My obscure cryptid horror story No Bones, Just Skin leads off the new Night Terrors Vol. 25 anthology by Scare Street. It’s about a brother and sister who have a terrifying encounter with an abúhukü, a rainforest demon known for dissolving the bones of its prey and leaving the empty skin behind.

Manuel’s older sister, Liliana, stood next to him, looking up at the body hanging high in the tree overhead. The carcass was little more than a shriveled husk of a man, a wrinkled bag of skin draped boneless and formless across the jungle’s dense lattice of vines and branches. It was almost as if the man had been turned into a garment, as if someone had slit him down the back, extracted his skeleton, then tossed him carelessly into the tree like an old bathrobe.

My underwater horror story A Sinking Feeling has been published in the Emergence anthology by The Writer’s Cache. It’s the story of two survivors trapped in an air pocket in a sunken ship at the bottom of the ocean. And they’re not alone.

I didn’t know how long we had been underwater at that point—we had no way to measure time—but for however long it was, we hadn’t heard any noises outside of our own movement and the occasional groan of the ship’s structure as it settled into the ocean floor. But this noise was different.

Something was moving. And it was close.

My horror story Feed the Worm has been published in the Beautiful Darkness anthology from Dragon Soul Press. If you like stories about carnivorous cosmic murder worms, this is the one for you!

The girl was on her knees, crouched low behind the rear bumper. Exhaust swirled around her, lit up a hellish red by the glow of the taillights. Her hair hung over her face in damp ropes. Breath steamed from her nose in short, rapid bursts. She looked up at Ben. Her eyes were wide with terror. “Hide,” she whispered.

You can also listen to the audio production of Feed the Worm on the Night’s End Podcast.

My short ghost story Butterscotch has been published in HAUS: Anthology of Haunted House Stories by Culture Cult Press. Renting an apartment above a funeral parlor might freak some people out, but not Ellen. Not at first, anyway.

For a moment, I imagined my grandmother laying there on one of the tables, her body cold and stiff, her eyelids stitched shut, her tissue-thin skin pulled taut over her jutting cheekbones. Nicholas had done that, I realized, right in the room where I was standing.