Sarah Pinborough has carved out a distinctive niche in psychological horror, and her latest offering, We Live Here Now, demonstrates exactly why she’s become one of the genre’s most compelling voices. Following the massive success of Behind Her Eyes and the critically acclaimed Insomnia, Pinborough returns with a Gothic domestic thriller that masterfully blends supernatural elements with the very real horrors of marital decay and personal secrets.
A House That Feeds on Broken Marriages
The premise appears deceptively simple: Emily and Freddie Bennett, seeking a fresh start after Emily’s near-fatal accident and subsequent coma, relocate from London to Larkin Lodge, a striking country house perched ominously on Dartmoor’s crossroads. What unfolds is a multi-layered exploration of how houses can become repositories for human misery, and how the past refuses to stay buried.
Pinborough’s genius lies in her structural approach. The novel is divided into three distinct sections—”Me,” “You,” and “Us”—each offering different perspectives on the same events. This isn’t merely a stylistic flourish; it’s essential to understanding how the house operates as both a literal and metaphorical space where the worst aspects of human nature are amplified and preserved.
The author’s background in horror writing is evident in her meticulous world-building. Larkin Lodge isn’t just haunted; it’s hungry. Built on a crossroads where suicide victims were once buried face-down with stakes through their chests, the house has developed an appetite for couples in crisis. This historical detail, delivered through the character of the local vicar, provides both Gothic atmosphere and a logical foundation for the supernatural elements that follow.
Unreliable Narration Meets Supernatural Horror
Perhaps the most effective aspect of We Live Here Now is Pinborough’s use of Emily’s post-sepsis condition as both plot device and red herring. Emily’s medical fragility—her susceptibility to hallucinations, memory gaps, and sensory distortions—creates a perfect storm of unreliable narration. When books fly off shelves, when doors slam shut, when the temperature plummets inexplicably, we’re forced to question whether these events are supernatural manifestations or the byproducts of a damaged mind.
This ambiguity is masterfully maintained throughout the first two-thirds of the novel. Pinborough understands that the most effective horror often lies in uncertainty, and she exploits this to brilliant effect. The reader experiences Emily’s isolation and self-doubt viscerally, making her eventual discoveries all the more impactful.
The supernatural elements, when they’re finally revealed, are both original and deeply unsettling. The concept of the third-floor room as a space that can separate the good from the bad in a person—literally tearing souls apart—is genuinely innovative within the crowded field of haunted house narratives. Christopher Hopper’s journal, discovered hidden within the house’s structure, provides the scientific explanation that grounds the fantastical elements in something approaching plausibility.
Marriage as a Battleground
While the supernatural plot provides the novel’s spine, the real meat lies in Pinborough’s dissection of a marriage under strain. Emily and Freddie’s relationship is presented with unflinching honesty—two people who once loved each other but have grown into versions of themselves that they no longer recognize or particularly like.
Freddie’s gambling addiction serves as more than just a plot catalyst; it’s a meditation on weakness and the lies we tell ourselves and others to maintain the illusion of control. His descent from concerned husband to potential murderer is charted with psychological precision. Pinborough doesn’t ask us to sympathize with Freddie, but she does help us understand how ordinary weakness can metastasize into something monstrous under the right circumstances.
Emily’s own moral compromises—her affair with her boss, her ruthless blackmail of Mark—are presented with equal complexity. The author refuses to create simple victims or villains, instead offering characters who are simultaneously sympathetic and deeply flawed. This moral ambiguity elevates the novel above standard genre fare.
Supporting Characters and Social Commentary
The supporting cast provides both relief from the claustrophobic central relationship and commentary on different forms of marital dysfunction. Sally and Joe Carter’s seemingly perfect artistic partnership masks a decades-old murder, while the London friends—Mark, Cat, Iso, and Russell—represent various stages of romantic disillusionment and betrayal.
Pinborough’s portrayal of these relationships serves a dual purpose: it provides context for Emily and Freddie’s problems while suggesting that Larkin Lodge specifically attracts couples on the verge of collapse. The house doesn’t create these problems; it amplifies them until they become uncontainable.
The author’s commentary on modern marriage is particularly sharp. The repeated phrase “marriage is teamwork” becomes increasingly ironic as each couple’s selfishness and duplicity is revealed. Pinborough suggests that the very institution of marriage, with its demands for constant performance and compromise, creates the conditions for the kind of resentment that the house feeds upon.
Gothic Atmosphere and Pacing
Pinborough’s prose style has evolved considerably since her early horror novels. Here, she demonstrates a refined ability to build atmospheric tension through accumulated detail rather than shock tactics. The Dartmoor setting is rendered with particular effectiveness—the endless gray skies, the penetrating cold, and the sense of isolation all contribute to the novel’s oppressive mood.
The pacing is generally strong, though the middle section occasionally slows as Emily pursues various investigative threads. However, this deliberate pacing serves the novel’s themes well, allowing the reader to experience Emily’s growing obsession and isolation in real time.
The final act, where the supernatural elements fully emerge and the truth about the house is revealed, is where Pinborough’s horror expertise truly shines. The revelation that parts of people can be trapped within the house while their “better” selves continue living is both conceptually brilliant and emotionally devastating.
Areas for Improvement
While We Live Here Now succeeds on most levels, it’s not without its flaws. The novel’s complex mythology occasionally threatens to overwhelm the human story at its center. Some readers may find the supernatural explanations overly elaborate, particularly compared to the elegant simplicity of the domestic horror elements.
Additionally, certain supporting characters, particularly among Emily’s London friends, feel somewhat underdeveloped. While their various betrayals serve the plot, they don’t always feel like fully realized individuals in their own right.
The novel’s ending, while thematically appropriate, may strike some readers as overly bleak. Pinborough commits fully to her dark vision, but this uncompromising approach might not satisfy readers seeking catharsis or redemption.
Literary Comparisons and Genre Context
We Live Here Now sits comfortably alongside the best of contemporary Gothic fiction. It shares DNA with Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House in its exploration of psychological fragility and domestic spaces, while its examination of marital toxicity recalls the work of authors like Gillian Flynn and Ruth Ware.
Within Pinborough’s own catalog, this novel represents a mature synthesis of her various skills. It has the psychological complexity of Behind Her Eyes, the medical thriller elements of Insomnia, and the supernatural horror of her earlier works, but feels more cohesive and thematically unified than any of her previous efforts.
Final Verdict
We Live Here Now is a sophisticated entry in the domestic horror subgenre that succeeds both as a supernatural thriller and as a penetrating examination of modern marriage. Pinborough has created a novel that works on multiple levels—as a ghost story, as a psychological thriller, and as a social commentary on the institutions and expectations that shape our most intimate relationships.
While the novel’s complexity occasionally works against it, and its uncompromising darkness won’t appeal to all readers, it represents a significant achievement for an author who continues to push the boundaries of genre fiction. This is a very good book that falls just short of greatness, held back primarily by its occasionally overwrought mythology and unrelentingly bleak worldview.
For readers who appreciated the psychological complexity of Behind Her Eyes or the atmospheric dread of Insomnia, We Live Here Now offers a compelling next step in Pinborough’s evolution as a writer. It’s a novel that will linger in your thoughts long after the final page, like the best ghost stories always do.
