Best 2148 quotes in «horror quotes» category

I Still Have So Much I Wish to Accomplish in My Life, Before I Finally leave This Godforsaken Place -- For Good.

I stumble across the sea of tarmac, finding pavement, concealment and a brick wall. Palms brace against the scrubby surface. My stomach churns and then bubbles over, burning my throat as acrid yellow acid spills from my lips in frothy discomposure. It splatters the pavement like a spray of blood.

I swivel my back to her, my eyes gluttonous and eager to get their fill of this intimate piece of what has come to be her puzzle.

It ain't the blows we're dealt that matter, but the ones we survive.

It all floats down here!

It didn’t belong to anything and nothing belonged to it. It searched for eternities trying to find a host… a carrier… a harlequin or a prophet that would have brought meaning and form to its reasons, but that never happened..

It did not take long before there was a full-scale riot on West 125 Street.

It didn’t look like a solid hand; it looked like paper, almost transparent in the light. Just as suddenly the hand was pulled back and the window went black.

It feels as though Tony's a ghost, a wisp of someone I once loved, or never loved at all and thought was someone else. I don't feel anything, not even when he fucks me. I wonder if he knows. I wonder if he believes I still want him. I always tell myself it's the last time, but I don't leave. i exist instead inside this shell of a life we've created.

It felt oily inside her head. There were strings of Xavier Stancliff caught inside of her, holding on and spiderwebbing out as he plotted and waited and thought: this is all the bitch deserves. Swallowing, Sandra pushed herself off the bed. It was late and the room was dark. She could see the bundled lump of Jack beneath his own covers. He’d left the television on and the light flickered down the tiny hall. Shadows danced and Sandra shivered as she left the room. In another life, she would have told Danny and Jack about the man. Danny would have whispered, “It’s alright,” and smoothed back her hair from her face and kissed her, lips dry and coarse on her forehead. Then he and Jack would’ve left while she was sleeping. They would’ve trampled the flowers and climbed into Xavier Stanliff’s window and when Sandra woke up there would have been one less man in the world.

It had all begun on the elevated. There was a particular little sea of roots he had grown into the habit of glancing at just as the packed car carrying him homeward lurched around a turn. A dingy, melancholy little world of tar paper, tarred gravel, and smoky brick. Rusty tin chimneys with odd conical hats suggested abandoned listening posts. There was a washed-out advertisement of some ancient patent medicine on the nearest wall. Superficially it was like ten thousand other drab city roofs. But he always saw it around dusk, either in the normal, smoky half-light, or tinged with red by the flat rays of a dirty sunset, or covered by ghostly windblown white sheets of rain-splash, or patched with blackish snow; and it seemed unusually bleak and suggestive, almost beautifully ugly, though in no sense picturesque; dreary but meaningful. Unconsciously it came to symbolize for Catesby Wran certain disagreeable aspects of the frustrated, frightened century in which he lived, the jangled century of hate and heavy industry and Fascist wars. The quick, daily glance into the half darkness became an integral part of his life. Oddly, he never saw it in the morning, for it was then his habit to sit on the other side of the car, his head buried in the paper. One evening toward winter he noticed what seemed to be a shapeless black sack lying on the third roof from the tracks. He did not think about it. It merely registered as an addition to the well-known scene and his memory stored away the impression for further reference. Next evening, however, he decided he had been mistaken in one detail. The object was a roof nearer than he had thought. Its color and texture, and the grimy stains around it, suggested that it was filled with coal dust, which was hardly reasonable. Then, too, the following evening it seemed to have been blown against a rusty ventilator by the wind, which could hardly have happened if it were at all heavy. ("Smoke Ghost")

It had been a bad trip ... fast and wild in some moments, slow and dirty in others, but on balance it looked like a bummer. On my way back to San Francisco, I tried to compose a fitting epitaph. I wanted something original, but there was no escaping the echo of Mistah Kurtz' final words from the heart of darkness: "The horror! The horror! ... Exterminate all the brutes!

