Lo que nos siguió a casa; Something Followed Us Home: Tales of Latiné Horror
Cynthia Pelayo, ed.
Trade paperback/ebook/audiobook
ISBN: 978-1668091944
Atria/Primero Sueño Press, September 2026, 336 pgs

Award-winning author and poet Cynthia Pelayo returns to editing with this fantastic horror anthology, available in either English or Spanish. The book features seventeen stories, most of them original, from a set of proven storytellers who have a wide range of approaches not just to fiction, but to horror. Some are known for their subtle stylings, going for mood and subtext, metaphor and atmosphere; others lean toward things that may challenge certain readers and are definitely not for the faint of heart. All of them have a point of view and their own distinctive voices, and more than this, all of them know how to engage and entertain readers. I’ll go over a few pieces as a sample set (this set is designed to showcase some of the range of interests and approaches), but you can be assured that this book is a good option for folks who love short horror fiction.

“Blue Flowers” by Agustina Bazterrica, translated by Sarah Moses, kicks things off. It’s generally true that most pieces of fiction will be interpreted in different ways by different people. If you get a room full of readers together and have them write down their impressions of a story, some will have seen the same things, but there’s no way everyone will have uniform interpretations. (I’ve tried it! I encourage you to try it, too!) For me, this is even more true of pieces like this, where the narrator is quite unreliable, and moments along the way could be symbolic or literal, and even if literal, might not necessarily be real in the way that things are real for us. The story is about a family, and where the narrative excels is in creating a brooding atmosphere of tension through brief moments and images and allusion. There’s a quietly hostile brother, a mother clearly touched by some kind of trauma, and a father who has locked a shed which may contain something dire. They are all haunted by shadows—unless the shadows are just some manifestations created by the narrator, some kind of unconscious projection, for example. As you read, this definitely feels like an “I’ll explain everything at the end” kind of story, but this tactic makes more sense here than it often does, because the narrator is probably a kid (some details are never explicitly revealed), and the kid is definitely confused about what is happening, as well as what happened. This doesn’t come off as forced or contrived but feels natural to the flow of things: an organic kind of underlying uncertainty, which lends to the overall expression of dread. I think many who read “I’ll explain . . .” stories (or watch similar movies, like nearly anything by Shyamalan) will, of course, try to figure out everything along the way. This piece is the perfect length for what it does, and more than anything, at least for me, is an engrossing, tense tale that will probably make you forget about work, breakups, medical issues, and many other things. There are some standout moments to me, which capture odd internal reflections of life in a real way, framing them within the world of a horror story. But: Is the ending really what happened at the end? Is the author saying what we think is being said? And what kind of subtext, if any, plays out through the narrative? I have ideas; I almost always do! But no definite answers, and it’s one of those stories that can be fun to argue about over a glass of wine at the bar.

Lilliam Rivera’s “Whispers from the Root,” presumably translated by the author as the ARC (Advanced Review Copy) I have does not credit a translator, opens with an arresting line, situated in an almost placid paragraph, creating an interesting effect of extraordinary horror within the ordinary. This made me think of the way that terrible things intrude on us all the time and are part of ordinary life when perhaps they should be seen as wild and unusual. How often do we see news announcements of horrific happenings? So often that we scroll by them nearly unaffected. And, of course, some folks deal with bad happenings more than others. Which isn’t to say that Norma, our protagonist, isn’t thrown by her sudden transformation; but when she sees herself in the mirror one day and she has become something horrific, she is determined to adjust and continue with her planned day, the way we might when mundane tragedies have become so common in our reality that we also continue our day. As the story progresses, we meet Claudia, who also befalls a sudden horrific transformation, and we learn that it’s all connected to a mysterious figure named Doña Mercedes. Finally, we meet Willie, who suffers in a similar way: three disparate characters whose lives now take a new direction. By this point, the real flex of the story is how quickly Rivera can sketch interesting, distinctive people, how deftly Rivera develops a situation which is both weird and compelling, and how playfully Rivera creates in readers the desire to drive forward eagerly, to find out what is going on. Anyone can tell a reader, “Here’s a situation and I’m only giving you part of the story,” but not everyone can do it in a way that actually makes a reader curious and hungry. It’s a fun piece, glittering with passing observations about the world, completed by a kind of gratifying violent resolution that some horror is known for. Ultimately it is perhaps about power and the realities of society, but it’s driven by Rivera’s narrative ability and story decisions.

