Best 105 quotes in «haunted quotes» category

Ghost Hampton" took me years to write -- but it won't take you that long to read!

Ghosts don’t stay buried when they’re laced in gold.

Godless, 'we had no war.' Until God set us to fight each other, for the rest of human history.

He haunted my heart, silently. Like a murmur, and a shadow; that could only be heard by myself. Alone, in a dark room.

Have you come to return my pussy?” I shook my head, sure the reception must be bad. “Huh?” “My cat. You stole my cat yesterday. Have you come to return him?

Haunted by the unhappiness that appeared like an ugly creature to live in their home

He had been haunted his whole life by a mild case of claustrophobia—the vestige of a childhood incident he had never quite overcome. Langdon’s aversion to closed spaces was by no means debilitating, but it had always frustrated him. It manifested itself in subtle ways. He avoided enclosed sports like racquetball or squash, and he had gladly paid a small fortune for his airy, high-ceilinged Victorian home even though economical faculty housing was readily available. Langdon had often suspected his attraction to the art world as a young boy sprang from his love of museums’ wide open spaces.

He's dead, but he still chases me. He wrote fear into my mind with ink fashioned from his own blood. His words are stamped upon the shadows, gnats swarming about my shoulders.

He stood in a room, looking around, seeing thousands of himself. He banged the walls made of mirrors, but they wouldn't break. Thier laugh filled his heart and with fear, he curled up and sat there. And then She came out of nowhere and wrapped her arm around him. She held his hand, together they got up and walked towards a wall. He raised his head and looked at the reflections, but all he saw there was only him. She turned and smiled at him and touched the wall. It cracked and shattered into pieces. She inside him broke all the walls around him. He was free, he was not held and haunted by his reflections anymore.

He stroked her back and kept a fierce grip on her like she’d fade away into one of the thousands of ghosts in this cemetery.

He was so big he made my sofa seem more like a loveseat. He was so at ease with himself and his body that I found it hard to reconcile him with the awkward teenager that had stolen my heart. He was so fucking beautiful, it took my breath away.

I can't be free of this place, this haunted torture chamber echoing with thousands of years of blighted history. I can paint the walls, but I can't scrape the malice from the mortar. I can burn the curtains, but the blood splattered upon them only transitions to ash that stains the hearth.

I am stupid, am I not? What more can I want? If you ask them who is brave--who is true--who is just--who is it they would trust with their lives?--they would say, Tuan Jim. And yet they can never know the real, real truth....

His ghost comes back to be remembered. If he can’t be in this life, he procures a way to stay in orbit, and in that way, is never forgotten.

I didn't sleep well last night because one of my ghosts came back, haunting with his presence, and when I woke up, the others weren't here, haunting with their memory.

I first witnessed the paranormal at the tender age of eight. This experience unlocked a doorway to a world full of unexplained mysteries, miraculous insights, and terrifying ghostly visits that have spanned a lifetime. Join me as I explore these stories…one book at a time.” ~L. Sydney Fisher

I dream the scent of my mother's lipstick has come back to haunt me— like an oil pastel marking my dreary, dramatic heart.

I have only to glance over my shoulder for all those years to drop away and I see it behind me again, the ravine, rising all green and black through the saplings, a picture that will never leave me.

If we can forgive what has been done to us . . . If we can forgive what we've done to others . . . If we can leave all of our stories behind. Our being villians or victims. Only then can we maybe rescue the world. But we still sit here, waiting to be saved. While we're still victims, hoping to be discovered while we suffer.

If your spirit is persistently harmless or if it has shown itself to you, in a non-threatening way, then you most definitely have a ghost. The ghost can be frightening, by its very nature. But the ghost will never intentionally frighten you. They will be there for three reasons: 1. They used to live there and are attached to the location 2. They are trying to communicate something to the living or 3. They are protective of somebody who lives in the house and so they are “standing guard” so to speak, over the loved one.

I have been both a ghost and haunted in the city I love.

I just can’t do it anymore. It’s too painful. It doesn’t mean I’m over you, it means I’m not going to waste the rest of my life being haunted by your memory.

It took a pair of ghosts to open my eyes.

..., imagine a loamy earth that starts with genocide, then adds a mix of further disease, wars, hurricanes, murder, great fires, dueling, insurrection and slavery, just to name a few of the many instances of tragedy. What dark seed would take root in such a disturbed and twisted soil?

I mean, what if you don’t get over him? What if you just learn how to get on without him? People who’ve been in love have that haunted look in their eyes. It’s like a piece of them is unattainable, forever held back and protected at all cost.

I now know how your anger came from skeletons that rattled in your heart and you couldn't escape them.

It's scary how you can be haunted by someone who is still alive.

I turned to him and he reached for my hand. It would have been easier to walk away. But the wind still blew around us and the house still stood.

It was past eight on a Friday night, so calling the Homeward to speak to Dr. Casbus was out of the question. The head nurse would never bother him this late. A sly idea struck me. Just because I couldn’t call the doctor, didn’t mean I couldn’t go see him in person. I’d gone to the Homeward at night before. On those nights when I’d been afraid for my mother, afraid she’d be scared, or missing me, or they would be hurting her with their treatments. The head nurse, Mrs. Huds didn’t like it, but Casbus always showed up to save me from her lecture on rules. He didn’t let me have a room to stay in—it wasn’t the Holiday Inn, but he’d let me stay long enough to dial down my fears a notch or two. And sometimes, I learned more about myself, like the last after-hours session, when Casbus had explained why I had holes in my memories.

