We Used to Live Here: A Dismal Descent into Mundane Horror
I picked up We Used to Live Here by [Author’s Name] with a spark of curiosity, drawn in by its haunting premise of a home invasion that plays on our social anxieties—a true trope in psychological horror. The idea of a family invading your space without threats, leaving you in a moral quandary, promised to explore an unsettling blend of reality and terror. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm dimmed as the narrative unfolded, revealing a tale that struggled to stand on its own legs.
At its core, the book tries to weave a complex interplay of horror aesthetics. It introduces us to Eve and her girlfriend Charlie, who have unwittingly plunged into a universe of "Old Houses," parallel dimensions tethered through nightmares and memories. Yet, the execution feels cumbersome. Flickers of potential terror—a basement that holds more than meets the eye, a woman in a hospital gown, swarming ants—float without cohesion, leaving me yearning for that “a-ha” moment that never materialized. What could have been a thrilling narrative instead bogs down in irrelevant digressions and meandering flashbacks. I found myself questioning, “Do I really need to know about that great horned owl?”
Eve’s passive journey from allowing strangers into her home to accidentally committing violence lacks the character development that a story of this nature desperately needs. She struggles internally, but those struggles feel muted and almost disconnected—the ephemerality of her fears and growth makes her feel like a mere vessel, not a fully fleshed-out protagonist. The supporting cast, including Charlie and Thomas, flutter in and out of significance without ever grounding the reader in their experiences.
The author’s writing style is often cluttered with disjointed narrative techniques, which I suspect contributed to the book’s floundering pace. The lengthy asides, meant to enrich our understanding of Eve’s psyche, come off as tedious fillers rather than engaging enhancements. I couldn’t help but feel trapped alongside Eve, spinning in circles, endlessly wondering if we’d arrive anywhere meaningful.
Despite the frustrations, there are glimpses of the sheer potential this narrative could have delivered. The original short story that preceded this novel seems to hold an allure and sharp focus that just doesn’t carry over into this expanded version. And therein lies the crux of my disappointment: a great concept sprawling into an overinflated narrative that forgets the delicate art of brevity.
In terms of recommendations, I would suggest this book might appeal to dedicated fans of internet horror who might appreciate the references to creepypasta and the cultish aesthetics drawn from the genre. Yet for readers seeking depth, character engagement, or satisfying resolutions, We Used to Live Here may leave you feeling hollowed out rather than haunted.
Ultimately, my experience with this novel served as a poignant reminder that sometimes, less truly is more. I closed the book wishing for tighter narratives and meaningful explorations of the horror lurking just beneath our everyday lives, not buried in elaborate subplots that distract from the core of compelling storytelling. It’s a haunting read—just not in the way I had hoped.