Best 2148 quotes in «horror quotes» category

It’s absolutely true that Lovecraft knew stuff. Somewhere in grandpa’s library he got his hands on the confused rambling inner doctrines of a dozen cults and secret societies. Most of these secrets were arrant nonsense on stilts—admixed with just enough knowledge to be deadly dangerous.

It’s a case of mistaken identity. It’s one big mistake. You weren’t even in the country when it happened.” Maja in the short story 'Metro' by Steen Langstrup

It’s a long story, but one you’ve never heard before. This story is about a place that dwells on the mountain; a place where bad things happen. And you may think you know about the bad things, you may decide you have it all figured out but you don’t. Because the truth is worse than monsters or men.

It's a rotten world, Miss Millick,' said Mr. Wran, talking at the window. 'Fit for another morbid growth of superstition. It's time the ghosts, or whatever you call them, took over and began a rule of fear, They'd be no worse than men.' ("Smoke Ghost")

It's April Fools, and the fool is me

It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? To be dragged under?

It's a wholly illogical but nonetheless powerful belief that things will change for the better in a new place; that the urge to self-destruct will magically disappear.

It's been a pleasure pleasing you.

It seemed the proverbial shit had hit the fan.

It seems people don't want to be awake these days. Apocalypses are easier slept through than experienced

It seems more and more like the world is gradually coming to an end. There is still no known cure for the deadly virus that is sweeping across the globe. Nations are gripped by fear, as they continuously devise new strategies to stop the undead from taking over the world. Each plan has ended in abysmal failure. The people are quickly losing hope.

It's funny isn't it?? YOu don't want to stop it?? Don't ya?? ... I don't give a shit about your opinion what I want I will do... You are now part of this story, unfortunately, just by reading this you make yourself part of this story, like it or not that's how it goes. Once upon a time there was one girl and one boy staying home banned to go outside everything was locked it wasn't one day, 2 days it was whole 10 years. Their family always was outside communicating with the other people and you didn't even exist, they knew you but they didn't wanted you... it was somewhere in the end of the Second War in which 50 soldiers just came in home, you were screaming... again and again they asked what's that... your mother said that she will handle it... and what?? Slap after slap, kick after kick then the father comes playing with the knife and he was juggling and one moment he made the knife with the spike in front of your eyes he tied your hands, he put a Scotch tape on your mouth and what??? He was taking your eye... by the knife and eating them... then he started fast and fast hitting with the knife without looking in random place and in this game..... it ended horrible?? The boy was first without eyes the girl was a second without a legs, years and however her tongue was cut... why?? Evil should speak... evil is on the first place. Never ends, there isn't even and beginning it's inside!

It’s horrible," she said. He looked at her in surprise. Horrible? Wasn’t that odd? He hadn’t thought that for years. For him the word “horror” had become obsolete. A surfeiting of terror made terror a cliché. To Robert Neville the situation merely existed as natural fact. It had no adjectives.

It should be particularly stressed that the fantastic makes no sense in an out-and-out strange world. To imagine the fantastic in it is even impossible. In a world full of marvels the extraordinary loses its power.

It’s like a haunted house we can’t leave,’ Neil said. A haunted house we’re afraid to leave, Tony thought.

It’s like that, with all of us here. Sick, strange, and we don’t know why. Things bursting out of us, bits missing and pieces sloughing off, and then we harden and smooth over.

It's my time to scare you, it's time for scary story.

It’s no big deal. It’s kind of like a tattoo. It won’t hurt, not too much, just a few stitches and it’ll be all over. It’s really interesting how it’s done. You won’t believe where your soul hides. Go on, take a guess. Where do you think it is?

It’s not about winning, it’s about doing what’s right. And yes, we will do what’s right.

It’s not about the typo, it’s about the message.

It's not the books by Stephen King that I read, I need protection from the things in my head . . .

It’s not nice to think of children growing up like mushrooms, in the dark.

It's only after you've lost everything that we're free to do anything. --Chuck Palahniuk

It's safe to say that 'Horror,' as a fictional genre, has claim to it's own canon. There is a definite history that can be traced back to the origins of human language, both orally and written, and now multimedia based. We at this point, have access to the full gambit of 'genre' Horror in all its hybrid forms (electronically at least). Sub-genres ensure that Horror can and will multiply in its complexities and evolve along with human fears.

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.

It takes many sheep to satisfy one wolf.

It took time before we even realized what was going on. When we did, no one could believe it was actually happening.

I turn away and stare through the window at the field where the scotch broom creeps yellow as hell toward my doorstep. Six years and it has advanced from the hinterlands to the picket fence in the back yard. Six more years and it will have chewed this house to the foundation, braided my bones in its hair.

I turned to her, my whole body hard with tiredness and regret.

