Ashraf Almamlouk
Bio
A passionate writer, graphic designer&animator. I have a deep love for storytelling and a talent for creating engaging content from children’s fairy tales to explorations of the world’s mysteries, My works aim to entertain, and inspire.
Stories (7)
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The Dance
The fog hung heavy, a gray shroud clinging to the small village nestled between barren hills. Houses, patched and faded, slumped against each other like weary shoulders, their windows dark eyes staring into the endless gloom. The air itself seemed to sigh with a deep, unending sadness. This village was a place where silence reigned, a heavy, enforced silence.
By Ashraf Almamlouk12 months ago in Humans
The Covenant of Blood. Content Warning.
The damp hung around Elias like a second skin. It oozed from the peeling wallpaper, a testament to forgotten floods and neglect, rising up from the dark stains on the floorboards like ghastly blooms. They called this room Number 66, but Elias figured it had long lost any real meaning, now just a vessel for his fading hope.
By Ashraf Almamloukabout a year ago in Horror
The Wispers in the Walls
The Whispers in the Walls The air in the valley felt thick and heavy, filled with the scent of damp earth and an unpleasant, acrid odor. The villagers of Oakhaven huddled inside their homes, wooden shutters bolted shut, but it did little to comfort them against the constant scratching and scurrying sounds echoing from within the walls. What had begun as a few fleeting shadows darting across the floor had turned into an overwhelming tide, a dark river of movement filling their houses. Rats.
By Ashraf Almamloukabout a year ago in Fiction
Howls under the Moonlight
The Moon's Reflection Sarah adjusted her rearview mirror, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold and crimson behind her. The traffic had lightened up a lot, a sharp contrast to the usual weekday chaos that she maneuvered through with practiced ease. But tonight? It felt different. There was a weight on her chest, a subtle unease that her luxury sedan's hum just couldn't shake off. Tonight marked the full moon, her monthly routine of visiting her mother’s grave . For the last five years, like clockwork, Sarah had made this trip to the old cemetery on the outskirts of town each month. As she got closer to the cemetery, the feeling of being watched intensified. It prickled at her skin, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She glanced in her mirrors, catching the glint of headlights far behind her. Just other cars, she reassured herself, but the unease lingered. Turning onto the lonely road leading to the cemetery gates, she spotted him. A figure hunched beneath the bare branches of an old oak, cloaked in shadows. He was tall, his form obscured by dark, shapeless clothing and a deep hood that hid his face. Sarah's breath caught in her throat. He was just standing there, immobile, watching her. Sarah stood at the edge of the cemetery which seemed to be abandoned except for the feeling of countless unseen eyes watching her. Her breath visible in the cold night air. The full moon hung low, casting a silver glow over the rows of headstones. She adjusted her coat, her fingers trembling slightly. She knelt by the grave, her hand brushing the cold stone. “I miss you,” she whispered. Her voice cracked. A low, mournful howl sliced through the silence. Then another, wilder this time. Sarah shivered, not from the cold, but from a strange anticipation, a dark thrill bubbling up inside her. Suddenly, with a metallic clang that echoed through the quiet graveyard, the iron gate of the cemetery was flung wide. The figure in the shadows emerged from behind a mausoleum. He was now closer, his face still hidden by the hood. Sarah wanted to run, to flee, but her legs felt heavy, rooted to the ground. He shuffled closer, his steps tentative. Now she could see the details of his outfit—threadbare patches on his dark coat, grime on his gloved hands. He didn’t seem menacing. He just looked... dishveeled. Alone. Another howl rang out across the night, this one different. It wasn’t mournful; it was hungry. Suddenly, Sarah felt a jolt, a violent tremor starting deep within her bones. Her vision blurred, muscles tightening, stretching, contorting. The premium Italian leather of her shoes strained and tore as her feet elongated, sharp claws pushing into the ground. Her manicured nails thickened into lethal talons. A guttural growl escaped her throat, a sound so foreign to her usual composed self that it startled even her transforming mind. The fear that had gripped her moments before vanished, replaced by a primal instinct and an urgent need. The homeless man, startled by the noise, turned towards her, his eyes widening in confusion. Just a man, old and frail, merely seeking some pennies to get some grub to quell the gnawing emptiness in his stomach. Without thinking, Sarah lunged. The scream that ripped from his throat was abruptly silenced. The moonlight, once softly illuminating, now reflected the crimson stain spreading across the gravel. The fierce howls now seemed to celebrate, echoing her savage victory. The next morning, Sarah strolled into the gleaming lobby of her company, her designer heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor. Her tailored suit fit just right, her makeup flawless. She offered the receptionist a warm smile, her usual cheerful demeanor radiating professionalism. Her colleagues greeted her with nods and smiles, blissfully unaware of the darkness lingering inside her. She discussed quarterly projections, strategized marketing campaigns, and navigated board meetings with ease. The only reminder of the previous night’s events was a faint scratch on her left hand, easily brushed off as a minor incident. Seated at her large mahogany desk, with the moon’s reflection, so beautiful and serene, streaming through the panoramic window, Sarah glanced at the calendar. Another successful month had passed. Another full moon had come and gone. And the cycle, she knew, would inevitably start again.
By Ashraf Almamloukabout a year ago in Fiction
The Legend under the White Veil
The Whisper on the Wind The air felt heavy and damp, thick with the earthy scent of river mud and rotting leaves. Little Miguel held tightly to his abuela’s hand, his small heart racing. “Abuela,” he said softly, barely louder than the rustling noises made by unseen creatures in the underbrush, “I hear crying.” His abuela, a woman whose face told the stories of many generations, squeezed his hand more firmly. Her normally warm, crinkled eyes were wide and dark, reflecting the sliver of moon hanging low in the night sky. “Hush, mijo,” she whispered in a low, urgent voice. “It’s just the wind.” But it wasn’t the wind. The sound was sharp and haunting, a sorrowful wail that seemed to slink over the water, sending chills down Miguel’s spine. It was a sound full of deep, inconsolable sadness, a grief so overwhelming it felt like a physical pain. Then, through the swirling mist of the river, a figure started to emerge. Tall and dressed in white, it glided unnaturally along the riverbank. The crying grew louder as it came closer, a desperate, echoing call. Miguel buried his face in his abuela's skirt, trembling. He didn’t need to see the face hidden beneath the shadow of the white veil; he already knew. Everyone in the village recognized the sound. It was the noise that haunted the outskirts of their town, the noise that kept children indoors after dark. It was the cry of La Llorona. And tonight, she was closer than ever.
By Ashraf Almamloukabout a year ago in Horror
A Shadow in Our Nightmares
The last bit of orange faded from the sky, leaving behind a bruise of purple. Ten-year-old Leo curled up on his bed, making it feel like a lonely island amid the growing darkness of his room. His parents were downstairs, laughter echoing faintly. But up here, in the deepening shadows, something else stirred.
By Ashraf Almamloukabout a year ago in Horror
Bloody Mary
For as long as we can remember, people have had a penchant for sharing eerie tales that send chills down our spines and make us glance nervously at our reflections or in the shadows of dimly lit rooms. Among these unsettling stories, one name looms large: Bloody Mary. This figure has been a staple of playground myths, sleepover dares, and campfire scares for decades, if not centuries. But who exactly is Bloody Mary? What’s the story behind this legend, and why does it continue to captivate our imaginations? Let’s explore the lore, origins, and lasting influence of this notorious figure.
By Ashraf Almamloukabout a year ago in Horror
