Best 2148 quotes in «horror quotes» category

Through the ages, countless spiritual disciplines have urged us to look within ourselves and seek the truth. Part of that truth resides in a small, dark room -- one we are afraid to enter

Through their discomforts Dom and Phil were missing everything of interest: the sudden strip marshes, the faces in the rock formations, the perfect lakes, the awesome måskoskårså valley grooved into the earth during the Ice Age, the golden eagle circling above it, and the views of a landscape it was impossible to believe existed in Europe.

Through the red haze of my blood I see a strange expression on his face. His eyes have come alive, and I don't like it at all. He's getting off on this now in a way he wasn't before. My first thought is that my honesty is feeding him in a bad, bad way and my second thought is not to question my gut. "These are going to be very good days," he says to me.

Thy heart had gone too far in this world, and think thou to comprehend the way of the most High?

tiCK TOck TicK tOCk tICK TocK tIcK

Time is tick, tick, ticking away. How many souls will I capture today? Will they be a challenge or will they be given? Only time will tell as the clock keeps tick, tick, ticking. Your god has arrived with enough hatred for y’all, with enough evil for the big and small, so come one, come all. I will shred your souls and place them in my satchel, call you a settler and make you my peddler. Come one, come all, come stand behind your god. I will lead you into the darkness of Earth's end. Come one, come all, my wilted flowers, come claim your title, speak out and cheer it. Come one, come all, let’s have a ball, my wilted flowers . . . Sweet, Unconquerable Spirits.

Time snapped and Hagerty found himself speeding toward the woman in the straitjacket. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he pulled her off the corpse and held her at arm's length. He caught a glimpse of Kalish's face and the shredded mess where his throat should have been.

Time which destroys everything, even time itself...

Times goes by your choice, if you make your days wonderful the days will go fast... and interesting and memorable.... If you do it in boring way they will go like watching a film which doesn't have something to make you get interested without games, crimes, horror, thriller, romance and every single other genre which you think without it the film is awful... but not only genre, but genres!

Tina sognava acque placide e un sole nascosto da fronde e nuvole che non esistevano. Il sole d’improvviso si è fatto notte, una notte guasta e pesante. L’acqua si è infettata, agitandosi torbida intorno a lei, trasformando un lieve nuotare in un isterico annaspare in cerca d’aria. I riflessi sono diventati tenebre e la solitudine minaccia. Presenze ovunque intorno a lei, dietro ombre che prima nemmeno esistevano. Centinaia di occhi la scrutano malevoli, centinaia di ansiti, tutti appartenenti ad un unico padrone. Lei l’unico oggetto della sua attenzione.

To conceive the horror of my sensations is, I presume, utterly impossible; yet a curiosity to penetrate the mysteries of these awful regions predominates even over my despair, and will reconcile me to the most hideous aspect of death.

Today, acknowledgement of the prevalence and harms of child sexual abuse is counterbalanced with cautionary tales about children and women who, under pressure from social workers and therapists, produce false allegations of ‘paedophile rings’, ‘cult abuse’ and ‘ritual abuse’. Child protection investigations or legal cases involving allegations of organised child sexual abuse are regularly invoked to illustrate the dangers of ‘false memories’, ‘moral panic’ and ‘community hysteria’. These cautionary tales effectively delimit the bounds of acceptable knowledge in relation to sexual abuse. They are circulated by those who locate themselves firmly within those bounds, characterising those beyond as ideologues and conspiracy theorists. However firmly these boundaries have been drawn, they have been persistently transgressed by substantiated disclosures of organised abuse that have led to child protection interventions and prosecutions. Throughout the 1990s, in a sustained effort to redraw these boundaries, investigations and prosecutions for organised abuse were widely labelled ‘miscarriages of justice’ and workers and therapists confronted with incidents of organised abuse were accused of fabricating or exaggerating the available evidence. These accusations have faded over time as evidence of organised abuse has accumulated, while investigatory procedures have become more standardised and less vulnerable to discrediting attacks. However, as the opening quotes to this introduction illustrate, the contemporary situation in relation to organised abuse is one of considerable ambiguity in which journalists and academics claim that organised abuse is a discredited ‘moral panic’ even as cases are being investigated and prosecuted.

