If what gripped you in A Demon in My View was dwelling inside a dangerous mind—the rituals, the rationalizations, the way a “normal” facade hides deviance—then The Talented Mr. Ripley will pull you in. Like the time you watched the lodger’s strictly ordered life revolve around that mannequin in the cellar and the disruption caused by the new tenant with his same name, Tom Ripley’s world is built from meticulous self-invention and mounting deceit. You’ll recognize the same clinical, intimate attention to a predator’s thoughts as Ripley maneuvers through charm, obsession, and murder.

You spent A Demon in My View shadowing a perpetrator—watching his secret rituals in the boarding house and the way the arrival of a namesake begins to topple his carefully built cover. The Killer Inside Me offers that same disquieting center of gravity, told straight from the mind of the man doing harm. As the mask slips, you get the same creeping dread you felt when the cellar sanctuary and its mannequin could no longer contain the protagonist’s escalating urges.

If the stifling atmosphere of the shabby house in A Demon in My View—with its basement secrets and prying neighbors—hooked you, The Collector magnifies that intimacy into a chilling two-person standoff. The way the lodger’s routines and the mannequin in the cellar create a private world of control is echoed here by a kidnapper’s meticulously arranged space and the psychological tug-of-war that follows, all within a suffocating, enclosed setting.

The quiet build in A Demon in My View—from the lodger’s everyday habits to the moment his private violence strains against the order of the house—mirrors the slow-burn unease of We Have Always Lived in the Castle. Jackson lets domestic rituals and small-town rhythms accumulate tension until the past ruptures the present, much like how a chance arrival upends the careful system that once kept the cellar’s secret contained.

If you appreciated how A Demon in My View let different angles on the same boarding house and its hidden cellar steadily alter your understanding—especially once the newcomer shares the lodger’s name—Gone Girl amplifies that effect through alternating accounts that constantly shift your footing. As revelations accumulate, the menace changes shape, echoing the way proximity and perspective intensified the danger in that deceptively ordinary house.