming for her to do better.
Some sections drag when the rites get too tangled or tedious. We only need so many pages of Macy ruminating as she trudges around the house playing whack-a-mole with the lights. At other moments, she recalls the rites with astounding clarity – if this, not that, do that, not this – while some readers may struggle to keep track. But we’re along for the ride, descending with her through the circles of hell to see just how bad things will get.
The prose is spare, unspooling backstory in fragments, giving us just enough to get by. Some readers might find the handful of dream sequences indulgent, but they’re short and connect smoothly with Macy’s real trauma – the mystery of her father’s death, as well as her own self-loathing. Class critique comes through pointedly; the worst things in Macy’s life come down to money, or lack thereof. Her love for her sister serves as an emotional anchor underpinning an ominous, uncertain ending.
We can’t help wanting more from our time with Macy. The fates of widowed homeowner Grace, neighbor Lucy and cat Brownie are loose threads. Meanwhile, we never quite learn why this house, why these rites and the true nature of the evil they supposedly constrain. The ending seems apocalyptic, but exactly what might happen next remains unclear. Kliewer gives us some catharsis ahead of the finale, but if you’re holding your breath waiting for things to finally turn around for Macy, you might suffocate.
Readers of “We Used to Live Here” will know that Kliewer has a knack for building tension, and he’s in top form here. A few repeated images are especially effective – a naked body struggling to breathe through a plastic bag, a dark figure peering through the slats of a closet door, flashes of maggoty flesh. Yes, there is a basement. Yes, it’s empty except for a tube TV. Yes, Macy hides down there, becoming the horror genre cliche she frequently criticizes. We’re rolling our eyes, but loving it.
“The Caretaker” isn’t perfect, but it’s a tense and terrifying trip perfect for a cabin weekend, a long drive or just a few late nights hoping your lights don’t flicker.
Jacob Orlando is a bookseller at Porter Square Books: Boston Edition and an operations assistant at the GrubStreet Center for Creative Writing. He shares book recs along with commentary about queerness and heteropatriarchy in his biweekly newsletter Fslur (fslur.substack.com).
A version of this story appeared originally on the Porter Square Review of Books. Buy “The Caretaker” from Porter Square Books.
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