Todd’s wife was one of those women with a forced smile perpetually cemented on her face. Even after being chased by a mob of homicidal maniacs and attempting to barricade doors with barstools she kept up appearances, practicing for the days when her husband would be running for public office. When she saw her son poking at their former mail carrier’s dead body a look of utter horror came across her face for the slightest instant. She caught herself and put that smile back on so quickly Will wondered if she might have pulled a few cheek muscles. “Trevor!” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Trevor, you get away from that this instant! You don’t know what kind of diseases that man had. Children shouldn’t play with dead things.” Will looked at Todd and smirked. “Cute kid. How many of those things do you think are out there?

TO EAT IS VERY IMPORTANT, AND VERY PLEASUREABLE THING, BUT IT CAN ALSO BE VERY FRIGHTENING

To dive in the darkness, I should dive in the truth, then in images of the world..., then facts, then in books, then listening, then in short stories... that's how I write the horror. It's very complicated.

To her eyes, used to diversity, there was a troubling uniformity about them all, something that spoke of isolation, and a dull and thoughtless cruelty.

To keep up with the times these days, it seems you have to be a little bit demented. — “William F. Kinderman”.

To make love is to give birth to death.

Too long right and wrong, good and evil have been inverted by false prophets! Compton

Too long the dead hand has been permitted to sterilize living thought! Compton

Tony had spent a great deal of time dwelling on whoever this poor Disney hostess must have been, not as a casualty but as a person. She never got to be an adult, he’d told himself in horror.

Tornare a Derry. Perché avevamo promesso, mi ha detto, ed è vero. Abbiamo promesso. Tutto noi. Da ragazzi. Nel ruscello che attraversa i Barren, tenendoci per mano in circolo, dopo che ci eravamo tagliati i palmi con un pezzo di vetro. Sembravamo un gruppo di ragazzini che giocano ai fratelli di sangue, solo che si faceva sul serio.

To the left, just past the painting, on the other side of the hall, is the bathroom, the sort of open door that if cameras found it as they passed through the house in a horror movie would trigger a blast of synthesizers.

Tormented by an unworldly hunger, yet not knowing how to satisfy it.

To shew thee such tokens I have leave; and if thou wilt pray again, and weep as now, and fast even days, thou shall hear yet greater things.

To those of you who are yet to plunge into the zygote pool and want to know what both plumbless horror and pure love feels like, have yourself a baby...

Touch the stone,' said Beliah, 'and you will touch "reality", or what the ignorant of all ages think "reality" is. That kind of truth will kill you, man. You won't see morning! I have kept you all your life from such things as remorse, terror, pity. Touch the stone, and those same angels will change you into an old poor pathetic deluded dying creature. Hubert, a nurse has to shave you, your hand shakes so much. You know that don't you? You dribble at every orifice, Hubert. You've begun to smell this past year or two...' He suddenly howled as if I had actually touched the stone,'YOU WILL BE RAVAGED IN FIRES OF GRACE!' I heard Nurse McGregor in the next ward. 'Good evening,' came her cheerful voice to the looney who had strangled his sweetheart and then buried her in his garden. 'Is it cocoa tonight, or tea, or milk?" Beliah was weeping. Outside the eaves dripped. The whole earth was drenched with the grief of Beliah. He wept inside me. I felt his marvellous tears on my face.

To write your dreams of fantasy, is to create fantasy in another's dreams

To write you dreams of fantasy, is to create fantasy in another's dreams.

To these children, the door William has just come through is a portal. Being shoved through it means a trip to hell where only demons come to visit and the man before them fits that description; his deep, hard eyes frame his long, winding scar and behind him, flames rise as the smell of smoke and charring meat waft into the room.

Tra gli zombie coi carrelli della spesa c'erano donne, uomini, un ragazzino sui quindici anni e un paio di anziani, di cui uno con una bombola d'ossigeno, che ancora gli penzolava in una sacca portata in spalla. Ho visto alcuni Walmart del New Jersey frequentati da clienti dall'aspetto meno sveglio, e in quei casi si trattava di viventi

True vampires that want to build a strong family does not go around turning people just because they want to. But even the most sensible of vampire can be tempted by beauty. When you come across someone whose beauty seems to be made of the stars themselves, then you want to preserve that beauty forever. Despite knowing that it may not be the best idea in the world. But then beauty is a power all of its own.

