A Book A Week

When Charlie and Eve stumble upon an old house full of character in a perfectly picturesque neighborhood—at a reasonable price, no less—they can hardly believe their luck. The couple has been flipping houses for several years, but this latest find promises to be their best project yet. One afternoon, as the two women are working inside the house, there’s a knock at the door. Standing on the porch is a man with his family, claiming he lived there years before, and asking if he might show his children around. Eve, always the people-pleaser, agrees and lets them in.

From the moment the family crosses the threshold, Eve feels uneasy. Maybe it’s the wife’s reaction when she realizes Eve and Charlie are a couple. Maybe it’s the way the man moves through the house as if he still owns it—their house. Or maybe Eve is just being paranoid. But when the family’s young son goes missing, and a strange, ghostly presence begins to manifest in the basement, Eve’s fears are impossible to ignore. Even more disturbing, the family refuses to take the hint that their visit should be over. Then Charlie vanishes. As Eve’s grip on reality begins to slip, she’s forced to confront the terrifying possibility that something is deeply wrong—with the house, with the visiting family…or with her own mind.

We Used to Live Here marks a striking debut from Marcus Kliewer. It's a story rooted in psychological horror and creeping paranoia. From the very first pages, Kliewer destabilizes both his characters and the reader, blurring the line between reality and delusion until nothing feels entirely trustworthy. The result is a constant, low-grade unease, an impression that something is wrong long before the story ever confirms it.

The novel’s horror isn’t driven by shocks or gore, but by erosion of certainty, safety, and sanity. The book’s blurb compares the experience to quicksand, and it’s an apt metaphor. The deeper you sink into the story, the harder it becomes to orient yourself or pull free. Familiar spaces turn threatening, motivations feel slippery, and even perception itself comes into question. At times, I wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, but that disorientation feels intentional. It mirrors Eve’s own unraveling.

Kliewer resists tidy explanations, and even as the novel reaches a deeply unsettling conclusion, it refuses to offer clarity or comfort. Instead, it leaves you with lingering doubt, the sense that reality itself may have shifted just out of reach. In We Used to Live Here, the fear doesn’t come from what’s seen but from what can’t be trusted. And that’s what makes it so effective. The story doesn't end on the final page. Instead, it follows you, quietly asking whether the house was ever haunted at all, or if the real terror was watching a mind slowly lose its grip on reality.

For more information, visit the author's website, Amazon, and Goodreads. 

(2025, 103)