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 a perfect place, my home. I loved it. And if I weren’t dead, I’d return there and never leave again

It was as if the city itself was preparing for some impending catastrophe. There had always been talks of ghost and darkness here, even in his boyhood, and now that darkness seems to be seeping from the stones and timbers as much as it was descending from heavens.

It was a hideous ancient thing that stood on tiger feet in the middle of the floor. Like a showpiece. And he did enjoy showing it. He would bring his friends upstairs to the master bathroom so that they could admire the monstrosity while he told them the whole long boring story of how he’d gotten it at an estate sale in Hollywood. Some bimbo actress from the silent-screen days had supposedly slit her wrists while she was in the thing. ‘Cashed in her chips,’ Harold liked to say. ‘In this very tub.

It was a huge and rambling place, and with the shutters closed it took on an uncomfortable, overlarge configuration in the mind; it became a sarcophaguslike monolith, and evocation of doom.

It was a sordid scene. Philip leaned over the rail, staring down, and he ceased to hear the music. They danced furiously. They danced round the room, slowly, talking very little, with all their attention given to the dance. The room was hot, and their faces shone with sweat. It seemed to Philip that they had thrown off the guard which people wear on their expression, the homage to convention, and he saw them now as they really were. In that moment of abandon they were strangely animal: some were foxy and some were wolflike; and others had the long, foolish face of sheep. Their skins were sallow from the unhealthy life the led and the poor food they ate. Their features were blunted by mean interests, and their little eyes were shifty and cunning. There was nothing of nobility in their bearing, and you felt that for all of them life was a long succession of petty concerns and sordid thoughts. The air was heavy with the musty smell of humanity. But they danced furiously as though impelled by some strange power within them, and it seemed to Philip that they were driven forward by a rage for enjoyment. They were seeking desperately to escape from a world of horror. The desire for pleasure which Cronshaw said was the only motive of human action urged them blindly on, and the very vehemence of the desire seemed to rob it of all pleasure. The were hurried on by a great wind, helplessly, they knew not why and they knew not whither. Fate seemed to tower above them, and they danced as though everlasting darkness were beneath their feet. Their silence was vaguely alarming. It was as if life terrified them and robbed them of power of speech so that the shriek which was in their hearts died at their throats. Their eyes were haggard and grim; and notwithstanding the beastly lust that disfigured them, and the meanness of their faces, and the cruelty, notwithstanding the stupidness which was the worst of all, the anguish of those fixed eyes made all that crowd terrible and pathetic. Philip loathed them, and yet his heart ached with the infinite pity which filled him. He took his coat from the cloak-room and went out into the bitter coldness of the night.

It was dark enough that I couldn't make out their features, but I could see that someone was cutting through the links of the fence. There was a sense of urgency about those that watched him, some of them turning to peer over their shoulders into the brush and foliage that edged the fence. I watched them in horror, a sense of dread washing over me. What kind of horrors had they led to our very doorstep?

It was like a mask had been pulled away from his face, uncovering a monster hidden beneath his friendly façade.

It was in that small lack of movement that Poet could see true horror. A mirror held up to the human race and how it can be manipulated. Ruined.

It was like some mad scientist threw a bunch of DNA into a blender and this is what came out. What the heck could it be? Was it some kind of alien? A scientific experiment gone horribly wrong? Did we have a Dr. Frankenstein living in Billings? Seriously, the creature looked like a resurrected Wookiee made from spare parts.

It was not a noisy wind but the kind that suggests something very big and thin fresh from the horror of Infinite Space.

It was strange how, when there was nothing else in your life, sex was everything.

It was humanoid in form but it was certainly not a person. Its big upside-down teardrop shaped head was covered in blood yet I could still see it pulsating as if there was a big heart stuck inside its forehead, next to the brain, aching to pop out.

It was like a commercial for laundry detergent or tampons or a prescription medication with death listed as a possible side effect.

It was obvious from their expressions that they believed the wellbeing of R.’s inhabitants was endangered by my youth. The visit was very enjoyable, but the horror of the previous night still clung to me.

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

It was Stevenson, I think, who most notably that there are some places that simply demand a story should be told of them. ... After all, perhaps Stevenson had only half of the matter. It is true there are places which stir the mind to think that a story must be told about them. But there are also, I believe, places which have their story stored already, and want to tell this to us, through whatever powers they can; through our legends and lore, through our rumors, and our rites. By its whispering fields and its murmuring waters, by the wailing of its winds and the groaning of its stones, by what it chants in darkness and the songs it sings in light, each place must reach out to us, to tell us, tell us what it holds. ("The Axholme Toll")

It were better that we were not at all, than that we should live still in wickedness, and to suffer, and not to know wherefore.

I urge the believers to fight; if there be of you twenty steadfast, they shall overcome two hundred; and if there be of you a hundred, they shall overcome a thousand of those who disbelieve-

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

It was the kind of scream that would be in a horror movie right before someone got chopped up into little bitty pieces.