Best 2148 quotes in «horror quotes» category

Sometimes sanity just means the ability to recognize the end of the road when you reach it.

Sometimes the wind made her feel like she was not alone. The icy blasts there seemed to whisper and call her name; they had done so tonight. Not only whispered her name but told her to do it. A frigid voice from somewhere in those January howls had told her to kill them, kill them all.

Sometimes to be at home is like a nightmare by Stephen King.

Sometimes, we are so focused on what we want that we are blind to the things that make us happy. It’s just incredible, and when I focus on what is right in front of me, nothing else matters. All my worries vanish.

Sometimes you don't even know how special you might be. Sometimes it takes moments of horror or happiness to, if you will, unleash that knowledge.

Sometimes what you want is exactly what you get.

Sometimes you can lock the doors and close the blinds, but the monsters are still there inside your house, sleeping and breathing and just waiting to wake up and terrorize you all over again.

Sono sovraccarico di tensione, irritato ed irritabile. Con le persone, con gli oggetti. Il pensiero più disturbante? Che sia stato io stesso ad alimentare qualcosa che forse non c’era. Ora sicuramente quel coltello che mi scava dentro non è più un illusione. Gli occhi e le orecchie invisibili a cui è affidata la mia persona non avranno mancato di tradurre i miei nuovi atteggiamenti in paragrafi e capitoli, corredati di suggerimenti e domande, a dubbi legati alla mia affidabilità ed efficienza. Un giorno non mi spiacerebbe avere accesso ai rapporti compilati e incasellati a mio nome. Avrei l’occasione di leggere il diario segreto che qualcuno ha scritto su di me.

So Miss Curdy said I had to be punished. She gave me a choice of punishments. One: I could come into the gym after school every day and inflate all the basketballs — by mouth — until my head exploded. Or two: I could coach the first-grade soccer team. I chose number two. The wrong choice.

So now you're on the run,' Warrick said wistfully. 'Travelling the Dark Highway, a lone wolf. With your friend, who is another wolf. Two lone wolves. Two wolves, really. Not really alone. Two wolves in a car. Travelling. One of them naked and bloody. The other with her ass hanging out.

Soon, all the children were chanting it. “No school! No school!

Sorri um alívio já então fisgado por anzóis de pavor vazio; pelo meu sorriso o horror fincou suas presas a mim me enforcando pelo avesso?

So this didn't scare you, didn't it??? So you want something scary...???

so this is my collection of human body parts, Dr. Silkston," he said proudly, walking into the storeroom. "each organ is here fro a reason, a purpose. you see this one," he said, pointing to a cylinder containing what appeared to Thomas to be a section of a small intestine with a hole in it. "'Tis a duelist's jejunum. that is the bullet hole, right through the middle. and this, this is the Marquis of Rockingham's heart," he announced proudly. " he gave me a permission to have it a fore he died

So you're lost, uh? Happens a lot out here. You walk around for days, seeing things, losing your bearings, crying out for God, But He can't hear you. You can scream and scream but nobody'll ever hear you.

Sparks are warm while they last.

Spooky Twisties: All things Spooky, here begin They lay and wait, in books within. They sometimes pass, in open space. Then leave and go, without a trace. Some appear on the spot. Some we know, others not. Sometimes we are afraid to say, “leave us now”, or beg to stay. At times they leave a sign beyond, A gentle breeze, or note from song. Be not afraid, to read story’s close. For in the dark, your spirit goes.

Spittle flew from Jango’s lips as he shouted at the man in a woman’s voice that sounded like it was made of cyanide and sugar that had been laced with the patter of blood dripping on an abattoir floor, “This is the truth about The Killer, ain’t it baby? You’re just a big ol’ bag of screams under all that big, bad muscle, ain’t you?

Stand up upon the right side, and I shall expound the similitude unto thee.

