Best 219 quotes in «creepy quotes» category

You never think of films being really creepy that you're in because you just remember the funny stuff.

You’re playing the creepy vibe a little hard,” I said. “Might as well go for broke, put on a black top hat and pipe in some organ music.

You've gotta wonder what kind of vibe you're putting out there if you're having really creepy people come talk to you.

A little boy who's discovered the monster under the bed is actually real, and it's screwing Mommy.

Am I sounding creepy? Love is sort of creepy. When you fall in love, you presuppose all sorts of things about the person. You superimpose all kinds of ideals and fantasies on them. You create all manner of unrealistic, untenable, unsatisfiable criteria for that person, automatically guaranteeing their failure and your heartbreak. And what do we call it? Romance. Now that’s creepy.

And as he leaned in to kiss me, my eye saw his open mouth grow larger and larger until it seemed it could swallow me whole.

And feast on the dead, I thought with a shudder. As if he could read my thoughts, he pressed a hand to my shoulder. His fingers were long and white, splaying over my arm like a waxen spider. If the gesture was meant to comfort me, it failed.

And I had the most disconcerting sensation: that in my memory she would look up from that game of solitaire and the sockets of her eyes would be empty.

And the box inside him in which his mother resides is velvet and black and without size.

Ask yourself what a man without guile might do to your body in the dark.

Bad art is always basically creepy; that is its first and most obvious identifying sign

Bodies lay in the sun. Bodies stood in the sun.

Careful,” he said. “If you keep blushing like that I may do more than just draw you.

Cemeteries can be creepy, creepy, ‘specially at night.

Clay snorted. “Special powers like what?” he’d asked. “You know,” Starflight had answered, irritated. “Telepathy? Precognition? Invisibility? Hello?” “You don’t have invisibility,” Clay had argued. “I mean, you’re a black dragon. You’re just hard to see in the shadows. That’s not a power. I’d be invisible, too, if I were lying in a mud puddle.” “Yeah, well,” Starflight had said, “we can appear out of nowhere in the dark of night! Swooping down as if the sky has just fallen on you!” He’d spread his wings majestically. “Still not a power,” Clay had said. “That’s just you guys being creepy.” “It is not creepy!” Starflight had cried, his voice rising. “It is magnificent and imposing!

Come out, come out, wherever you are... come out, come out, or you'll end up in the tar...

Conquest was not satisfying if it began with a surrender.

Creepy is being attached to an outcome. If you approach someone with the goal of sex, and hten find thins not going in that direction, you may try to steer things back to sex. This is creepy.

Creepy keeps creeping across the cold cobbles. Watch how he creeps and be sure he hasn’t crept up on you.

David!" Xander yelled, because he had to yell something. His eyes snapped back to the figure in the upstairs doorway, but it was gone. "What do you want?" David asked. "I...were you just upstairs?" "I haven't looked up there yet." "But I just saw you up there.

Directing a funeral isn’t about death at all. Funerals are for the living, not the dead.

Ah yes…” He made an exaggerated nod. “I was supposed to be filling you in on Nangí’s story.” He winked at me playfully, as I kept up my glare. “Now, where should I begin?” “Tell you what, let me get you started,” I came back. “Once upon a time, there was this über-creepy old man—who looks like he lives in a haunted shack and eats small children for breakfast—and I decided to make him my new best friend becaaauuse… Okay, your turn.

Art is not cosy and it is not mocked. Art tells the only truth that ultimately matters. It is the light by which human things can be mended. And after art there is, let me assure you all, nothing.

Fancies find room in the strongest minds. Here, in a churchyard old as civilization, in the worst of weathers, was a strange woman of curious fascinations never seen elsewhere: there might be some devilry about her presence.

Falling in love IS bizarre and creepy

Fear of night. Fear of not night.

For a guy who claimed not to be a stalker he sure knows the tricks of the trade. Give up the Ghost

He must have pressed the wrong button, or several of them, for when the door fretted open he found himself deep underground, with no heart to try again. The corridor was dark, the air heavy with must, the rooms on both sides quiet yet stirring, as though numb people within were digging themselves out.

He once again pointed to that creepy theatrical smile. There were way too many teeth there. It made him look positively demented.

Do I detect a renewal of your fighting spirit? I'm so glad. To tell the truth, I've been getting quite bored. Bring it on, Grace--I'm waiting for you.

He touched himself and smiled wickedly. The filthy thoughts that went through his mind are not worth mentioning.

He smirked. “Decision time, pretty lady... back to reality?” She touched his cheek. “Or down the rabbit hole?

His body walks out onto the darkened stage , and a roar goes up from the crowd. He stands in front of the mic, and he can feel his face twist in a sneer-the Elvis sneer from his dreams-though he never told it to move. He is powerless now, a spectator at his own moment of glory.

