Best 46 quotes in «haunted house quotes» category

As she walked to the stairway, he pulled her back with a light tug on her shoulder. "They're responding to you now." Turning to face him, she said, "Responding to me? What did I say?" "The hallway was full of them. When you said we were going downstairs to eat, they started filing down the stairs." "They all took the stairs?" Eddie nodded, his shining, gifted eyes watching the ghostly procession. He said, "They don't want to be far from you, Jess. And I'm not entire sure it's well intentioned." "Come to use," the voices whispered.

A day will come when certain antiques and old homes will be able to play sounds and voices of our past like record players. Technology will scan the grooves embedded within them as mediums can do without it.

Buried and burned. Never find them. Never. Buried and buried.

experiencing this much fear made it impossible to continue to be afraid of ending relationships with people that were unhealthy- as if there was no more room inside me to be afraid. The fear made me stronger.

Galton was a world renowned anthropologist back in the nineteenth century, though he was a big overshadowed by his cousin, Charles Darwin.

Before they knew it, Ormsby Island would become a paranormal attraction like Waverly Hills or Houghton Mansion or the Whaley House. The place would be crawling with people anxious to catch a ghost on camera or audio.

He drew in an answering breath, and she waited to hear the quip, the joke, the dab of levity for the most intense moment they’d ever shared. But he only dropped his head into the crook of her neck and laid his mouth over her leaping pulse as they found their unhurried rhythm in the dark.

He asked, looking at her dark-rimmed eyes, "You do not sleep?" She shivered. "No. I do not want to sleep any more. I sleep too much already. It is so cold, where Quincy sends me in my sleep. Deep into the house, farther in, not into the house we see. It is as if that house were a face, and when you see a face you can't see the brain or the thoughts of the person behind it. And it is so strange - the house inside the house." ******** "How is it strange - this that you call the house inside the house?" She said vaguely, her eyes growing glassy, "Strange. Shapes change, and sizes. The rooms are different: bigger and blacker and longer and the shadows are full of things. Creatures - or sometimes the rooms get smaller, fewer, and the furnishings change and change, like the scenes in a kaleidoscope, and I see the people in the portraits walking about in them.

Dear Miranda Silver, This house is bigger than you know! There are extra floors, with lots of people in them. They are looking people. They look at you, and they never move. We do not like them. We do not like this house, and we are glad to be going away. This is the end of our letter.

I have a new nickname for Dottie. She's now the Crazy Whisperer.

I have marked in traveling how lonely houses change their expression as you come near, pass, and leave them. Some frown, others smile. The Bible buildings had life of their own and human diseases; the priests cursed or blessed them as men.

It sat proudly basking in the warm glow of the street lights; it wasn't a menacing 'enter at your own risk' sight at all. More of a 'come in if you'd like, if not then have a lovely evening' picturesque artifact of the Old South.

I could hear my dad honking his horn impatiently down on the street. "I... uh... used to live in your house," I found myself answering. And then I turned and ran full speed down to the street.

It's this place. Whatever darkness came to the island, it's here to stay. Stick around long enough and it gets inside your skin, into your cells, like an infection.

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 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 was one thing to talk about ghosts, quite another to have them messing around with things in the physical world.

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

I was just there visiting—nothing weird. I don’t get weird vibes in haunted places, never have. Was picking up (resident name omitted by request) for the first day of our carpool and her roommate walked by without a word my way. Said something to her later because I thought it was rude. I wouldn’t room with him, I told her.
 She looked at me like I was nuts. Wouldn’t you know she didn’t have a roommate?

One more question. How did they die?” “Murder-suicide.

It had begun to be present to him after the first fortnight, it had broken out with the oddest abruptness, this particular wanton wonderment: it met him there--and this was the image under which he himself judged the matter, or at least, not a little, thrilled and flushed with it--very much as he might have been met by some strange figure, some unexpected occupant, at a turn of one of the dim passages of an empty house. The quaint analogy quite hauntingly remained with him, when he didn't indeed rather improve it by a still intenser form: that of his opening a door behind which he would have made sure of finding nothing, a door into a room shuttered and void, and yet so coming, with a great suppressed start, on some quite erect confronting presence, something planted in the middle of the place and facing him through the dusk.

Our divorce was an optical illusion, surely, because I am often still there, in my old home with my family. I can so easily fool myself, even without a scope, a lens, a patch of sky to measure my trauma, my blues, my perspective or my period of mourning. Suspension of disbelief can be a very real kind of haunting.

Say my name." "No." She tipped her head up, her breath sawing out of her lungs. “Don’t stop, please.” He languidly stroked her. “I won’t stop, but I won’t take you there unless you say it.” Her voice locked in her throat. He stroked into her again at the same time giving her the pressure she desired with his thumb. “I have all night.

Neither of us had lived in a house since we were kids; apartments, it turns out, are very different things, psychologically. Houses—especially old and creaky houses—are individuals, somehow; their fronts are faces, their closets are pants pockets.

