We Live Here Now: A Novel
Award-winning author of New York Times bestselling breakout novel (and hit Netflix show) Behind Her Eyes returns with a haunting Gothic novel about a house—and a marriage—gone terribly wrong.
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Community Reviews
That’s an ending I did not foresee. This is so much more than a haunted house story. So much creepier. Both of the main characters exchange chapters, with another character occasionally having their own chapter. Miscommunication, obfuscation, hauntings(?), possessions(?), murder, scenes that will make you sleep with the lights on. Wow! I really enjoyed this book!
Ah, nothing says “marital bliss” quite like moving into a gorgeous-but-ominous countryside manor where the floorboards whisper secrets and the books fly off the shelves, and not in the good way. We Live Here Now is a moody little gothic cocktail, shaken with one part haunted house, one part medical instability, and a generous splash of “What the hell is going on?”
Emily starts experiencing all kinds of spooky happenings—fireplaces that snuff out by themselves, phantom floor nails that keep popping up, and the kind of oppressive third-floor presence that screams “definitely haunted, please leave now.” Freddie, meanwhile, spends most of the novel going, “What third-floor presence?” like he’s never seen a horror movie before.
The atmosphere here is peak Gothic: misty moors, creepy house, secrets layered like a soggy trifle. The plot builds with a slow-burn intensity that made me want to yell “RUN” at Emily several times. The writing is moody, immersive, and tinged with that delicious flavor of dread that makes you question your own hallway noises at night.
Of course, there’s the issue of Emily maybe hallucinating due to lingering effects of sepsis, which makes for some delightful unreliability. Is she cracking under pressure or cracking open the secrets of a deeply cursed house?
The tension ratchets up with increasing weirdness, secrets are slowly revealed (some of them juicy, some of them suspiciously withheld for dramatic effect), and by the end you’ll be side-eyeing your own bookshelf just in case it decides to attack.
The beauty of this book lies in how deliciously unreliable everyone is. You’ll be side-eyeing every character, every creaky stair, and every misplaced memory until the final pages. Pinborough keeps you guessing: is it supernatural? Psychological? Marital breakdown with a side of murder mystery? (Spoiler: yes.)
Occasionally the plot meanders like a confused ghost wandering the halls, and I spent a good portion of the book wanting to shake both Emily and Freddie and shout, “Burn that house down and then get yourselves to therapy.”
Still, this was a gripping, twisty, paranoia-fueled tale of secrets, lies, and possibly sentient architecture. Would recommend—just maybe don’t read it alone. In a creaky house. On the third floor.
Emily starts experiencing all kinds of spooky happenings—fireplaces that snuff out by themselves, phantom floor nails that keep popping up, and the kind of oppressive third-floor presence that screams “definitely haunted, please leave now.” Freddie, meanwhile, spends most of the novel going, “What third-floor presence?” like he’s never seen a horror movie before.
The atmosphere here is peak Gothic: misty moors, creepy house, secrets layered like a soggy trifle. The plot builds with a slow-burn intensity that made me want to yell “RUN” at Emily several times. The writing is moody, immersive, and tinged with that delicious flavor of dread that makes you question your own hallway noises at night.
Of course, there’s the issue of Emily maybe hallucinating due to lingering effects of sepsis, which makes for some delightful unreliability. Is she cracking under pressure or cracking open the secrets of a deeply cursed house?
The tension ratchets up with increasing weirdness, secrets are slowly revealed (some of them juicy, some of them suspiciously withheld for dramatic effect), and by the end you’ll be side-eyeing your own bookshelf just in case it decides to attack.
The beauty of this book lies in how deliciously unreliable everyone is. You’ll be side-eyeing every character, every creaky stair, and every misplaced memory until the final pages. Pinborough keeps you guessing: is it supernatural? Psychological? Marital breakdown with a side of murder mystery? (Spoiler: yes.)
Occasionally the plot meanders like a confused ghost wandering the halls, and I spent a good portion of the book wanting to shake both Emily and Freddie and shout, “Burn that house down and then get yourselves to therapy.”
Still, this was a gripping, twisty, paranoia-fueled tale of secrets, lies, and possibly sentient architecture. Would recommend—just maybe don’t read it alone. In a creaky house. On the third floor.
I picked this one up for a book club, and honestly, I’m glad I didn’t buy it. We Live Here Now by Sarah Pinborough is a long, meandering, very British thriller filled with polite arguments, endless small talk, and a countryside escape that made me want to sprint back to London just for something to happen.
Emily and Freddie are two people who should never have married, let alone shared a mortgage, move into a big, moody house called Larkin Lodge after Emily survives a fall and a sepsis coma. The setup screams gothic thriller with a fresh start, secret trauma, creaky floors, and things that go bump when no one’s watching. But instead of eerie tension, I mostly got a slow crawl through emotional misery.
Emily and Freddie are both awful. She’s bitter and unfaithful. He is a self-pitying gambler with the personality of soggy toast. Their relationship is pure dysfunction on repeat, and every conversation drags like a car stuck in mud. The book tries to build suspense around what’s real and what’s imagined such as are the strange happenings in Emily’s head, or is the house truly haunted? Even after the twists, I just didn’t care.
The supernatural element could have been fascinating. A magical third-floor bedroom that revives people but traps their worst traits as ghosts? That’s actually a fun premise! Unfortunately, it’s buried under pages of circular dialogue and dreary introspection. The pattern of “awful couple moves in, someone gets murdered, that person is dragged to the third floor and gets magically rebooted, then makes eggs” should have been darkly hilarious or at least chilling, but it just felt repetitive.
By the time I reached the end, where the “good” halves of Emily and Freddie move on to their perfect life while their “bad” halves linger, plotting spectral revenge, I was mostly counting pages. Maybe British domestic thrillers and I just don’t click. The tone is all restraint and propriety, even when people are being resurrected from murder scenes. I wanted more bite, more madness, and more atmosphere.
If you enjoy slow-burn psychological thrillers with a dash of supernatural weirdness and plenty of marital toxicity, you might enjoy this one. But if you’re looking for sharp pacing, likable characters, or genuine suspense, We Live Here Now will probably leave you, like me, checking how many pages are left.
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