It was raining outside. It wasn’t heavy, but it left droplets on the windows, making it look like the window was covered in glitter which gleamed and shone in the candlelight. There was something outlandish about the place. It wasn’t only the grand rooms and the exquisite décor and not even the sheer size of the building; there was more to it. It was a feeling. She felt enveloped in it day and night. It wasn’t unpleasant or choking, but it wasn’t cosy and welcoming either. It was just there, like a straitjacket. She hoped that there could have been a bit more glitter and glamour to her days. She wasn’t exactly a sparkly kind of girl, but she missed… something.

It waited for her. Standing resolute in the moonlight, it had stood for a hundred years. Yet it waited just for her. Shadows passed across the moon, a cool breeze ruffled the leaves around it. Yet still it waited for her. Ancient tombs glowed in shimmery moonlight, row upon row of cold silent witnesses.

It was haunted; but real hauntings have nothing to do with ghosts finally; they have to do with the menace of memory.

I will not exorcise you—I’d miss your fragrance, the soft tread of your step on the stair

No. No… No!’ the fear ebbed my voice, cut through me like a knife. I ran, bare feet slipping and sliding over the floorboards. I turned the corner and headed for the backdoor. Run. Run. I must run. As soon as I reached the backdoor in the kitchen, pulling the barn door from the hinges, I felt his gaze upon me. Cinders and kindling crunched at my feet; what had once been my lovely mahogany kitchen furniture was now little more than firewood. My crockery and china splintered in shards and as I turned to face him, I felt them dig into my skin, cut me with every shiver that bolted through my frame. ‘You wanted Hemlock House. You have, Hemlock House.’ His voice was dark, cruel and yet hauntingly light. As if cooing, whispering to a newborn. He was lounging against the countertop as if waiting for breakfast, as if waiting for something so meaningless.

Logan lowers his head close to mine. 'Just know this, Ivy Calhhoun,' he begins. 'If I werena a ghost I would open all door for you, properly.

Maybe these whole woods are haunted with crushed girl ghosts and that's what I'm hearing. They're coming to check me out, make sure I'm cool. Which I'm not, so they'll be disappointed.

Mrs Hargreaves liked her job and she liked the Hoopers. As far as she was concerned there was far too much twaddle being talked about Glade Hall, by people with too much time on their hands. “Over fertile imaginations.” She’d told the new head gardener. Some of the locals had worked for the hotel and told stories of seeing shadows around the grounds, when the light was just right. As if shadows could hurt anyone ! It was all twaddle and nonsense.

Night-time is being brushed aside like so much cobweb. The day is wound up and begins even before the last haunted dreams, the last of the fog, those spectral and evanescent residues, have faded away.

No one stays haunted by a person they’re not still in love with.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted, One need not be a house; The brain has corridors surpassing Material place. Far safer, of a midnight meeting External ghost, Than an interior confronting That whiter host. Far safer through an Abbey gallop, The stones achase, Than, moonless, one's own self encounter In lonesome place. Ourself, behind ourself concealed, Should startle most; Assassin, hid in our apartment, Be horror's least. The prudent carries a revolver, He bolts the door, O'erlooking a superior spectre More near.

Savannah is so beautiful that the dead never truly depart.

Our shadows still walk these streets. Like ghosts, they haunt our every move.

Over the course of my life I've been to lots of places. Shadowed places where things have gone wrong. Sinister places where things still are. I always hate the sunlit towns, full of newly built developments with double-car garages in shades of pale eggshell, surrounded by green lawns and dotted with laughing children. Those towns aren't any less haunted than the others. They're just better liars.

She had said he had been driven away from her by a dream,--and there was no answer one could make her--there seemed to be no forgiveness for such a transgression. And yet is not mankind itself, pushing on its blind way, driven by a dream of its greatness and its power upon the dark paths of excessive cruelty and of excessive devotion. And what is the pursuit of truth, after all?

Seth: "I write of love in my novels, write of it well, if my critics and fans are to be believed, but in all of my years at that typewriter, I never found the combination of words that would convey how I felt about you. You were my everything.

She herself is a haunted house. She does not possess herself; her ancestors sometimes come and peer out of the windows of her eyes and that is very frightening. She has the mysterious solitude of ambiguous states; she hovers in a no-man’s land between life and death, sleeping and waking.

She'll tell you this house is haunted, but I believe the truth of the matter is that people get haunted. Not places.' - Will Laughlin

Since her time in the necromancer’s clutches, she was still recovering lost memories from the quicksand of her mind. They’d drop like nuclear bombs, freezing her at the worst time as visuals which should’ve stayed forever buried bubbled to the surface.

Showmen's Rest was truly something to behold. Throughout the entire yard, statues and carvings of elephants, clowns, and tight-rope walkers danced on the gray and white surfaces of tombstones and grave-markers. For the first time, Michael got the feeling that the men and women who'd been buried there were probably really happy with their final resting place. It was a touching tribute, one that honored their passion in life and that had been constructed out of love and respect.

Since you can't touch me, you made something that could, didn't you?" I said. "Yes." My world slowed and I closed my eyes. "I am going yo give you my heart noe," I whispered. "Please don't break it again.