Since we’ve already disturbed the ghost of Sylvia Likens, I would like to take a moment to review a book that will always have her spirit haunting me. Let’s Go Play at The Adams is a 1974 novel by Mendal W. Johnson inspired by the same subject matter. Unlike Ketchum’s book though, Johnson weaves his narrative around a more fictionalized account of a 20-year-old Babysitter named Barbara who is watching over a brother and sister, Cindy and Bobby Adams, while their parents are on a two week holiday.

Barbabra starts the novel wearing a white dress playing the white keys of a piano with white gloves, but the novel darkens and loses its innocence from here. Cindy and Bobby have plotted to chloroform Barbabra as she sleeps, and Barbara awakens from what she believed was a bad dream into a real nightmare, tied the bed, her mouth filled with medical gauze and taped shut, reduced to a new play thing for the children.

The children invite three neighborhood friends over and Johnson takes you into each of their eyes as they play with their new toy to the fullest extent of their desires. Day by day, the narrative is separated into two segments: the daily events where Barbara is dragged to the bathroom and made to use the toilet with a noose around her neck then prepared for a full day of torture followed by her silent evenings where she has to speak in her mind to imagery friends–since her mouth is taped shut–to hold onto any state of sanity. Her imaginary friend takes the shape of her college roommate who often blames the kidnapping on Barbara for not being able to see the evil in people.

While Johnson wields the claustrophobic horror well–in the vein of King’s Misery or Gerald’s Game–the story is a bit flawed and preachy. His approach to saying that five children under seventeen are capable of this because a violent society breeds violence is spoon feed to readers like a punch bowl full of sugar. Subtle is not Mendal W’s strong point. He goes off on rants throughout, especially when going into deep and lengthy description of rope play techniques and fetishy positions used to restrain Barbabra. This tone often speaks more to the bondage community, which is fine, but seems appealing to the wrong passion when your trying to stir thoughtfulness and emotion in your audience about a serious message.

So, the novel thumps along with this repetitive and often questionable tone – sometimes making me wonder if Mendal had a babysitter as a kid that he had in mind for this treatment – as Barbara starts to lose hope and faith in human decency and begins to realize the danger she is in a bit too late. Some gaps in logic and shoddy police work later we get an ending that takes us into a strange metaphysical final chapter where Barbara is floating above the world with no mouth or something.

While the novel is flawed, Johnson unleashes some brutal images that have stuck for the past nine years even though I only read this book once. Most disappointing is that Johnson never wrote another book, and I’m not sure if that’s a bad thing or not, but his ability to create uncomfortable tension and overall helplessness in the face of human cruelty and indifference showed great potential.  However, I am not sure if this book raises awareness or just serves as another fetishy entry for fans of torture horror. One thing I can say is that the book does provide a unique voice and style. Fans of this type of horror should give it a shot, but the journey may be long as its rare, and most definitely out of print.