Best 97 of Serial killer quotes - MyQuotes
Corporatism trying to redeem itself through charity is akin to a serial killer offering to pay a fine for his crimes.
I don't think he could ever be a serial killer. He's way too shy. That Ted Bundy guy, he was pretty outgoing , from what I heard. -Jess about Doug p. 107
We don’t know when the first star exploded, or when the sun caught on fire. We don’t know when the sun will stop burning and turn cold and dark, though we know it will. In between the fire and the cold, life beginning and ending, Laura, sometime after being born and before dying, plays a game and talks to a sister who has never existed, while Frank tells a little girl named Whitney a story about the life and death of a dog, a story that he sometimes believes while telling it. In the cities of the Sonoran Desert, the sunshine follows you into the shade. When you drink water anywhere, however pure the water, you’re drinking the piss of dinosaurs. The volume of water in this world has never varied. Nothing comes or goes, increases or decreases. On a speck of dust in what they call the universe, David and Frank search for Laura, and Laura searches for David and Frank. La Llorona searches for her children. Whitney wants to not be sad. All of them search for love.
Did Anthony Hopkins really have to be a serial killer to be in 'Silence of the Lambs?,' I don't think so, no. It's called acting, people.
Vans are the vehicles of murderers. Serial Killers. Rapists. Thieves. Nothing good ever happens in a van. Police should be allowed to arrest van drivers without cause. The van is the cause, asshole.
Regress towards progress - Dr Wannamaker
What I enjoy the most is portraying villains like a vampire, a serial killer, a supernatural creature, etc... That's when I have the most fun, creating those roles. I also love playing the hero in horror movies, because then I get to really be believable, truthful to feel the terror, the scariness, the horror, and be able to really transmit that to the audiences watching the movie or that TV series.
This was it. This was what I had never felt before--an emotional connection to another human being. I'd tried kindness, I'd tried love, I'd tried friendship. I'd tried talking and sharing and watching, and nothing had ever worked until now. Until fear. I felt her fear in every inch of my body like an electric hum, and I was alive for the first time. I needed more right then or the craving would eat me alive.
Sometimes I feel like a vampire
Everything begins with chioce.
It's always a fascinating subject - a serial killer let loose on a small community. It always holds, it's always scary.
The best way of keeping a low profile was to immerse himself in the mundane. Act like them, talk like them. A smile, a joke was all it took - at least during the day. The night was his own.
I grew excited when I realized this basic asymmetry implied that nothing – no evidence, no information, no facts or data – connected me to the stranger except for the evidence of my own personal observations which remained private as long as I kept them that way. And what did that mean? First of all, it meant I could influence the stranger’s life in any way I wanted without him or anyone else suspecting my involvement. But what did that mean? Among other things, it meant I could disrupt this man’s life in some rather extreme ways and never become a suspect in a subsequent investigation. Or did it mean that? I wasn’t sure but I felt I needed to find out.
You believe I’m this way because I made a choice to extinguish the light in people’s lives? Because it revealed my darkness, therefore my pain of self-awareness? Au contra ire, Padre. Think of me as an inevitable stage in human evolution. My pure entropy simply conflicts with your naive vision of goodness. Extremes such as you and I have to be locked in combat. It is as natural for evil to hate good as it is for good to hate evil. Wouldn’t you agree?
Life is merely a series of moments and is in fact an unflinching serial killer, since it kills steadily each moment one after the other. Memory is the only survivor. (“Just for a moment”)
Nobody knows if Zidane is an angel or demon. He smiles like Saint Teresa and grimaces like a serial killer.
You’re mine, London. We can dance this violent dance until we bleed each other dry, or we can surrender. Your choice. But I will have you.
I had never been more alone than I was in my admiration for the real killer's work. The very body parts seemed to sing to me, a rhapsody of bloodless wonder that lightened my heart and filled my veins with an intoxicating sense of awe.
Looking back on it, I realize that it might not have been the completely right thing to do. Unfortunately, the rental market in San Francisco sometimes requires that you overlook trivial things like having a serial killer for a landlord.
It may surprise you to know this, but there are children--some of them teenage boys, just like you--who actually carry on open, honest conversations with their mothers." "I find it very hard to believe that there are other teenage boys just like me." I finished my cereal and stood up. "I also find it a little terrifying.
SWAT? For me?" Still trembling, one hand clung to the ambulance gurney, the other held a massive sterilised cotton wool wad under my nose. "Tactical Support was busy. You got Dennis and Arlo," said Harry, speed-reading the papers he'd snatched from inside my jacket. Closest his hands had been to my chest in a long time. "Which one broke my nose?" "That'd be Dennis.
I stared down at my hands and saw the blood coat them, how warm and real something felt when it wasn’t just ink and stains. This was life and I was holding it in my hands. I drew my eyes back up and beneath the flickering streetlight and the throng of drunken cattle, I saw nothing else but the dead girl. Somebody out there had taken her life, her heart, and there I was with her warm, sticky blood. Feeling the most alive I’d felt in years. I had to find him. I just had to.
Love is pain. Real love – the one not spewed in poetry – is agony. It tears at your soul, strips you bare, drives you mad and demands the veracity of our existence. Love is madness.
′You're a very unusual man, Mark,′ she'd said. ′That's nice of you to say so,′ he said. You have no idea.
Serial killing definition: must hit three, just like a gangbang.
He could sense in her the same spirit that ran in his veins. They were people with independent minds. They were not clerks at desks. They preferred to act. Accomplish something. They were rushing to reach the end. Such people need to be left alone. They are used to the darkness, the silence, the waiting. They belong to the same family. That of leopards.
That's really easy for you to say, Jack. You've gotten everything you ever wanted.
