Best 2148 quotes in «horror quotes» category

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.

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?

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...

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

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 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 was another friend lost because of the virus. He wondered when it would end, if ever. He had a feeling there would be a lot more deaths to follow in the near future.

The actor passed him his cigarette case. "No, you must tell us all about it. One should always be reminded of the fact that even in this best of worlds the blood still flows freely." "The Dead Jew

The afterlife can be an adventure if one can supersede the gloom and sidestep the pitfalls.

The American id could not be educated, Spinks thought. It needed horror in order to stay awake and to justify its most pleasureful pursuit, the destruction of helpless people who had never done anything wrong.

The air down here doesn't smell of sugar and coffee. It smells damp, rotten.

The arms, legs, and torso with head were dragged away in sections as the children were captivated by the drama, zealously chewing their candies with sticky teeth.

The bacteria in the virus are probably searching for new hosts to carry them, so they can feed on fresh meat.

The best horror novels open up, "It was beautiful summer day and the smell of flowers emanated throughout the air.

The best of me is when I allow you to witness my dumbness, or let you to listen to my manly voice cry . Now that's the best of me, trust me its is.

The blessings of the devil is the beginning of dread.

The brain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain, danced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving masks.

The cabin in the woods is to the American Gothic what the haunted castle is to the European - the seed from which everything else ultimately grows.

The chandelier was wearing on its rubber support and the crack at the side of the ceiling hold was getting bigger. “One day that’s going to fall on us and spear you through the heart,” he said. I turned to kiss him on the shoulder and closed my eyes.

The century's getting old and stale; it needs new tribes.

The cold feel of the leather... Peeking at the world from my other eye... It was strangely exciting...

The concept that man is not awake, and that only a fully conscious being can "do", have will and not be subject to the law of accident.

The corridor didn't seem long enough to contain so much blackness. 'Passing Through Peacehaven

The crowd bit and scratched anyone they came into contact with, but mostly they grabbed and ate people. It was like a scene from a horror movie. People were running for their lives in every direction. It was every man and woman for himself or herself. No one helped anyone. About a minute later, there was no safe direction to go because those monsters were everywhere.

The day had begun like any other ordinary day for Barnabas Crackle. That is to say, as extra-ordinarily as his days typically began, which were the usual for our faithful protagonist.

The dead pull the living down.

The dead have highways." Clive Barker

The desperate piercing scream of horror echoed far above the sharpened tops of the trees wrapped in thin obsidian-transparent mist, and I startled jerkily, tripping again, and almost collapsed onto the cold moist ground.

The Devil's minions worked his treacherous plot through the hearts of men, possessing them, ruling them. These hounds of hell ran wild these days through their human hosts, working greater and greater abominations.

The difficulty with Poe is not figuring out which of his stories rise to the level required of this collection, but rather which of his stories to exclude from it.

The door of the judge's house was opened to him by a huge, bearded man who informed the reporter in a conversational tone that if he did not leave the village immediately he would not leave it with his arms unbroken.

The dread enactment of the dream had turned into a waking horror.

The exhilaration of battle was agreeable to him, but the sight of the dead, with their clay faces, blank eyes, and stiff bodies, which, when not unnaturally shrunken, were unnaturally swollen, had always intolerably affected him. He felt toward them a kind of reasonless antipathy which was something more than the physical and spiritual repugnance common to us all. Doubtless this feeling was due to his unusually acute sensibilities - his keen sense of the beautiful, which these hideous things outraged. Whatever may have been the cause, he could not look upon a dead body without a loathing which had in it an element of reselltment. What others have respected as the dignity of death had to him no existence - was altogether unthinkable. Death was a thing to be hated. It was not picturesque, it had no tender and solemn side - a dismal thing, hideous in all its manifestations and suggestions. Lieutenant Byring was a braver man than anybody knew, for nobody knew his horror of that which he was ever ready to encounter. ("A Tough Tussle")

The fantastic postulates that there are forces in the outside world, and in our own natures, which we can neither know nor control, and these forces may even constitute the essence of our existence, beneath the comforting rational surface. The fantastic is, moreover, a product of human imagination, perhaps even an excess of imagination. It arises when laws thought to be absolute are transcended, in the borderland between life and death, the animate and the inanimate, the self and the world; it arises when the real turns into the unreal, and the solid presence into vision, dream or hallucination. The fantastic is the unexpected occurrence, the startling novelty which goes contrary to all our expectations of what is possible. The ego multiplies and splits, time and space are distorted.

The final crushing failure. He has failed as a teacher, a writer, a husband and a father. He had even failed as a drunk.

The first book I remember reading that made me want to write was a children’s book by Edith Boutelle called The Ghost That Goofed. It was about a ghost named Belinda who wants to scare a new family away from the house she haunts. This book is reason I suggested Belinda as a name for our heroine in the Thorne & Cross novel The Ghosts of Ravencrest.

The first handkerchief was tied to a second, yellow handkerchief. He fed both through the window and kept pulling. Attached to it was a red one. Then a green one. “Go away, you goddamn clown!” Jenny ordered. But Benny the Clown continued to pull out handkerchief after handkerchief. Five…ten…fifteen…then… That’s not a handkerchief.

The fly that should be dead and the dog that should be dead in the house that should be dead, and the bride, who would be dead soon. It watched approvingly, appreciating the complexities—and fragilities—of life.

The gap in the fire which had opened up before him, so that the twisted grimace on the face of existence had become visible through the play of the flames, narrowed to disappear completely. His back hurt and he could hear darkness breathing audibly.

The ghosts that exert the most power in people’s lives-at least, the people I know–tend to be of their own making, and consist of equal parts regret and old fears and just plain missing somebody.

The gravedigger knew a fine trick. When the worms looked unhappy he would leave his place in the mausoleum and go up into the sunshine. He would go empty-handed, but when he returned, with him came a most exquisite corpse. The worms would rejoice, and they would feast upon the corpse until they were fat and could feast no more. The young would come with the old to see this trick and glory in it. No worm knew where the gravedigger got his corpses, but they were always succulent and nourishing. They praised the gravedigger’s generosity. -- From "Worms

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The images start to darken and she feels another hunger well up in her, this one having to do with another kind of desire. The desire to feed, to possess, and the aggressive thrill of a predator capturing and killing its prey as it tears into unspoiled flesh. Its teeth ripping and rending and the satisfying coppery taste of blood. There is the ultimate moment of surrender of drinking away the life essence. The pinnacle of lust which mounts in the very last breath, when the light drains from the victim's eyes and when the soul fades... Then there is only a triumphant cry to the moonlight and the beckoning depths of the ever waiting water.

The image of May shoving the gun down her lace panty butt crack and drawing it like an old west cowboy is too much. Who are we? Who the fuck are we? Supergirls for real, that’s who.

The "inner circle of humanity" recognizes others through frequency, regardless of walk of life or "positioning in the astral". This is an operation run invisibly from Outside the astral. Going Home represents the final shift to one's true spiritual families of light, in all dimensions of harmonics; higher vibrations/love in unity consciousness, above, below and literally "everywhere and everynow".

The impulse came to her clairvoyantly, and she obeyed without a sign of hesitation. Deeper comprehension would come to her of the whole awful puzzle. And come it did, yet not in the way she imagined and expected.