And the River Drags Her Down: A Gripping Debut that Dives Deep Into Grief and Folklore
From the moment I stumbled across Jihyun Yun’s debut novel And the River Drags Her Down, I felt an irresistible pull—a magnetic force whispering tales of longing, loss, and the haunting beauty of Korean folklore. As a fan of YA horror, I was thrilled by the premise of mul gwisin, or water ghosts, infusing a chilling but deeply emotional narrative. As I turned each page, it was hard to believe this was a debut. The weight of raw emotion is palpable, and I rounded my 4.5-star rating up because I’m simply still blinking away tears.
At its core, And the River Drags Her Down is not just a horror novel; it’s an exploration of grief and fierce familial love, a haunting testament to how loss can warp our identities. Soojin Han, our troubled protagonist, grapples with the suffocating aftermath of losing her mother and then her sister Mirae to a tragic drowning. As she teeters on the edge of despair, desperate for connection, she makes a fateful choice—one that her mother warned against—and attempts to resurrect something far beyond her grasp. This isn’t merely a tale of the supernatural; it’s a poignant exploration of how grief can transform us into something unrecognizable while still tethering us to our humanity.
Soojin is, admittedly, not a likable character. Her grief manifests in sharp, defensive ways, turning her into a thorny fortress that is hard to penetrate. Being in her head is a challenge, but that is precisely the point. It invites us into a painful reality where loneliness and anger are shields against vulnerability. I appreciated how Yun doesn’t shy away from showing the raw, unfiltered aspects of grief, encapsulating the bittersweet realization that wanting to protect oneself can often alienate us from the people who care.
However, it’s not just Soojin’s story that unfolds. Mirae shines through the pages as a multi-dimensional character, forced to become the emotional anchor for her family. The layering of narratives allows side characters to find their voice, enriching an already complex tapestry, each thread weaving in tales of sorrow, connection, and community.
One of the moments that echoed in my heart comes from a conversation between Soojin and Mark Moon, her steadfast friend:
“What does that make me, Mark? That I can love somebody and still wish them pain, just so I’m not alone with mine?”
“Human,” he said. “It makes you human.”
These lines resonated with me, illuminating the intricacies of love and pain, that delicate line we tread.
Yun’s writing—simply stunning—grabs you and pulls you into the depths of its world. Initially, the shifting perspectives within chapters and the jumps between past and present felt disorienting, yet they soon coalesced into a seamless flow that encapsulated the tumultuous nature of grief. The imagery is haunting, especially when depicting macabre elements of body horror—a visual feast that could easily translate into a chilling folk horror film.
As I closed the final chapter, I couldn’t help but eagerly anticipate what Jihyun Yun would conjure next. For anyone who relishes deeply emotional narratives with a supernatural twist, And the River Drags Her Down offers a journey worth taking. It’s a vivid reminder of the power of love, loss, and the ungraspable threads that connect us to those who have slipped away. If you find solace in stories that balance the ethereal with the profoundly human, this book is a must-read, and I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to experience it. Thank you, Oneworld Publications and NetGalley, for this gem!
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