When one hears hoofbeats, medical students are taught, one must think of horses, not zebras. But the doctor who sees my blood count will surely think of horses. He will arrive at a perfectly logical conclusion. It will no occur to him that, this time, it is truly a zebra galloping by.
No murderer had before or has since caused such a sensation, passed so quickly into folklore or gained an image – top hat, cape and Gladstone bag – that is truly iconic: as instantly recognisable as Sherlock Holmes's deerstalker and meerschaum pipe, and as capable of conveying a meaning understood around the world – even by people who know nothing about the Ripper or what he did, or that he, unlike Holmes, actually existed.
Every one of my books is written from the viewpoint of cops, with the exception of my book Killer on the Road, which is written from the viewpoint of a serial killer.
Whose Daddy's Little Girl Now?
I am sorry for only two things. These two things are: I am sorry that I have mistreated some few animals in my life time and I am sorry that I am unable to murder the whole darned human race
So you went bike riding, then," she said. "Just around town? Out on the forest trails somewhere?" "Yes," I said, "we went out to Forman's place." Her face twisted, eyes widening, eyebrows curling, nostrils flaring. It was her "shocked" face, with a dash of "confused." "Really?" "Of course not," I said, "but the face you just made almost makes this conversation worth it.
Usually we're on the same page. Other times I'm in a whole other book" ~ Arika Wolly
The Farmer’s Almanac promised a cold winter. The coldest in decades. Andrew grinned, unaware of how hideously ugly it made him. Let the winter be record breaking. The year would be marked in infamy and not for the weather alone. He could imagine the headlines, mentioning it as the winter of death, as his spree was just beginning. It would put the town on the map.
Lloyd moved to the blackboard and wrote ‘Maneater, Hall and Oates’ at the bottom of a long list of songs and artists. The blackboard in the kitchen had once been installed as a way of communication for the house. It had turned into a list of Songs That You Would Never See In The Same Light Again. This was basically a list of songs that our serial killing landlord had blared at one time or another at top volume to cover the sound of his heavy electric power tools. It was a litany of 70’s and 80’s music. Blondie, Heart of Glass was on the list. So was Duran Duran’s ‘Hungry like the Wolf’. Sam had jokingly given him an Einstürzende Neubauten CD on the premise that his tools would blend right in to the music, and he’d returned it the next day, saying it was too suspicious-sounding and made him very nervous for some reason. The next weekend, we had gone right back to the 80’s with the Missing Persons and Dead or Alive. I tried not to think about why he was playing the music, but it was a little hard not to think about. The strange thumps sometimes suggested that he’d gotten a live one downstairs and was merrily bashing in their skull in the name of his psoriasis to the tune of ‘It’s My Life’ by Talk Talk. Other times I listened in horror as my favorite Thomas Dolby songs were accompanied by an annoying high-pitched buzzsaw whine that altered as if it had entered some sort of solid tissue. He never borrowed music from us again – he claimed our music was too disturbing and dark, and shunned our offerings of Ministry and Nine Inch Nails in favor of something nice and happy by Abba. You’ve never had a restless night from imagining someone deboning a human body while blaring ‘Waterloo’ or ‘Fernando’. It’s not fun.
Why couldn't there be even a western slasher, or why couldn't there be a serial killer in a kind of pirate buccaneer Caribbean, just someone that's just doing terrible, terrible things in the ports, the sexy ports of Jamaica during the Pirate Renaissance.
Robert Sberna: What would you say if someone were to ask you, "Why did you do it?|" Anthony Sowell: 4 words. Abused children grow up.
Because his killing is not a passion of the moment but a compelling urge that has been growing within him sometimes for years, he has completely amalgamated this practice into his lifestyle.
My main dream - and I'm trying to get 'Living TV' to do it - is to go into prison and interview serial killers, rapists, murderers, psychopaths.
I also remember when I watched Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer  at, like, age 15. That scared the crap out of me. Because it didn't operate inside the usual conventions of the horror genre in the way that I could accept. I can accept horny teenager counselors being murdered at camp. But I couldn't accept the derangement of Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, which was that anyone could be murdered at any moment - whole families, with no build-up music and no meaning. It terrified me.
Trevor climbed once again to the land of the living, naked except for an antique gas mask strapped to his face. As he peered through glass eyes like a mutant fly and breathed through the alien snoot, a single thought coiled through the booby-trapped labyrinth of his brain: I need to be alone. I need to be alone. I need to be alone.
There is no happiness without tears, no life without death. Beware! I am going to make you cry.
He was a serial dater, and she was a serial killer. Justice brought them together.
I've always said women are vicious creatures - Detective Zach Grimes
Dead is always a good alibi
If you sense so badly that you also sense a need to make me sense that, then I sense sadly that you cannot make better sense ... sadder still if you cannot sense my sincerity.
This world disappoints you, does it not?” Quinn asked. “Your crusade was intended to create something exceptional, exquisite even. But you have become lost amongst your own desires, my friend. What you are doing no longer falls under the rubric of surgery… you work in darker hues. Kelly must be the last. Any more and the East End of London will explode. We already have Lusk and his Vigilante Committee roaming the streets, accosting every fletcher, leather apron and anyone trading with a knife. Warren is poised to retire, people are afraid. What you have accomplished cannot be understated. We have large plans for this city and our vision of social reform has been led by you… you should be proud. But the increased enthusiasm for your work threatens to undermine those plans. You are upsetting the status quo, for want of a better word.
I'll take any vampire fans I can get. Dracula isn't a serial killer story.
Jim Thompson understood something about the serial killer before the psychology caught up to it, which is that they are detached to it and they do want to get caught.