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.
BUY THE BOOK
Join a book club that is reading We Live Here Now: A Novel!
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!
This was a spooky read. Recommend ig you like haunted house stories and gothic vibes. Oh, and can't forget to mention relationship drama!
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.
See why thousands of readers are using Bookclubs to stay connected.