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How a Stephen King Character Becomes an Unlikely Source of Hope
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How a Stephen King Character Becomes an Unlikely Source of Hope
Holly Gibney embodies the ethos of “do no harm but take no shit.”
By Zack Budryk
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Published on February 11, 2026
Photo credit: Bob Mahoney
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Photo credit: Bob Mahoney
A lot of Stephen King’s most iconic characters feel all too relevant to our current moment, be they the toxic fan who escalates to far worse, the entity that feeds on a community’s fear and prejudice or the frustrated family man who lets his demons turn him into a monster. His 1977 school-shooter novel Rage, written under his pulpier nom de plume Richard Bachman, was found in the personal effects of so many real shooters that King had his publisher take it out of print.
It seems far rarer for a King character to provide us with a guide to navigate this terrible American moment. His protagonists tend to be varying shades of admirable or sympathetic, but they’re often stuck reacting to the horror with which they’re confronted. This is blessedly not the case, however, with one of his newer creations, the neurodivergent private investigator Holly Gibney.
Holly made her debut as a supporting character in King’s 2014 mystery Mr. Mercedes, enlisted as an assistant to retired cop Bill Hodges as he hunts the titular killer who, in another bit of ominous resonance, killed eight people in a car attack at a job fair. Since then, she’s appeared in the rest of the Hodges trilogy (End of Watch and Finders Keepers) as well as the novels The Outsider, Holly, and Never Flinch and the novella If It Bleeds. Holly is introduced in a position far too many autistic and neurodivergent people will recognize: despite her latent skills at the kind of observation and deduction a detective needs, she’s borderline reclusive and under the thumb of her mother Charlotte, who has conditioned Holly to believe she can’t function in the world or offer it anything. However, under Bill’s guidance, and later through her friendship with her neighbors, siblings Jerome and Barbara Robinson, Holly comes to understand her own strength and capability and starts an investigatory career in her own right.
To see yourself in a fictional character often comes with the corollary of wishing you had more of their strengths and fewer of your weaknesses. Generations of teens have been captivated by Spider-Man, for instance, because he shares their frustrations and struggles but also has superhuman powers. Holly is aspirational in subtler ways—her detective skills aren’t presented as the trope of disability as a superpower or clairvoyance, which even King himself has not been immune to. Holly doesn’t have Will Graham-esque visions that help her get to the bottom of things, she’s just astute, patient, and smart enough to let people underestimate her.
Holly is also, not incidentally, perhaps the single kindest character King has created. Much of modern fiction runs on the assumption, often by male writers, that a strong female character must be relentlessly snarky, violent, and antisocial. Holly is the exact opposite—her friendships with the Robinsons and Bill are a major part of her characterization, and her fierce loyalty and gratitude for them is instantly recognizable to any neurodivergent person who’s worried they might never find their people. She’s got a spirit of bruised but indefatigable optimism that gets her through what she experiences, referred to as “Holly hope” by both her and her friends.
That’s not to say she can’t scrap, of course—every King book featuring Holly has climaxed with her dispatching the antagonist in self-defense, including El Cuco, a murderous, shapeshifting supernatural entity, in The Outsider. She embodies the ethos of “do no harm but take no shit.”
One of my single favorite Holly moments comes in 2023’s Holly, in which she finds herself investigating a string of disappearances that ultimately lead to two elderly married academics who believe in the restorative power of cannibalism (it’s still Stephen King, after all). What ultimately leads Holly to realize the victims have all been snatched up against their will is that all of them had a community, something to live for, loved ones that they wouldn’t have left behind: a college professor who loves his job and boyfriend, a woman who has nominally returned to her family in Georgia despite their having disowned her for being a lesbian, the son of an alcoholic mother who’d been making real progress in getting her drinking under control. Holly has known a life with these ties and without them, and her empathy and gratitude are what make her realize what doesn’t add up.
I’ve loved Holly since I first encountered her, only compounded by Cynthia Erivo’s and Justine Lupe’s performances in the TV adaptations of The Outsider and Mr. Mercedes, respectively. King himself admits to an infatuation with writing the character, saying “I wish she were a real person.” But after the last few weeks, when the news has been wall-to-wall images of a campaign of state terror in Minnesota and its targets standing in solidarity, I appreciate her even more. The streets of the Twin Cities have been filled with Fargo-accented moms and the “helpers” Fred Rogers famously spoke of, not just protesting on the front lines but providing more low-key, behind the scenes mutual aid. Like Holly, they’re not action heroes or revolutionaries–they’re people who love and dare defend their community with whatever talents they have. The state has already extra-judicially murdered two of them, Alex Pretti and Renee Good, and it hasn’t made their neighbors more violent, it’s only made them braver.
To draw on fiction for solace against real evil can become a crutch—witness the popularity of Harry Potter analogies in the first Trump presidency, made awkward by Trump and Harry’s creator having identical views on trans rights. But at their best, fictional heroes can be not just power fantasies but something like secular saints, figures we use as a sort of lantern in the dark to help find a path through uncharted territory. I don’t know if anyone protecting their community in the Twin Cities, or Chicago, or Los Angeles, or Iran, is a fan of Holly Gibney, but seeing those communities has reminded me that everything I love about Holly exists in millions of real people too.[end-mark]
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