Mariana Enriquez gives us “Guardian Angel,” translated by Megan McDowell. This is a weird (or weird-er) story, in a book of fairly weird stories. Marisa’s family seems set upon by a curse, or perhaps the devil. After her mother dies, things get creepier and worse, including finding shapes behind furniture and changes in Marisa’s dad—described in brilliantly evocative ways. Some of the depictions and events are raw and unflinching, and some of the moments are reminiscent of narratives like The Exorcist, in the best of ways (if you like those kinds of stories, which, I definitely do). Stains that may be evil, a father who may be possessed, and a sister who could be part of the horror, or the victim, or both: Enriquez plays with that sense of uncertainty, while delivering both atmosphere and dread as well as just really fucked up scenes. In real life, we are often perplexed, helpless, flailing, and this story captures those emotions well, while also being kind of intoxicating. Well, again . . . if you are a reader who won’t summarily slam the book down, suddenly become far more religious, and run to church to perform ablutions. (I am not.) The title is “Guardian Angel,” and fairly deep into the story, Marisa does try to summon her guardian angel. What comes next is not what I expected, and it is a delight to be surprised. Perhaps I could interpret this story as speaking to the hell of being trapped in a shitty family, and the fact that extreme examples of shitty families are more common than you think. Perhaps it is about delusion. It could even be a polemic against conservative interpretations of evil actions, of the way many default to religious explanations (as well as religious solutions). Then again, it could just be an author who delights in penning tales that will disturb readers. This one will work on a lot of people—my personal bar for being disturbed is harder to hit, but I was certainly entertained and given a lot to ponder. An awesome piece (in a book of great stories) that just makes me want to read more by the author!

In “Mechanical Servants LLC” by Juan Martinez (no translator credited), an unnamed protagonist has been receiving email alerts about vending machine novelty products. The protagonist decides to visit the novelty company, which happens to be situated somewhat nearby. One of the alerts is for a miniature replica of the protagonist’s dead ex-girlfriend’s childhood home . . . It’s such an interesting, unique premise, a slight warping of the mundane, just enough to make you go, “wait, what???” From here the narrative flows in an almost train-of-thought style, moving through memories or ruminations, interspersed with encounters with odd, surreal objects in clamshell packaging. There is a kind of overall morose vibe to this one, which perhaps speaks to feelings of being trapped in cycles and patterns and habits. There are also small spikes of terror, often grounded in very real things, such as people storming into your bedroom to capture and deport you. It feels like wandering nostalgia but not an aimless one, and winds up in a suitably dark place, one which is less about answers and more about an emotion matching the cold gray winter of the setting. This is a great example of a less “blood and guts” or “yeah . . . not everyone will be able to read this” kind of horror, and a more contemplative, existential horror. Because the vending machine is central-ish, I couldn’t help but think of Ananda Lima’s excellent “Antropófaga,” which I’d read in her wonderful book Craft: Stories I Wrote for the Devil, which also features weirdness with a vending machine. They are very different stories doing different things, but we just don’t see this kind of creativity often, and since they have overlapping elements, comparison is perhaps inevitable.

“The Hand That Feeds” by Isabel Cañas (similarly with no translator credit, so probably translated by the author) is told in an almost lyrical style, with prose that is unassuming yet beautiful, seasoned with a somewhat fable-ish tone. It’s just perfectly vivid, to give you enough to imagine without getting bogged down by details. The structure is similarly perfect, setting everything up nicely, but also adding little embellishments that can be drawn on later. A boy finds a wolf pup, who gets kicked out by the boy’s mom. The pup is no ordinary animal and craves company, as she finds herself to be unique and feels alone in the world. The pup and the boy reunite years later, as adults, and since we already know this is horror, it’s not too much of a spoiler to say things don’t go as planned. That said, this narrative rides that wonderful line of familiar and innovative, which ultimately makes a piece feel unique. I didn’t exactly predict where it was going, yet it was so immensely satisfying that I actually smirked at one point. Seriously: Isabel Cañas has some great storytelling here.

Speaking of Ananda Lima, this book also features a story by her, as well as stories by Leopoldo Gout, Daniel José Older, Alex Segura, Ann Dávila Cardinal, Zoraida Córdova, Mónica Ojeda, and more. Brenda Lozano gives us a prologue, translated by Heather Cleary, which offers observations and meditations on ghosts from various global locales. I mean, an anthology of strange, imaginative stories by talented writers? It seems obvious to me. Yes, if you like short horror fiction, you should definitely get this one. Settle into your fun, creepy mood—you know, when it’s too quiet outside, and the dim indoor lights make it hard to see out into the night? Tell yourself it’s fine, sink into your couch, open up this book . . . and enjoy the unsettling visions these authors have put together for you.