Best 70 quotes in «serial killer quotes» category

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    Corporatism trying to redeem itself through charity is akin to a serial killer offering to pay a fine for his crimes.

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    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.

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    He would have been handsome—in a serial-killer kind of way—if not for those tattoos.

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    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.

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    I also remember when I watched Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer [1990] 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.

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    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

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    It's always a fascinating subject - a serial killer let loose on a small community. It always holds, it's always scary.

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    I'll take any vampire fans I can get. Dracula isn't a serial killer story.

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    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.

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    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.

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    If I were a serial killer, I would not be the kind that stabs and then eats the victim. I would be the kind that hides in a tree and shoots at the aerobics class.

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    Lately, the only thing keeping me from being a serial killer is my distaste for manual labor.

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    Nobody knows if Zidane is an angel or demon. He smiles like Saint Teresa and grimaces like a serial killer.

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    There is no happiness without tears, no life without death. Beware! I am going to make you cry.

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    Sometimes I feel like a vampire

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    Some of the best movies made about crime are those where the crime solver can get inside the head of the serial killer, and those are the techniques we use in C.S.I.

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    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.

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    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.

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    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.

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    I find others, those who prey on the innocent and do not play by the rules, and I make them go away in small, carefully wrapped pieces.

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    You do know him, so that's a lame excuse." It was a lame excuse, but it was the best I had. "How do you really ever truly know someone?" Brit smacked her hands to her cheeks and she shook her head. "He's not a serial killer." "Speaking of serial killers, everyone thought Ted Bundy was a really charming, handsome man. And look how he turned out. Psycho." Jacob stared at me. "He's not Ted Bundy.

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    Dead is always a good alibi

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    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.

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    I always enjoyed the meticulous planning of every kill and of course the large payday that follow. It all became an exuberant game, and I couldn't stop...

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    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

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    I can’t believe it.’ I whispered. ‘You can’t let him lure you back in, Felicia. He’s wrong. He’s wrong!’ Vanian pleaded, I could feel the quiver of his magic, the wisps that were fighting against the iron burning into his wrists, I could feel the crackle as it fought in the air, against his emotions, against his pain. I shook my head, was about to speak but Adam grabbed him by the front of his shirt; as if a few more tears and shreds couldn’t go amiss. The tightness of his grip paled the Faerie’s cheeks, caused the blood to trickle down faster, dropping to the floor. ‘My wife.’ He yelled, ‘She’s my wife, silverblood.’ With each growl of a syllable he accented it with a punch to Vanian’s face. I couldn’t take much more. I jumped over and pulled at Adam’s shoulders, fingertips driving into the nook of his collarbone, pressing down with as much as I had in me, anything to break his hold. He recoiled and rose his hand to me, at first I flinched but I stopped. He wouldn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t.

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    Apparently, we're all in the frame," I heard Harry murmur somewhere behind me. And I whirled back to him. Innate, irrational anger surged. Then stopped, dead - as I suddenly took in Handsome, Robert and Doc. They were all staring at me. They were concentrating, all resolute, all a tad furrow-browed… upon my face. Self-consciousness burgeoned. I gingerly fingered my and lips and my chin, "Am I drooling?" "Your arse is hanging out," said Harry, not looking up from the forensics he was scanning. And so it was. Handsome, Robert and Doc averted their eyes as I, wishing I'd merely been dribbling, grabbed the back flaps of my breezy hospital gown, fully placed my back against the wall. Then, thinking better of it, dived hurriedly, carefully, back into bed. If Chinese Lady'd been here, she could've, would've, told me. I missed her already.

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    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.

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    Born from different parents, they were siblings in death, destroyed by the same hand.

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    Everything begins with chioce.

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    He could sense it, almost smell it. His prey was here. His first kill.

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    He was a serial dater, and she was a serial killer. Justice brought them together.

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    If sensing of yourself 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.

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    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.

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    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.

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    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.

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    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.

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    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.

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    I knew–though I didn't recognize the fact–that I wasn't all right.

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    It's a simple question; Do we bear monsters? Or do we create them?

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    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”)

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    I want something that'll give me the stamina of a young werewolf, the vision of a shaman, the thoughts of a serial killer and the gentleness of a hungry vampire bat.

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    I've always said women are vicious creatures - Detective Zach Grimes

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    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.

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    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.

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    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.

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    Most fires crackle and pop, but that's not really the fire talking, it's the wood. To hear the fire itself you need a huge blaze like this one, a furnace so powerful it roars with its own wind. I crouched as close as I dared and listened to its voice, a whispered howl of joy and rage.

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    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.

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    Regress towards progress - Dr Wannamaker

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    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.