Published Aug 30, 2026, 8:02 PM EDT
Dyah (pronounced Dee-yah) is a Senior Author at Collider, responsible for both writing and transcription duties. She joined the website in 2022 as a Resource Writer before stepping into her current role in April 2023. As a Senior Author, she writes Features and Lists covering TV, music, and movies, making her a true Jill of all trades. In addition to her writing, Dyah also serves as an interview transcriber, primarily for events such as **San Diego Comic-Con, **the Toronto International Film Festival, and the Sundance Film Festival.
Dyah graduated from Satya Wacana Christian University in October 2019 with a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature, concentrating on Creative Writing. She is currently completing her Master’s degree in English Literature Studies, with a thesis on intersectionality in postcolonial-feminist studies in Asian literary works, and is expected to graduate in 2026.
Born and raised between Indonesia and Singapore, Dyah is no stranger to different cultures. She now resides in the small town of Kendal with her husband and four cats, where she spends her free time cooking or cycling.
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Thriller novels have come and gone over the years, but the common thread that binds them together is their ability to keep readers on the edge of their seats. With television and movies, audiences are spoiled by visual entertainment designed to keep the adrenaline flowing. Books, however, rely entirely on words alone.
In today’s short-attention-span era, it takes incredible skill to keep readers turning the pages, eager to uncover the truth behind the plot. Although thrillers exist across a myriad of genres, from political dramas to crime mysteries, a select few stand out as essential reads. From novels that inspired now-famous movie adaptations to stories about parenthood gone horribly wrong, here are essential thriller books that everyone should read at least once.
Mikael Blomkvist’s career in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is already in trouble when Henrik Vanger gives him a strange assignment: figure out what happened to Harriet Vanger, a young woman who disappeared from her family’s isolated island 40 years ago. What initially looks like a dead-end cold case becomes much darker once Mikael starts investigating the Vanger family’s history.
Mikael’s partner, Lisbeth Salander, is the real reason this book deserves to be read at least once. She is far more complicated than the typical tough female character, carrying years of abuse and trauma without being reduced to a victim. Larsson also gives her agency in a way that makes her difficult to forget: Lisbeth refuses to wait for institutions to protect her and instead takes control of her own survival.
The Sympathizer*** ***may be an espionage thriller, but it tells the Vietnam War from an often overlooked perspective. An unnamed half-Vietnamese, half-French communist spy escapes Saigon for Los Angeles, where he secretly reports on South Vietnamese military leaders in exile. As he settles into a new life while working for his revolutionary handler, his conflicting loyalties grow harder to balance.
With the spy constantly caught in a state of “in between,” The Sympathizer follows him as he is pushed and pulled against his will, forced to follow wherever his circumstances take him as long as it guarantees his survival. There’s no such thing as a clean start for a spy; the weight of his responsibilities and loyalty to the cause keeps him questioning whether either is truly worth risking his life for.
Although it is now best known for its Prime Video adaptation, it takes real skill to capture the action and intensity of ***Reacher ***through words alone. The Killing Floor, the first novel in Lee Child’s Jack Reacher series, does exactly that. The debut introduces former military police officer Jack Reacher, who is unexpectedly arrested in a small town he has never visited before.
Nothing beats the suspense of a small-town murder, especially when someone is trying to clear their name for a crime they didn’t commit. Unlike the show, which relies heavily on visual cues, the book breaks down Reacher’s thought process as he pieces together the clues and works to uncover the real killer. If you’re a fan of Reacher or love action thrillers in general, reading The Killing Floor allows you to experience his sharp instincts and methodical reasoning in its original form.
The Silence of the Lambs is essential reading for anyone interested in psychological thrillers. Young FBI trainee Clarice Starling is assigned to question the brilliant but terrifying Hannibal Lecter, hoping he can help her track down serial killer Buffalo Bill. Lecter, however, offers disturbing clues in exchange for details about her traumatic past.
The novel is more than a chilling exchange between an FBI agent and a psychopath. It explores Clarice’s struggles as a woman in a male-dominated profession, where her background and vulnerability are constantly scrutinized. The conversations alone are disturbing, but the book is worth reading at least once for its more in-depth look at** how manipulation and power can operate **within even seemingly untouchable institutions like the FBI.
Eight strangers arrive on a secluded island in And Then There Were None, only to find that their hosts are nowhere to be found. Instead, an empty house and a creepy gramophone play a recording accusing each guest of causing someone’s death. Things get worse when the accusations start coming true, with the strangers dying one by one.
When it comes to an innovative classic thriller, **Agatha Christie **knows how to do it. The setup sounds grim, but that’s also what makes the book so much fun. There’s no detective to solve the case, leaving the guests to figure out who the killer is while wondering if they’re next. It’s an old-fashioned whodunit with a clever Christie twist, constantly keeping you guessing.
Your answers have pointed to one Oscar Best Picture winner above all others. This is the film that was made for the way your mind works.
You are drawn to films that operate on multiple levels simultaneously — that begin in one genre and quietly, brilliantly migrate into another. Bong Joon-ho’s Parasite is a film about class, desire, and the architecture of inequality that manages to be darkly funny, deeply suspenseful, and genuinely shocking across a single extraordinary running time. Your instinct is for cinema that hides its true intentions until the moment it’s ready to reveal them. Parasite is exactly that — a film that rewards close attention and punishes assumptions, right up to its devastating final image.