Trenta passi furono sufficienti per raggiungere la meta: in mezzo a una radura trovarono il corpo martoriato della strega. Era circondato da sei dei suoi gatti, impalati tutt’intorno nella piccola radura. L’odore acre del sangue rendeva l’aria irrespi-rabile, attirando insetti e animali. La scena era raccapricciante. Fiamma tentò di resistere al senso di nausea. Si avvicinò al cadavere e scacciò le bestie. Gli occhi della fattucchiera erano stati cavati dalle orbite e strisce nere di sangue essiccato rigavano il volto raggrinzito. Nella bocca, spalancata in un urlo silenzioso, era stata infilata a forza una grossa pietra e il corpo, obbligato a una postura indecente da pali e chiodi, si trovava supino, con le gambe di-varicate. Solo il ciondolo, una semplice sfera di cristallo inca-stonata nell’argento, non le era stato tolto. Fiamma si chinò e cominciò a rimuovere i chiodi con un martello arrugginito che gli aguzzini avevano abbandonato al suolo, insieme a delle assi di legno. Marcus rimase zitto e immobile per un attimo, poi, senza proferir parola, si avvicinò per aiutare. Lei ordinò al ragazzo di scavare una fossa, poi con il suo aiuto sfilò il ciondolo dal collo della salma, come se sentisse il dovere di farlo, e depose il cadavere nella nuda terra. «Mettiamo dentro anche tutti i suoi gatti?» chiese il giova-ne. «Certamente» fu l’unica risposta che le uscì, anche se a-vrebbe tanto voluto piangere.

Trevor wondered if anyone in the outside world could even guess at the horror of working in the Planning Department

Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun: But if a man live many years, and rejoice in them all; yet let him remember the days of darkness; for they shall be many. And all that cometh is vanity.

Trolls have existed on this planet for as long as humans. This is what I was told and what I translated to Tub. The first mention of them in recorded history is from ninth-century Norway, when the nefarious creatures began showing up in song, verse, and bedtime stories to keep misbehaving children in line. According to Norse folklore, trolls are one of the Dark Beings, the purest embodiments of evil, and they scurried from between the toes of Ymir, the mythic six-headed Frost Giant whose murdered body became the universe in which we live; his bones became the mountains, his teeth boulders, and so forth.

Turmoil and terror aren't compatible with sangfroid. When horror strikes, the heart is always its first target.

Turn over a new leaf, Nightmare on Oak Street, a new horror legend as featured in my new book 2" available soon

Turn over a new leaf...Night on Oak St, a house lived in by the Devil himself, featured in my new book 2", coming soon.

Um escritor que não escreve é útil como um relógio quebrado. Não era isso o que ele era? Um maldito relógio quebrado? Suas peças não funcionavam bem e não era fácil substituí-las

Unfathomable to mere mortals is the lore of fiends.

Underground, in the dark wet hole that was home to the spiders and the rats, something moved. It had no right to be down there but it belonged nowhere else. Half drowned half alive it pushed the water ahead of it into the culverts and drains as it passed. Right under the city and out into the suburbs and fields these tunnels fed into the river and the network of canals that had fed the industrial revolution. A thousand eyes, some blinded, that had never seen the sun strained in the soiled darkness. It struggled on and it listened with a thousand ears not its own and it cried.

UNDERTAKER!” the head boomed. “BOY, DO I HAVE A JOB FOR YOU!

Walk with this tomorrow night. If nothing happens, then don’t come back. Forget about us, this place, but if you feel the Nightwalker in you awaken, then return to where you belong. Return to me, and the streets will run red with blood.

Upward and Onward

Velva’s face glowed in the streetlight. “Sir Sun, don’t you see? I am your violent violet. And you are mine.

Velva wasn’t merely a rose among the thorns, the lily of the valleys, she was Empress amongst the stars and planet.

Verily it is a foolish thought that they both have devised, for the ground is given unto the wood, and the sea also had its place to bear its floods.

Violet carved her hate into her flesh one name at a time.

(Washington) Irving was only the first of the writers of the American ghostly tale to recognize that the supernatural, exactly because its epistemological status is so difficult to determine, challenged the writer to invent a commensurately sophisticated narrative technique.