I tell you, he had stolen the body of Edgar Allan Poe—and as he shrieked aloud in his final madness, did not this indeed make him the greatest collector of Poe?

It had initially been thought that the zombie virus was an offshoot of Ebola. Many zombie-virus symptoms mimicked the terrible, hemorrhagic fever.

It had seemed to me an elegant nightmare concoction made by adults for adults, to further the aims and fantasies of adults, and what have children to do with such things?

It happened during the winter of 1973, when evenings rang out stillborn from far across the weathered moorland, and snow fell hard and heavy and clung atop the peppered veins of nature’s tough bracken, all picture-postcard like.

The monster is bigger than the human. It represents abundance—overabundance. ... It has lots of eyes, extra arms, too many teeth. Everything about it is too many and too much.

I think everyone should have a problem with zombies on fire.

I think erotica goes nicely with horror, and so do romance and history - but to be honest, if it's got horror, I'm happy!

I think horror, when done well, is one of the most direct and honest ways to get to the core of the human experience because terror reduces all of us to our most authentic forms.

I think horror is a good genre for exploring anything, because everything is pretty horrifying. And I think the most effective horror things, and even maybe the most ineffective ones, are pretty absurd, and usually pretty funny.

I thought it was foolish mumbo jumbo when I was alive - then I woke up dead.

I thought if I loved you enough I could change you. I was so stupid.

It illuminated a vision Dante could not have imagined in his wildest nightmares, nor Poe in the grasp of an uncontrollable delirium.

It is a kind of privilege, to witness the darkness.

It is almost as if the nearer one approaches to a thing, the less it proves to be there, to exist at all.

It is a nightmare come true, as the city becomes Hell on Earth.

It is dark. You cannot see. Only the hint of stars out the broken window. And a voice as old as the Snake from the Garden whispers, 'I will hold your hand.

It is me. He knows it. The dollymop knows it. I know it. I am the problem. Soon I will be discovered and destroyed. I am in constant danger and yet, I am the danger...

It is not in my nature to be interested in the living. But there are many things, I have found, that defy nature.

It is the magnificum. It lives in that space between spaces, in that spot one ten-thousandth of an inch outside your range of vision. You cannot see it. It sees you. And when it sees you, it does not see you. It has no conception of you. There is magnificum and nothing else.

It is not what we know that scares us, it is what we do not

It isn't every day an ex decides to haunt us.

It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

It is unfortunate for the toxic W. M. Keck Observatory that it failed to see that blatantly harassing a sickened worker out of their job would have long term repercussions for its ability to operate its current and future facilities atop Mauna Kea as their victim told their horror story to the world.

It is this outer reach of existential abnegation – the moment where subjective identity deserts itself and becomes enslaved without consciousness of its subjugated condition – that Mirbeau consistently sought to decry with horror.

I told you. I’ve been watching.” She twirled, her arms outstretched. “Watching, watching, watching.

It might be inexplicable. It might be beyond the limits of my senses to capture—or my science or my intellect—but I still believed I was in the presence of some kind of living creature, one that practiced mimicry using my own thoughts. For even then, I believed that it might be pulling these different impressions of itself from my mind and projecting them back at me, as a form of camouflage.

It looks like to watch a film without little horror is like to eat a pizza without the extra stuff on it. Like the sauces!

I tried to imagine what it would feel like... to be sixteen years old and the most powerful creature on the face of the planet... and to be answerable to no-one. You could do anything, John. You'd never need to turn back to dull, weak, human Johnny Bates ever again... [y]ou could sever all your links with humanity. You could become remorseless, unstoppable... and totally corrupt.

I tried to say something cool, wound up stammering something like, “WANNA YOU WANNA WEENIE ME?” The end kind of trailed off in a shrill, choking warble.

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 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 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 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 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.