Best 2148 quotes in «horror quotes» category

We might have thought that the horrors of World War II and the Holocaust were enough to innoculate us against the toxins there revealed and unleashed. But our resistance quickly fades. A new generation gladly abandons its critical and skeptical faculties.

We need to beat this, Grant. These people count on us to keep them safe.

Wenn man meine Seele zeichnen könnte, wäre es irgendein wildes Gekritzel mit deutlich sichtbaren Reißzähnen.

We pass away out of the world as grasshoppers, and our life is astonishment and fear, and we are not worthy to obtain mercy.

We're all hunters in my family, you know. Deer, ducks…damsels.

We're in high school. If it didn't come from the school cafeteria, we like it.

We're going to have such fun, you and I.

We're both drowning in our rotten shells. I look to you for comfort, but your hand is already pushing my head down.

We're going to isolated woods to contact aliens. What could go wrong?

We're nothing. We're dust.

We're supposed to love flowers, yet we rip them from their homes, and give them to people who don't love us." -Toril Withers (Dark Winter).

We stopped looking in the shadows, when we realised that WE were the monsters that we are afraid of. I want to take these monsters, give them a voice and put them back under our beds, in our closets and in the shadows, back where we are most afraid of them.

WEST SALEM ~ October 2011 A sudden vision, fraught with malevolence and darkness, obscured her sight. The face of a menacing figure turned from the shadows of his grisly handiwork and stared at Sorcha. Her muscles tensed. By the Goddess, could he see her? Please! No! She wanted to scream, to run, but the vision ensnared her into the horrific moment like a fly in a spider's web.

We tossed away the horror formula right from the beginning.

We were ready for crazy, but not that kind of crazy.

We were sitting at the bar on the ninth floor. No alcohol served after dark––and it was always after dark. I watched two men stumble across the dance floor, arms entwined, faces slack with boredom. The pianist plowed through a joylessly jaunty tune, the musical equivalent of a man dancing at gunpoint. My drinking companion grinned.

We were going to save the world, because no one ever saved us.

What are you going to fill it with?" she asks. "Holy water or something?" "Probably Dasani," Thomas replies.

What do you think of Poe?" "He's awful. He was obviously . . . what's the term . . . 'disappointed in love' at some point. He probably never smiled again. The pages are just bursting with his longing for women to suffer. If he ever met me he'd probably punch me on the nose." "I think Poe's quite good, actually. The whole casual horror thing. Like someone standing next to you and screaming their head off and you asking them what the fuck and them stopping for a moment to say 'Oh you know, I'm just afraid of Death' and then they keep on with the screaming.

What if all religions were stories, and all stories were true.

Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain, and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime; that is, it is productive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling .... When danger or pain press too nearly, they are incapable of giving any delight, and [yet] with certain modifications, they may be, and they are delightful, as we every day experience.

What if all religiouns were stories, and all stories were true?

What I learned in this tragedy was the eternal lesson of good people going bad.

What is death but descending into a dark, eternal sleep?

What is a monster? Something that grows hair all over and howls? Could be. But the real monster is within, and when it comes out, it’s as fugly as you see it, or as it lets you see it.

What I saw there was my own death.

What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night!

What is the point of our lives? There isn't any. I can't seem to decide how much horror and how much joy lies within that simple truth, but I know it is both of those things at once.

What?' He cried, darting at him a look of fury: 'Dare you still implore the Eternal's mercy? Would you feign penitence, and again act an Hypocrite's part? Villain, resign your hopes of pardon. Thus I secure my prey!' As He said this, darting his talons into the Monk's shaven crown, He sprang with him from the rock. The Caves and mountains rang with Ambrosio's shrieks. The Daemon continued to soar aloft, till reaching a dreadful height, He released the sufferer. Headlong fell the Monk through the airy waste; The sharp point of a rock received him; and He rolled from precipice to precipice, till bruised and mangled He rested on the river's banks. Life still existed in his miserable frame: He attempted in vain to raise himself; His broken and dislocated limbs refused to perform their office, nor was He able to quit the spot where He had first fallen. The Sun now rose above the horizon; Its scorching beams darted full upon the head of the expiring Sinner. Myriads of insects were called forth by the warmth; They drank the blood which trickled from Ambrosio's wounds; He had no power to drive them from him, and they fastened upon his sores, darted their stings into his body, covered him with their multitudes, and inflicted on him tortures the most exquisite and insupportable. The Eagles of the rock tore his flesh piecemeal, and dug out his eyeballs with their crooked beaks. A burning thirst tormented him; He heard the river's murmur as it rolled beside him, but strove in vain to drag himself towards the sound. Blind, maimed, helpless, and despairing, venting his rage in blasphemy and curses, execrating his existence, yet dreading the arrival of death destined to yield him up to greater torments, six miserable days did the Villain languish. On the Seventh a violent storm arose: The winds in fury rent up rocks and forests: The sky was now black with clouds, now sheeted with fire: The rain fell in torrents; It swelled the stream; The waves overflowed their banks; They reached the spot where Ambrosio lay, and when they abated carried with them into the river the Corse of the despairing Monk.

What man is able to do that, that thou should ask such things of me?

What none of them knew, of course, was that Carrie White was telekinetic.

What one thinks finds expression in words, and what one says, happens.

What’s that supposed to mean, ‘a passin’ hunger?’ I ATE my fuckin’ girlfriend! An’ we ain’t talkin’ little fuckin’ love bites or a bit of a chew—I went wild kingdom on her ass! It was like a pig pickin’ after fuckin’ Lent-FUCK!

What's wrong with wanting to live...? We may be different but we were still given life. Given a chance. If we can only eat humans, then that's what we'll do. How else are we supposed to live with these bodies of ours?!

What will he then do unto his name whereby we are called? ...of these things have I asked.

What I will add as an perfect example of a man who is passionate of his work, without wife, everything giving, no information about his life like mother, father or something like this... I will give as an example NightClawer. People often understand under this name some kind a horror, but unfortunately it's about a reporter and it's not horror. I will call it passion!

What's a jagoff?" Stich asked. "It's like a jerkoff, except it's you," Kat said.

What’s behind the door or lurking at the top of the stairs is never as frightening as the door or the staircase itself.

What’s the old saying? Ah, I remember now. ‘Curiosity flayed the cat alive, ripped it apart limb from limb, and listened to it scream before it killed it.’ That’s the one.

What's tragic isn't that we can't retaliate... What's truly tragic is... ...being consumed with vengeance and not being able to live your life.

What was it? What could it-- His last thought was surprise.

What we think is impossible happens all the time.

What your mind sees when you close your eyes marks the entrance to an endless universe: your imagination.

What you seem to forget is that I'm not one of the embodiments of evil. I'm one of the embodiments of fear. That means I know what makes evil quake in the light of the sun.

When am I going to learn to stop questioning authority and just eat the Soylent Green?

When asked what profession they like least, most people will give the obvious answer: clowns.

Whenever, therefore, a lie has built unto itself a throne, let it be assailed without pity and without regret, for under the domination of an inconvenient falsehood, no one can prosper. Compton

When from out of error’s darkness With a word both sure and ardent I had drawn the fallen soul, And you, filled with deepest torment, Cursed the vice that had ensnared you And so doing wrung your hands; When, punishing with recollection Forgetful conscience, you then told The tale of all that went before me, And suddenly you hid your face In trembling hands and, filled with horror, Filled with shame, dissolved in tears, Indignant as you were, and shaken… Etc., etc., etc.

When he shut himself in his apartment he found that he hoped he was waiting for nothing at all.

When I am perfect, I will be allowed to leave.