Ramona (Danielle Deadwyler) is a young widow reckoning with the aftermath of a terrible car accident that claimed her husband’s life and left her physically scarred. She and her two children, preteen Taylor and spirited Annie, have relocated to a remote farmhouse. Their isolation, intended as a balm for trauma, instead becomes the stage for a chilling encounter: a tall, silent woman in a flowing black dress who stands day after day in their front yard, motionless and unblinking.
At first, the family presumes she’s just an odd local who’s lost her way. But as the woman edges ever closer—sometimes vanishing, then inexplicably reappearing inside the house—their unease escalates. Neighbors report no one fitting her description, and Ramona’s own sleep-deprived mind begins to blur waking life with nightmares. Is this figure a specter drawn by the tragedy that haunts Ramona, or is something far more sinister at play?
Danielle Deadwyler brings an extraordinary depth to Ramona. Her grief feels lived-in, her physical pain palpable. We see it in the tremor of her hands when she tries to calm Annie; in the hollow look she casts at her husband’s empty chair. Deadwyler strikes a delicate balance: you empathize deeply with her, even as you question whether her mounting paranoia is justified. It’s a performance that drags you into the film’s emotional core and holds you there, even as the tension ratchets up around her.
The two child actors, Peyton Jackson (Taylor) and Estella Kahiha (Annie), ground the story in an authentic family dynamic. Jackson’s eyes flick between curiosity and alarm when she first notices the woman, embodying a child’s brave front as fear bubbles below the surface. Kahiha’s Annie—bossy, inquisitive, and sometimes exasperating—provides moments of levity, which make the horror all the more jarring when it strikes.
Pawel Pogorzelski’s cinematography is a masterclass in building dread through suggestion rather than spectacle. Daylight scenes feel unexpectedly claustrophobic; the yard, though wide open, seems to close in on the house. The choice to shoot many of the film’s pivotal moments in the muted glow of late afternoon or the gray chill of dawn underscores the film’s themes of liminality—between life and death, sanity and madness.
Shadows loom large, corners of rooms are shot with tight framing, and the camera often hesitates on an empty space long enough to make your skin crawl. Collet-Serra resists the urge to jolt you with sudden cuts or overtly graphic imagery; instead, tension is sustained through slow pushes toward the silent figure, a low hum in the soundtrack, or a single, lingering glance from Deadwyler’s haunted eyes.
Alex Belcher’s score is deceptively simple: a series of droning strings, distant piano notes, and the occasional discordant scrape. It never overwhelms but provides a persistent undercurrent of dread. Sound design—creaking floorboards, the children’s whispered conversations, the unnatural hush that descends when the woman draws near—becomes a character in itself, constantly reminding us that the boundary between normalcy and terror is razor-thin.
On one level, The Woman in the Yard delivers classic haunted-house thrills: the insidious encroachment of an unearthly presence, the slow unraveling of a family’s sense of safety, and the big reveal that challenges what we’ve seen. But at its heart, the film is a study of grief and the guilt that shadows it. Collet-Serra and screenwriter Sam Stefanak use the supernatural figure not just as a scare tactic but as a visual metaphor for Ramona’s internal torment.
As Ramona obsesses over the woman, she neglects her children, withdraws from neighbors, and starts seeing signs of her husband’s ghostly return. The film asks: how do you live when everyday life feels like a betrayal of someone you’ve lost? And can you truly move forward if you’re haunted by your own remorse? By the time the climax arrives—a tense standoff in the rain-drenched yard—you realize the real conflict has been inside Ramona all along.
At 87 minutes, the film doesn’t outstay its welcome. It unfolds deliberately: an opening act that establishes normalcy and trauma, a middle section where the silent visitor looms ever larger, and a finale that thrusts both Ramona and the audience into a confrontation with suppressed truths. Some viewers may wish for deeper backstory—more insight into the woman’s identity or the specifics of the accident—but the film’s restraint is also its strength. By answering too many questions, it would risk deflating the tension that hinges on not knowing.
THE WOMAN IN THE YARD may not reinvent the haunted-house formula, but it reinvigorates it with a focused emotional core and a standout performance by Danielle Deadwyler. Its true power lies in intertwining the spectral with the psychological, using every sway of the camera and echo of sound to remind us that the most terrifying ghosts are those we carry within.
For viewers who appreciate horror that favors atmosphere and character study over gore, this film offers a compelling—if occasionally opaque—journey into the darker corridors of the mind. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the scariest thing in any story is our own capacity for self-reproach. And when grief stands at your window, knocking with silent insistence, there may be no door strong enough to keep it out.
Bonus Features
- MAKING THE WOMAN IN THE YARD- Travel through the darkest corners of the film during this behind-the-scenes journey where filmmakers work with cast to craft a story that is both haunting and human.
- BENEATH THE VEIL - Cast and filmmakers lift the veil on the film’s frightening figure for this revealing look at the themes, designs, and styles that shape her eerie specter into a powerful presence.
THE WOMAN IN THE YARD will be available on DVD and Blu-ray on May 27 and is currently available on Digital platforms. This is one of the year's best horror films and something worth revisiting.