Monsters in Our Mirror: How "Our Shadows Have Claws" Reclaims Horror for the Latinx Soul

Cover for Our Shadows Have Claws (available now) and co-editor Yamile Saied Méndez.

For too long, horror has spoken in a single accent—one that whispers of European castles, New England graveyards, and monsters born from traditions that never felt like home. But Our Shadows Have Claws (Hatchett, 2022) arrives like a long-overdue reckoning, and this time, the terror speaks in voices I recognize, in languages that feel like family.

"This isn't just a collection of stories—it's an amplification of Latinx voices that have been haunting the margins of horror for far too long."

Edited by Argentine-American author Yamile Saied Méndez and Puerto Rican fantasy/horror writer Amparo Ortiz, this anthology brings together fifteen Latinx authors from across the diaspora to excavate the monsters that have always lived in our stories. These aren't borrowed fears dressed up in new clothes—they're the genuine terrors that our abuelas whispered about, the creatures that prowled the edges of our childhood nightmares, now given the literary spotlight they've always deserved.

Attempting to summarize all fifteen stories would be its own form of torture, but several tales demonstrate how powerfully this collection reimagines what horror can be. In "¿Dónde Está el Duende?" Jenny Torres Sanchez crafts a psychological nightmare around the Duende, a creature that doesn't just steal children—it devours their memories, leaving behind hollow shells who can't recognize their own families. Set in Florida but rooted in Salvadoran folklore, Sanchez transforms this traditional bogeyman into a metaphor for cultural erasure.

"The fear isn't just in the monster—it's in forgetting who you are."

This is where Our Shadows Have Claws transcends typical horror: it understands that for Latinx communities, the most terrifying prospect isn't death—it's disappearance, the slow dissolution of identity in a world that demands assimilation.

Chantel Acevedo's opening story reads like Romeo and Juliet reimagined in revolutionary Cuba, where two lovers from feuding families must navigate both literal monsters and the weight of generational trauma. The horror emerges not just from supernatural threats but from the impossible choices imposed by history and family loyalty.

Alexandra Villasante weaponizes the Spanish bogeyman "El Viejo de la Bolsa" in a story that exposes how real-world monsters prey on the most vulnerable. Her tale of orphaned children lured by false promises of reunification echoes the brutal realities faced by migrant children—a reminder that our folklore has always been a way of processing genuine horrors.

"Here, monsters often prey on the vulnerable, turning desperation and hope into something terrifying."

Meanwhile, Ann Dávila Cardinal's "Dismembered" plunges into body horror to explore grief's violent geography. Following a protagonist mourning their grandmother's brutal death in Puerto Rico, Dávila Cardinal uses graphic imagery to map the emotional devastation that accompanies profound loss.

Latinx Horror Matters Now

The scarcity of Latinx voices in American horror publishing is a crime against imagination. Our cultures overflow with supernatural folklore—from the shapeshifting Nahual to the soul-stealing Siguanaba, from La Llorona's eternal wailing to El Cucuy's child-snatching claws. These stories have been passed down through generations, evolving with each telling, adapting to new fears while preserving ancient wisdom.

"As horror explores different aspects of fear, Latinx communities are rich with material—our fears intertwine with colonial trauma, state violence, migration, assimilation, and spirituality."

When co-editor Amparo Ortiz spoke about the anthology's origins, she emphasized the urgent need for Latinx representation in a genre that has historically excluded our voices and characters. She envisioned new ways to tell horror stories, expanding the genre's possibilities. Yamile Saied Méndez, stepping outside her usual YA territory, described her excitement about collaborating with fellow authors to explore unfamiliar creative terrain. Both editors stressed the importance of cultural specificity—these aren't universal monsters wearing Latinx masks, but creatures born from our specific histories, traumas, and traditions. Ortiz particularly celebrated a scene in her own contribution that confronts colorism and misogyny, demonstrating that the most terrifying monsters often wear human faces.

The anthology's greatest strength lies in its magnificent diversity. Fifteen different authors means fifteen distinct approaches to fear, fifteen unique cultural perspectives, fifteen ways of understanding what lurks in the shadows. Like any anthology, not every story will resonate with every reader, but the collective impact creates something powerful: a community asserting its right to define its own nightmares.

"This anthology reminds us that horror doesn't belong to any one set of traditions or tropes, no matter what the mainstream looks like."

Our Shadows Have Claws doesn't just add Latinx voices to horror—it transforms the genre itself. It proves that our stories, our monsters, our fears are not footnotes to a larger narrative but central texts in their own right. Whether you grew up hearing whispered warnings about El Cucuy or you're encountering these creatures for the first time, this collection will lodge itself in your consciousness, a reminder that the most powerful monsters are often the ones that reflect our deepest truths.

In a world increasingly hostile to Latinx existence, Our Shadows Have Claws stands as both celebration and warning: we have always carried monsters within us, and now, finally, we're letting them loose.