Stephen King once wrote, “Nightmares exist outside of logic, and there’s little fun to be had in explanations; they’re antithetical to the poetry of fear.” In a horror story, the victim keeps asking why - but there can be no explanation, and there shouldn’t be one. The unanswered mystery is what stays with us the longest, and it’s what we’ll remember in the end.

Still, the car started, so we drove off to the movies. Popcorn happened. Previews, ads, and an annoying kid all went down like clockwork. The picture started and then ended a while later, the world unchanged by its passing.

Still onto This Day, I Dawdle to Be Plagued With The Same Unfortunate Reoccurring Nightmare. In My Horrifying Dream, there is an Attractive Women With Piercing Blue Eyes And Light Brownish Hair, Sporting A Lengthy Red Dress With Extended Dark Black Heals Who Kills Me On Christmas Day. In My Dream I am Listening to A Christmas Song… “Jingle Bells” While Rambling Down a Dark Corridor Inside A Home. I am Shot in The Back of The Head And The Music Box Lingers Playing The Same Tune. I Can See Nothing but The Bottom of Her Mends, And Then All Becomes Ample Dark.

Strength and victory... What he would never praise himself for, but whose loss was his most obsessive fear.

Stupidity is the chlorine that cleans out the gene pool.

Suddenly, she heard a loud bang, a thump and a scream that caused her to jump from the bed. The hair on the back of her neck stood straight up and her body became one big goosebump.

Stuey was in heaven, but he wished that he were in hell.

Such a shovel, it seemed a waste not to use it.

Such vows . . . strike one with a sort of horror at what happened afterwards.

Sulphurous wind gusted in his wake; the dust of the street swirled and the folds of his black coat flapped against his thin body.

Succumbing finally, she lets out a loud shriek as her vehicle stops at a red light. “Fuck.” She hollers cursing the night. Cursing the shadows, cursing the unknown condemned she intends to meet this evening. Tears roll down her cheeks landing on her bullet proof vest.

Teenage girls know more than we're given credit for. We sense danger even when everyone's telling us it's fine, he's a perfectly nice man, an upstanding member of our community, have you tasted his sugar-cream pie?

Sus gritos resonaban en las paredes de aquella casa, en la que ahora solo la muerte vivía y andaba. Con los ojos desorbitados, la cara lívida, el pelo erizado, Louis gritaba. Los sonidos que salían de su garganta congestionada eran como las campanas del infierno, unos gritos terribles que marcaban la pérdida no del amor, sino de la razón.

Terrible and ancient and scarred with the endless cold of space, the terrible and ancient things glistened with frozen moisture and colors played across the surface of the skin, colors that were never meant to be seen on earth.

Terry loved candlelight dinners and red wine. It was a nice contrast from work. And killing people.

Thanks, but no thanks. I need my makeup honey. - Carol

Tell me, Eric,” he said, licking a droplet from the corner of his mouth. “Have you ever tasted blood?”        My mouth was so dry I could barely find the voice to answer him. “What an odd question...”        “But a valid one. Well, have you?”        “I’ve cut my lip before, so yes, I suppose I have tasted blood, but...”        “Not your own, you foolish boy.” He let out a short, derisive laugh and leaned in so that he was only a few inches from my face. “I mean the blood of another.”        “Good God, Stefan, of course not!”        “Pity...

That Abbie is such a freaking brat who doesn’t know anything! My William is wasting away in that castle and that stuck up, self-righteous cow doesn’t even care because now she’s just all ooooo, Peter I love you! Well I don’t love Peter and he’s a jerk. Let’s go bust down the door!” She sat back and calmly pushed her hair from her face, “Now would you get me a soda?

...That insurgent horror was knit to him closer than a wife, closer than an eye lay caged in his flesh, where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle to be born; and at every hour of weakness, and in the confidence of slumber, prevailed against him, and deposed him out of life.

