Ahdom Smith Writes

The gates yawned open, a mournful groan escaping their rusted throats. The hinges weren’t stiff, yet there was something unsettling about the way they swung—almost as if they had done this a thousand times before, welcoming lost souls into the black maw of the estate. The wind cut through like a blade, carrying the scent of damp earth and decay, as if it whispered secrets long buried under the soil. Beyond the gates, a path climbed toward the house. Behind the estate was flanked by weather-beaten headstones that jutted from the ground like crooked teeth. Generations of the estate's long-dead owners slumbered here, restless in their eternal beds. It was clear why no one trespassed on these grounds; the air was heavy with an ancient dread, thick enough to choke on. But fear was a stranger to Charles. He had walked through worse shadows, and when the chill October wind sank its claws into him, he met it with a smile. As he moved forward, each step seemed to echo, swallowed by the dark...

It was sometime after 2 A.M. when I finally zipped up the door on my one-man tent, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle in. Despite the summer temperatures that had been brutally scorching, often creeping past 110 degrees, the night was surprisingly cool at Foss, Oklahoma. I felt a twinge of relief as the air kissed my skin, and the sky above looked like a surreal painting, riddled with stars that winked and shimmered as if privy to some cosmic secret. The soft murmur of the lake nearby drifted into my tent, lulling me into a rum-soaked slumber that I desperately needed. This impromptu camping trip, orchestrated by my buddies Bruce and Lance, was exactly what my soul craved. There was something therapeutic about sitting under the stars, with nothing but the crackle of the campfire to punctuate our deep conversations about girls, life, and theology. We’d set up camp right by the water's edge—though, with the water levels so low, we technically pitched our tents where the lake usu...

It was a brisk night atop the ancient trees of Liamdore, where the heroic mouse known as Night Sword sat perched on his leather saddle, strapped securely to the back of his partner, Pete the owl. A chill gust rustled through the canopy, cutting through Night Sword’s fur and making him shiver despite himself. He pulled his cloak tighter, trying to ignore the wind that seemed to pierce straight through to his bones. “Any minute now,” Night Sword murmured, his eyes narrowing as he peered into the darkness below. “I see him,” Pete’s voice rumbled softly in reply, eyes like molten gold glinting as he focused on a small figure teetering out from a dimly lit hole beneath a large rock. Without warning, Pete launched himself off the branch, and the world around Night Sword tilted as they plummeted. Night Sword (or rather, Prince Edward, though few knew his true identity) clutched his stomach, fighting the familiar wave of nausea that came with every flight. Despite countless rides, the sensatio...

The tropical sun had just begun to burn off the morning haze as we waited at the San Juan airport, and it felt like déjà vu. I’d been to Puerto Rico before, years ago, with my friend Frank. This time, though, the journey felt like a remastered version of the original – smoother, brighter, and blessedly free of the chaos that had plagued our last trip. We’d spent the last day lounging on the beach, getting crispy under the Caribbean sun. Now, standing in line to board our flight, we looked like a couple of overdone rotisserie chickens. Frank, as usual, was a mess. His eyes barely stayed open, the bags beneath them as heavy as the suitcases we were checking. He was muttering to himself, probably about some horror novel he’d been reading. That’s the thing about Frank – he loved scaring himself senseless. “You’re a glutton for punishment,” I’d told him once. And I meant it. He had an uncanny talent for conjuring irrational fears out of thin air, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat....

The owl’s amber eyes moved swiftly, piercing through the shadows as a faint rustling echoed from the dense foliage far below. His talons flexed in anticipation, sharp as daggers, as he scanned the moonlit forest floor. There—his next meal, a mouse, scurried between patches of moonlight, blissfully unaware of the predator lurking above. With a sudden, silent sweep of his wings, the owl launched into the air, his feathers blending seamlessly with the darkness. The mouse’s heart skipped a beat as he sensed danger, eyes darting upward just in time to see the great, winged silhouette descending upon him. He tried to bolt, but it was too late. The owl's talons closed around him, the grip unyielding, pressing the air from his tiny lungs. He fought for freedom, straining to reach the sword strapped to his side, but his arms wouldn’t budge under the owl's iron grasp. His wide eyes caught a glimpse of the yawning black hole in the side of a nearby tree, and he knew it would be hi...

"Hello?" Joseph answered, trying to mask the weariness in his voice as he glanced at the caller ID. "Hey, Joseph, it’s Logan. I need a favor," Logan’s voice buzzed through the speaker, sounding casual but with that telltale urgency Joseph had come to expect from calls like this. "Sure, Logan," Joseph replied, forcing a smile that no one could see, "What’s up?" Joseph had a reputation for being the dependable guy—the one people turned to when they needed help. Whether it was family, friends, or even casual acquaintances, he had become the go-to for last-minute favors, and he did them willingly, telling himself it was his duty, a way to fulfill some higher purpose. But lately, each favor had begun to feel like a weight tethered to his shoulders, dragging him further into exhaustion. “I have to go to this birthday party for an old friend who’s in town,” Logan continued, “And I was hoping you could watch Harrison for me.” Joseph’s heart skipped a bea...