You want it all — and this film gives you all of it. The Daniels’ Everything Everywhere All at Once is one of the most maximalist films ever made: action comedy, multiverse sci-fi, family drama, existential crisis, and a genuinely earned emotional core that sneaks up on you amid the chaos. You are someone who responds to ambition, who doesn’t want cinema to choose between being entertaining and being meaningful. This film refuses that choice entirely. It is overwhelming by design, and its overwhelming nature is precisely the point — because the feeling of being crushed by infinite possibility is exactly what it’s about.
You are drawn to cinema on a grand scale — films that understand history not as a backdrop but as a force, and that place their characters inside that force and watch what happens. Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer is a film about the terrifying gap between what we can do and what we should do, told with the full weight of one of the most consequential moments in human history behind it. You want your films to feel important without feeling self-important — to earn their ambition through sheer craft and the gravity of their subject. Oppenheimer does exactly that. It is enormous, complicated, and refuses easy comfort.
You are drawn to films that foreground their own construction — that make the how of the filmmaking part of the what it’s about. Alejandro González Iñárritu’s Birdman, shot to appear as a single continuous take, is cinema examining itself through the cracked mirror of a fading actor’s ego. You respond to formal daring, to the feeling that a film is doing something that probably shouldn’t be possible. Michael Keaton’s performance and Emmanuel Lubezki’s restless camera create something genuinely unlike anything else — a film that is simultaneously about creativity, relevance, self-destruction, and the impossibility of ever truly knowing if your work means anything at all.
You are drawn to cinema that trusts silence, that refuses to explain itself, and that treats dread as a form of meaning. The Coen Brothers’ No Country for Old Men is a film about the arrival of a new kind of evil — implacable, arbitrary, and utterly indifferent to the moral frameworks we use to make sense of the world. It is one of the most formally controlled films ever made, and its controlled restraint is what makes it so terrifying. You want your films to haunt you, not comfort you. You are not interested in resolution if resolution would be dishonest. No Country for Old Men is honest in a way that most cinema never dares to be.
The Chain takes a parent’s worst nightmare and turns it into a vicious moral dilemma. Rachel Klein is in the middle of cancer treatment when she discovers that her daughter, Kylie, has been kidnapped. The people behind it give her one way to get Kylie back: pay the ransom, then kidnap another child and force that family to continue the cycle.
The Chain is addictive to read because it challenges readers to consider what they would do in Rachel’s position. It seems like whatever she does, it’s never the right decision, and that’s the point. It’s not simply about whether she can rescue her daughter; it’s about how far she’s willing to go and how much of herself she’s prepared to sacrifice to save her child.
*Gone Girl *begins with Nick Dunne’s wife, Amy, disappearing on their fifth wedding anniversary, quickly turning him from worried husband into the prime suspect. As the media descends on their seemingly perfect marriage, Nick’s carefully guarded secrets begin to surface, making it increasingly difficult to tell who is telling the truth.
Forget happy ever afters—*Gone Girl *messes with the idea of marriage as a safe, comforting sanctuary. For Nick and Amy, marriage becomes a battlefield where resentment, manipulation, and deception are weaponized. Flynn takes ordinary marital problems and pushes them to deeply disturbing extremes, while Amy’s infamous “Cool Girl” monologue and the novel’s huge twist add even more bite.
Razorblade Tears follows Ike Randolph and Buddy Lee, two fathers brought together by the brutal murders of their sons, Isiah and Derek. When the authorities fail to deliver justice, the two grieving men decide to hunt down the killers themselves, despite barely being able to stand each other.
As they search across rural Virginia, both men face the prejudice and homophobia that once kept them from fully accepting their sons. *Razorblade Tears *could have easily been just another violent revenge thriller, but brutality alone doesn’t make the novel a worthy read. It’s the fact that the author shows how that violence is intertwined with fatherhood, grief, regret, and learning to love someone before it’s too late.
Set in 1982, The Good Lawyer follows a New York City still grappling with the legacy of organized crime. Nick Mannino grew up surrounded by a family tied to the mob, but as an adult, he’s determined to break away from that world and build a different life as a young attorney.
Nick’s plans are put to the test when he takes on a controversial case involving a teacher’s aide accused of molesting students. That’s where the novel gets especially compelling: being a lawyer means defending your client, even when the truth isn’t as straightforward as you’d like it to be. Reading The Good Lawyer is a reminder that justice will always be an uncomfortable gray area.
*Lord of the Flies *reimagines the survival thriller with a different group of survivors: British schoolboys. Barely teenagers, they’re **stranded on a deserted island after their plane crashes **during wartime. While the more pacifist Ralph is chosen as leader, Jack forms his own group, becoming increasingly consumed by the wilderness.
There’s nothing more dangerous than putting a bunch of hormonal tweens on an island where the rules are nonexistent. But* Lord of the Flies *shows that these boys aren’t monsters from the start. That’s what makes it such an effective thriller: watching their innocence tatter as fear and power take over. It forces readers to question whether their brutal transformation is shaped by nature or nurture.
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