Dollface by Lindy Ryan
Minotaur Books (February 24, 2026)
Reviewed by Elizabeth Broadbent
In a publishing landscape that loves to hand us blonde, virginal final girls, Lindy Ryan’s Dollface gives us something different: a forty-something mother.
That shouldn’t be rare. It is.
Horror famously ignores women once we reach a certain age. Mothers and crones tend to be invisible or demonized, regulated to the sidelines or figured as the antagonistic witch. Publishers think that no one wants to read about older female protagonists. Well, note to publishers: Gen X, Xennials, and older Gen Z are hitting perimenopause now, and I can only assure you that we read and we want heroines our own age. Thank God for books like Dollface and writers like Ryan, an author and a mother who’s lived through the trenches of childhood.
Dollface stars Jill, a horror author and probably-Xennial mama lately dragged from Texas to the cookie-cutter suburbs of Jersey. She’s unpacking her house in a bathrobe and a horror tee when new-neighbor Darla comes knocking with a whole-ass gift basket.
Darla. Women, you know Darla. She’s the cheerleader-peppy, Eighties-throwback fashion mom with frizzy hair, outdated makeup, and homemade sequins on her elementary school sweatshirt. Darla immediately ropes Jill into the PTA, sweeps her into a brunch meeting at the local coffeeshop, and introduces her to the mean girl cabal they call the parent-teacher association.
Oh, ladies, we know these women. High school dynamics never ended for these bitchtastic moms, one of whom is Lululemoned to the nines. Horror girl Jill doesn’t fit. She’s cringing, attempting to smile, and trying to answer questions like what exactly do you write again? Ouch ouch ouch.
Then a woman in a doll mask murders the snobby barista, and the fun begins. As a serial killer stalks the picture-perfect suburbs, Jill’s drawn in. Her horror background gives her an almost neurodivergent attention to detail — is she? Intended or not, she reads like it, and thank you Lindy Ryan for both featuring that AND not making it a deal. I felt seen.
And maybe that’s the greatest strength of Dollface. Yes, the characters are relatable, well-drawn, and interesting. Yes, this plot moves. Yes, Ryan kept me guessing til the end — this murder plot does what it should and surprised me, tying up ends in a neat bow I didn’t expect. I enjoyed reading this one. And I especially liked it because so many women will see themselves here. We’re mamas attempting to hold it together with sugary breakfasts and a bottle of rosé; we’re banging the husbands we love and struggling to stay organized (and yes, there’s sex, and yes, it’s treated like normal life, and thank you for that, too, since it felt like part of life rather than prurience).
Lindy Ryan hands women the horror fix they crave: characters we know, settings we move through — Jill has to plan the freaking school Halloween party. Enter the slasher serial killer who’s picking off moms? Give it to me in the vein. Ryan makes these horror tropes her own, but the best horror trope — and the hardest to pull off — is making the familiar frightening. Ryan serves that up on a platter in this deliciously wicked look at suburban mom life.
More, please — more from Ryan, now one of my favs. And more please, from publishers at large. I speak for all of us when I say that we want horror characters we can relate to. This novel brings it. Keep an eye out for Ryan, y’all. She’s going places.
