We Used to Live Here Audiobook by Marcus Kliewer

I queued up “We Used to Live Here” during a rainy Portland afternoon, mug of chai in hand and thunder rolling beyond my window—an atmosphere that, in hindsight, couldn’t have been more perfect for Marcus Kliewer’s unsettling debut. From the opening lines, I felt an electric unease settle over me, as though the walls themselves were listening in.

Kliewer’s blend of psychological horror and incisive social commentary gripped me from the start. Charlie and Eve—the young queer couple at the center—felt so real and vulnerable; their optimism about transforming their fixer-upper reminded me painfully of my own first home with my partner: equal parts hope and anxiety. But what begins as a universal dream spirals into something much darker when strangers arrive claiming they “used to live here,” refusing to leave. This simple premise twists masterfully into nightmarish ambiguity.

What struck me most was how thoroughly Kliewer captured both mundane tension (awkward hospitality gone awry) and existential terror (is this really happening or am I losing myself?). Eve’s psychological unraveling became a mirror to those moments we’ve all had—when reality seems just out of reach, colored by our fears and traumas. The dread isn’t just supernatural but deeply human: the fear that our safe spaces can be invaded not only physically but emotionally.

The audiobook narration is exceptional—Jeremy Carlisle Parker gives voice to Eve’s escalating panic with such raw honesty I found myself gripping my blanket tighter than intended. Corey Brill brings a measured yet chilling tone to scenes involving the intrusive family; his calmness makes every word feel like an implicit threat. Their interplay underscores both intimacy between partners and the jarring intrusion of outsiders, never letting you get too comfortable.

One thing I loved was how deftly this story interrogates themes familiar from movies like “Get Out” or “Parasite,” but with its own fresh twist on who is permitted belonging—and at what cost. The queerness of Charlie and Eve isn’t tokenistic; it shapes everything about how they interact with their invaders, neighbors, even each other under stress. As someone who has navigated feeling “other” within supposedly safe spaces myself, this resonated profoundly.

If there’s any drawback here, it might be that certain ambiguities are left intentionally unresolved by Kliewer—I suspect some listeners may crave more concrete answers by book’s end. Personally? I reveled in not knowing; haunted houses (and haunting questions) should echo long after we close the door behind us.

The included PDF provided extra context that enriched later chapters without disrupting immersion—a nice touch if you’re prone to obsession over background details like I am!

Ultimately, “We Used to Live Here” is one of those rare audiobooks where performance and prose work in perfect tandem: every heartbeat feels amplified through your headphones; every whispered question becomes yours to answer—or fear—as well. It belongs alongside modern classics of horror for anyone drawn toward stories that unsettle while illuminating truths beneath everyday anxieties.