February 2021 Top Novel: “Rebecca” by Daphne du Maurier

I didn’t expect to get pulled into a gothic novel this month. But Rebecca is the kind of book that lingers long after you close it. I went in expecting a ghost story and ended up with something stranger: a psychological spiral, a love story with sharp edges, and a mansion so alive it felt like a character.

The story begins with the unforgettable line: "Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again." That dreamlike opening sets the tone for everything that follows. The narrator, a nameless young woman, meets and quickly marries the brooding widower Maxim de Winter. She’s whisked away from her dull life as a companion and brought to his grand estate, Manderley, perched on the Cornish coast and soaked in mystery.

But the past won’t rest quietly. Rebecca, Maxim’s late wife, haunts every hallway, every gesture of the staff, every silent moment. Even in death, she’s more present than the living. Our narrator, painfully self-conscious and uncertain, is slowly consumed by the weight of this memory, and by her belief that she can never live up to the woman who came before her.

I related a little too much to the narrator’s awkwardness and inner monologue. The way she second-guesses everything, shrinking beside people who seem bigger and more confident, felt eerily familiar. And that creeping sense of not being enough, of comparing yourself to someone who seems untouchable, is something I think most people have felt, even if their version of Rebecca wasn’t a glamorous dead wife.

What makes this book special is its atmosphere. Du Maurier writes with a kind of foggy tension that never quite lifts. Manderley isn’t just a house; it’s a trap. The gardens, the drawing rooms, the sea crashing below the cliffs. All of it carries this heavy, unspoken history. You don’t just read Rebecca, you live inside it for a while.

And then there’s Mrs. Danvers. Cold, severe, and unsettling, she’s easily one of the best antagonists I’ve come across. Her devotion to Rebecca borders on obsession, and her manipulations push the narrator to the brink. She’s a quiet force, never violent, but always present; a reminder that memory, loyalty, and grief can twist into something darker.

Rebecca doesn’t follow a typical gothic horror arc. It simmers rather than explodes. The twists come late, and they’re not the kind that scream — they unfold with a quiet kind of dread. When the truth about Rebecca finally surfaces, it reframes the entire story, turning it into something more complex and more human. It’s not about ghosts at all, but about guilt, identity, power, and the fragile balance of love and control.

Reading this in February felt right. The coastal fog, the silence of Manderley, the blurred lines between past and present: it all suits a month that often feels suspended in time. I read it mostly at night, wrapped in a blanket, half-expecting to look up and see the sea through the window.

Rebecca is one of those novels that’s earned its reputation. It’s not flashy or fast-paced, but it’s layered and haunting in a way that creeps up on you. If you like stories that feel both old and relevant, that explore what it means to live in the shadow of someone else’s legend, this one is worth your time.

It reminded me that sometimes, the scariest ghosts aren’t supernatural at all; they’re the ones we carry in our heads.