That horror which stalks in the stillness of the noonday, when the glare of an artificial sunshine lights up the motionless trees, moved all about her. In front and behind she was aware of it. Beyond this stealthy silence, just within the edge of it, the things of another world were passing. But she could not know them. Her husband knew them, knew their beauty and their awe, yes, but for her they were out of reach. She might not share with him the very least of them. It seemed that behind and through the glare of this wintry noonday in the heart of the woods there brooded another universe of life and passion, for her all unexpressed. The silence veiled it, the stillness hid it; but he moved with it all and understood. His love interpreted it.

That might sound like the plot of a b-rated horror movie, but it is all too real. Although, some people still have not accepted that truth, while others have no idea the terror that awaits them. The future of mankind is at stake, as the virus continues to spread like wildfire.

That night, I took a while falling asleep and when I did, I had a strange dream. She was sitting in my rocking chair and rocking herself, her dead eyes fixed on me. I lay on my bed, paralysed with fear, unable to move, unable to scream, my limbs refusing to move to my command. The room was suddenly freezing cold, the heater had probably stopped working in the night because the electricity supply had been cut and the inverter too had run out. At one point, I was uncertain whether I was dreaming or awake, or in that strange space between dreaming and wakefulness, where the soul wanders out of the body and explores other dimensions. What I knew was that I was chilled to the bones, chilled in a way that made it impossible for me to move myself, to lever myself to a sitting position in order to switch the bedside lamp on and check whether this was really happening. I could hear her in my head. Her voice was faint, feathery, and sibilant, as if she was whispering through a curtain of rain. Her words were indistinct, she called my name, she said words that pierced through my ears, words that meshed into ice slivers in my brain and when I thought finally that I would freeze to death an ice cold tiny body climbed into the quilt with me, putting frigidly chilly arms around me, and whispered, ‘Mother, I’m cold.’ Icicles shot up my spine, and I sat up, bolt upright in my bed, feeling the covers fall from me and a small indent in the mattress where something had been, a moment ago. There was a sudden click, the red light of the heater lit up, the bed and blanket warmer began radiating life-giving heat again and I felt myself thaw out, emerge from the scary limbo which marks one’s descent into another dimension, and the shadow faded out from the rocking chair right in front of me into complete transparency and the icy presence in the bed faded away to nothingness.

That's how stories are born - mysterious noises, creaks on the stairs, bumps in the night, and tricks of the light.

That sure as fuck ain't no cow

That done, I sank into an uneasy sleep wherein I dreamed of an assembly line of pale, bloodless girls walking down an endless dark street and moaning softly for help. Somewhere, toward the edge of my inner vision, a shadowy figure pursued them with long, beckoning arms. Goddamn booze! Somewhere in the midst of this ghoulish girl parade Cairncross materialized and hung a garland of garlic around my neck, glaring at me with his good eye and intoning, 'Go and sin no more.' Vincenzo appeared at Cairncross' side and together they laughed insanely, then vanished in a puff of sulphurous smoke. I made several high-minded resolutions, muttered half-heard but sincere-sounding prayers to all the recently deposed saints, thrashed and rolled clean off the bed. I might just as well have stayed up.

That her niece should find such profound pleasure in the company of a thirteen-year-old black girl--and, more to the point, always within the precincts of Elinor's house--was a slap in Mary-Love's face. She decided, without saying anything more to James, to wreck Grace's perfection of happiness. Grace would learn that she, Mary-Love, was the source of all felicity within the Caskey family.

That’s just it. Don’t you get it, Sarge? They’re not people anymore. They’re freaking zombies! Just like in the movies.

That one smooth black eye stared, and reflected in it I fancied I could see the cyclopeon city, and the endless column of the marching dead.

That's scary, all the time to be afraid Wreck 2015 (Film, you should check it out).

That's what I fear: being subtracted from myself. Negation. Forced against my will to become a beast.

That this world is a place of horror must affect every serious artist and thinker, darkening his reflection, ruining his system, sometimes actually driving him mad. Any seriousness avoids this fact at its peril, and the great ones who have seemed to neglect it have only done so in appearance.