OneTribune

Otherworldly, poignant, and immersive.

Long before GPS satellites and sonar, sailors turned to lighthouses for salvation—beacons in the fog, flickering through chaos to promise safe passage. But what if the danger wasn’t on the rocks but in the water itself? And what if that beacon, shining through centuries, also illuminated the ghosts we carry in our blood? With A Song at Dead Man’s Cove, Ana Yudin crafts more than just a Gothic horror—it’s a meditation on grief, womanhood, and the slippery boundary between folklore and lived experience.

In a coastal town steeped in whispered legends and fog-thick superstition, two women—separated by over a century—confront the same ancient darkness that haunts the shores of Dead Man’s Cove. Zarya, a young hotel receptionist with a hunger for truth, and Josephine, a lighthouse keeper’s wife yearning for connection in the wild, untamed West, each tackle a world that insists on silence in the face of the unspeakable. Through dual timelines woven with eerie precision, the novel echoes across generations, revealing how myth is often born from loss, and how every place remembers—especially the sea.

There’s a quiet elegance to Yudin’s prose that elevates the novel beyond typical horror fare. The writing, often cinematic, captures salt-tinged air and flickering lantern light with equal finesse. A velvet-upholstered chair under prohibition-style lighting becomes as vivid as the glint of silver eyes rising from the surf. Zarya’s inner monologue, occasionally laced with wry humor, always rings true—whether she’s noting how a strong drink “tasted like something under the hood of a car” or steeling herself against small-town gossip. Josephine’s chapters, meanwhile, bring the tactility and loneliness of 1850s frontier life into sharp focus—a woman in a corset pouring tea for her husband’s employer while longing for beauty and belonging. The way her isolation hangs, even in rooms full of fine things and finer people, hits with quiet devastation.

What’s remarkable is how this book speaks directly to adults who appreciate atmosphere and depth without condescension. Given the mature themes of suicide, complex relationships, and inherited sorrow, it’s perfectly suited to those seeking a richly textured, psychologically immersive experience. Readers drawn to spooky coastal towns, intergenerational mystery, or the uncanny sense that something in the sea is watching will find themselves utterly entranced. The blend of melancholy and myth feels like slipping into the tide—warm at first, until you realize it’s pulling you somewhere deeper. Yudin’s interlacing of Slavic water-spirit lore with Pacific Northwest folklore suggests a hidden architecture of belief and loss, a welcome departure from more surface-level siren tales.

The story isn’t flashy or reliant on sudden shocks. Instead, it builds tension like fog over a harbor—slowly, then all at once. Even in its quietest moments, it resists easy conclusions: the town’s silent vigil teeters between heartfelt solidarity and collective fear, revealing more about human sorrow than any creature of legend. One of the most unforgettable scenes is Zarya’s rain-soaked encounter with something in the water, caught only in a flash of lightning—so vivid and breathless that it resonates long after the page is turned.

This novel may not satisfy readers craving fast-paced action or tidy endings. It asks you to sit with unease, question what’s real, and recognize how grief can shape both our human lives and our oldest stories. Those who love layered storytelling and richly drawn settings—fans of Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black, Sarah Waters’ ghostly narratives, or Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s uncanny fables—will fall under its gentle, haunting spell.

Ultimately, A Song at Dead Man’s Cove is a siren’s call of its own. It doesn’t shatter you against hidden rocks but beckons you into something older, sadder, and wiser than you expected. It’s a tale of what we bury beneath the sand—fear, loss, memory—and how those buried things always find their way to shore. Like sea glass, Yudin’s novel polishes raw shards of sorrow into luminous storytelling. This is more than a ghost story; it’s a song that deserves to be heard.

Words Across the Waters Book Award

The book is a Words Across the Waters Book Award winner, celebrated as one of the books that go beyond the surface and offer readers deep cultural insights and transformative experiences. Whether a work of fiction, memoir, or poetry collection, we seek stories that are not only well-crafted but also offer windows into the lives, traditions, and histories that shape our world. Our award-winning books challenge us to see through the eyes of others, face unfamiliar experiences, and reflect on the universal themes that bind us together. 

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