Sometimes it takes more courage to believe in what you can’t see.” she said quietly, and then looked into his dark blue eyes. “Because anyone can believe in what’s already been proven”. Grace Willows- Not a Ghost of a Chance

She cursed under her breath. Eddie watched the EBs react, the younger ones recoiling with silent gasps. "Better watch your language. There are children present. I think you're freaking them out." "Sure, I'm the one freaking them out.

The air in the room was so cold, the exposed flesh of his face felt like ice. "I'll be the first person to get frostbite in a house sleeping several feet from a roaring fire.

The diamonds glinted under the glare of the chandelier and they looked like a thousand spider eyes

The house might, in fact, have passed for the world's largest rosebush if here and there a pane of glass had not gleamed and a few dark shingles showed beneath the rose leaves. Two chimneys and a row of gables stuck timid snouts out along the roof line.

There the book fell, and it seemed to Conway that an invisible hand had struck it out of his. He rose, leaving the journal lying open as it had fallen, and hurried from the room. A gloom filled the passage and the house was full of horror, resounding with the sufferings of its past inhabitants and dripping with their tears. His hand closed upon the damp balustrade, and the rotten wood exuded moisture like a sponge. A minute later the owner, but not the master, of the Strath was speeding through the garden, his being reaching out to find an affinity, as embryonic life must grope into the darkness for its promised soul.

The chandelier was wearing on its rubber support and the crack at the side of the ceiling hold was getting bigger. “One day that’s going to fall on us and spear you through the heart,” he said. I turned to kiss him on the shoulder and closed my eyes.

The scratching came from the attic. At night, when Rory turned out the light I would lie awake and wait for it to skit, skit, skit lightly across the floorboards above our heads and down behind the water pipes.

These were the things we would never notice were missing.

The stinging slap against her cheek whipped her head sideways. Her hand reflexively went to her burning face. "I told you no," Tobe said, barely above a whisper. Daphne had no words. He'd never so much as hinted at touching her in anger before. She now understood what stunned speechless meant.

She fished a gum wrapper and pen from her bag and wrote down her number. "I'd like to stay friends with you and Jason. That's my cell number. You can call me any time you want, except at two-thirty-six in the morning." Alice cocked her head. "How come I can't call you at two-thirty-six/" "I need that minute to sleep," Jessica said, smiling.

There had stood a great house in the centre of the gardens, where now was left only that fragment of ruin. This house had been empty for a great while; years before his—the ancient man's—birth. It was a place shunned by the people of the village, as it had been shunned by their fathers before them. There were many things said about it, and all were of evil. No one ever went near it, either by day or night. In the village it was a synonym of all that is unholy and dreadful.

Whatever you say, sweetheart.” He sent her a wink, a devilish one, the same one he no doubt used to sear the panties off his dates.

Yeah, I get it. I'll be cool as a well digger's ass." He jumped when the front door slammed shut, the harsh bang echoing around the trees. Mitch shook his head. "That well digger must be working in a hot spring.

Which grave are we in?" she said. "The oldest." She felt Eddie's puzzlement. "That can't be possible. He looks like he was just buried." "There must be something at work in the chemistry of the island that's preserving his body. It's like the incorruptibles, bodies that weren't preserved in any special way that don't decay. Catholic saints like Bernadette and Padre Pio are said not to have decomposed even though they died a long, long time ago. Environmental factors can cause a kind of mummification." Jessica said, or thought, "This is bizarre. I'm getting a lesson on mummification while in the coffin of a dead man.

This is good,” he told her. 
She gave him a slow blink. “You like wine?” 
“Doesn’t everyone?” 
“You strike me as a beer-from-the-can kind of guy.” 
“I am.”

Years ago , I spent three nights in a raw in a haunted house and it was the worst nightmare I’ve ever faced in my life, when moving in a new place don’t bring all your stuff at once , check it out first then bring the ones you care for in . I had to get rid of all my stuff including my car to be safe and alive

You coming or not?" he repeated impatiently. I was going to say no. But then, glancing at the curtains, I thought, it's probably no more spooky out there in that cemetery than it is here in my own bedroom!

You Sure this is it?" I said. "It looks empty." "Empty? No way, there's loads of shit in there," worm replied

You told us this place was haunted. How haunted is it?" Paul cast a quick glance at the house. "I'm not sure. When they found the bodies twenty years ago, the place became off-limits. That was horror enough. There were whispers of strange stuff going on before then, but no one is alive who could verify a thing. Somehow, an urban legend grew about the whole island. "Don't go near haunted Ormsby Island. They say a reporter went out alone one night just after the mass murder had been discovered and never came back. Since anyone who had committed the murders was either dead or gone at that point, it had to be the island itself that offed the reporter. Mitch, Ormsby Island isn't even on most maps of Charleston Harbor. Locals will turn away the moment you even say its name.

You've never heard of the Truscott Curse?" Asked the old lady, slowly rocking her body from side to side as if she were about to start dancing. Spanelli looked at her puzzlingly. "The Truscott Curse? I don't understand what you mean." "The curse girl. Don't you know that every child who's ever lived in that house has disappeared?

You must see it for yourself before anyone can see it with you.” Katrina Rose