Hug the devil, and feel more power than life ever granted you

If that is scary I really don't understand you, the idea is the lesson.

I closed my eyes, but that didn't blur the images his words had evoked. "Oh, God," I murmured. "God," he said, "had nothing to do with it at all.

If he had spent just a little less time wrapped up in his thoughts, he never would have ignored the shadow that crept up on him, with hands made of darkness stretched and at the ready to separate him from his job by the most effective means of unemployment there has ever been.

I am not my winged eyes neither my soft skin, I am the stories you just couldn’t read in them, I am the bruises, I am the scars that burdened deep within. I am not my pretty face, I am the weird expressions that caught your eyes. I am not my laughs, and I am not my smiles, I am the weeps and sighs that you couldn’t hear. I am not my silence and I am not my wise words, I am the screams and curses that lay under my tongue. I am much more than what your eyes could see and I wonder if you would still fall in each world is hidden there inside of me …

I dreamed I was standing on an island in a swamp full of alligators. I could see their backs floating in the water, like logs. And then I saw Kasey swimming toward me, blissfully unaware of the predators that surrounded her. So I pulled out a rifle and shot any alligator that got close to her. Then Kasey was with me on the island, braiding my hair and singing me Christmas carols. And a battered doll walked over to us, but Kasey couldn't see her. And the doll pointed at Kasey and looked at me and said, "Your sister is crazy.

I examined the portraits nearest to me but couldn't get past the sensation that here was the same man over and over, crouched in old boxes, readying himself to spit on my plate.

If I catch you, I might do anything. I might strip the skin from your bones as I drain you dry. Or I might drag you into my chambers and have you pleasure me in ways you cannot even imagine. I might even take mercy on you, and that would be the cruelest injustice of all, because for you, it would only be a temporary reprieve.

If you wake up between 2 and 3 it's 80 percent chance someone is watching you.So................. close your curtains.

I'll do it!" "No, you won't," Shane and Michael said, at virtually the same time. Shane continued. "You're barely on your feet, Claire. You don't go anywhere, not without me." "And me," Michael said. "Hell," Eve sighed. "I guess that means I have to go, too. Which I may not ever forgive you for, even if I don't die horribly." Myrnin stared at each of them in turn. "You'd go. All of you." His lips stretched into a crazy, rubber-doll smile. "You are the best toys, you know. I can't imagine how much fun it will be to play with you." Silence, and then Eve said, "Okay, that was extra creepy, with whipped creepy topping. And this is me, changing my mind.

I know how you feel about me. I feel the same way. You never have to worry that you don't tell me enough, okay?" There he went again, being all perceptive to the point of being creepy psychic mind reader guy. "You're creepy psychic mind reader guy." He raised an eyebrow. "Creepy?" "In a hot way." "There's a hot way to be creepy?" "Slide your hand south and creepy will certainly become hot.

I'll bury you alive by her garden gate. I'll enjoy it. Every time she goes out in the morning, every time she comes home, she'll walk on your grave, and she'll know she's safe.

In God's eye I spit, hair upon thy rigid tail sharp fangs glittery wet. Earth be thy sand, the sinful be thy toy, I've been playing forever, in song no longer do I find joy. In Gods eye I fight the bad fight with a goal as sharp as an axe, to ungently place thy hands upon its omnipotent thorax.

I’m trying to be an adult. I’m trying to be responsible. I’m trying not to call home crying. But it’s hard. It’s hard when every morning feels like a hangover. It’s hard when I hear voices every time I go to sleep. It’s hard when the only thing that would make me feel better is to crawl in bed with the one person who truly knows me, but I’m more afraid of her than the bears or the perverts or whoever the hell visits her when I’m away.

In my art history degree course, we did a module on palimpsests—medieval sheets of parchment so costly that, once the text was no longer needed, the sheets were simply scraped clean and reused, leaving the old writing faintly visible through the new. Later, Renaissance artists used the word pentimenti, repentances, to describe mistakes or alterations that were covered with new paint, only to be revealed years or even centuries later as the paint thinned with time, leaving both the original and the revision on view. Sometimes I have a sense that this house—our relationship in it, with it, with each other—is like a palimpsest or pentimento, that however much we try to overpaint Emma Matthews, she keeps tiptoeing back: a faint image, an enigmatic smile, stealing its way into the corner of the frame.

I’m pretty sure your house isn’t haunted,” he said. She shrugged. “Part of me hopes you’re wrong.

In Bruce’s opinion, the only fun in dating was the sport of it. The more it was like a tennis match, where he had to wear down his opponent through expertise and sheer force of will, the better he liked it.