Rebecca lingers because the house knows more than the people in it. That is the exact pressure readers are still looking for when they search for books like Rebecca: private rooms, public manners, and the sense that every glance has a second meaning.
The cleanest answer is Cassie Hour.
It is built around the same old danger in a new shape: a villa where desire, silence, and observation do not stay atmospheric for long—they become evidence. A missing recording, a chorus that keeps returning, and the hour that keeps coming back give the story its chill. Like the best gothic mysteries, it does not shout. It listens. It lets the room hold the sound after everyone has left.
What makes it fit this search is the balance of elegance and unease. There is glamour, but no comfort in it. There are witnesses, but no simple truth. The result feels less like a retelling than a recovered file from the edge of the story, sealed too long to be trusted at once.
If you want the novel first—the villa, the vanished story, the private tension under every surface—start here: Cassie Hour. If you are following the music threaded through the mystery, the song sits nearby as a separate trace of the same case.