Best 2148 quotes in «horror quotes» category

Where do bad folks go when they die? No heaven awaits them, say to it goodbye

Where do I go from here? She thought to herself. Truth was, it didn’t matter. She had a new beginning.

Where got she her sullen mouth And where her swaying form? Would she live on eggs and apples When the blood of men is warm? (“The Young Witch”)

Where moments before the bright morning sun flickered through the branches of the huge oak trees surrounding the property, every-thing in a ten yard radius immediately went pitch dark. The air, already a chilly fifty degrees, dropped past freezing in an instant, and the pressure changed to the point where he thought his eardrums might burst.

Wherefore the present age is given up as a reproach to the heathen, and for what cause the people whom thou hast loved is given over unto ungodly nations?!

Which grave are we in?" she said. "The oldest." She felt Eddie's puzzlement. "That can't be possible. He looks like he was just buried." "There must be something at work in the chemistry of the island that's preserving his body. It's like the incorruptibles, bodies that weren't preserved in any special way that don't decay. Catholic saints like Bernadette and Padre Pio are said not to have decomposed even though they died a long, long time ago. Environmental factors can cause a kind of mummification." Jessica said, or thought, "This is bizarre. I'm getting a lesson on mummification while in the coffin of a dead man.

While his brain lay slowly dying, Bevan felt his body come back to life.

While other kids ran to their parents at night afraid of monsters, alone in the darkness Brianna befriended those monsters and called them family.

While some monsters are born, others are created. But, the worst monsters are those who believe themselves to be heroes.

...while the stony bones of the world tore past and the air grew dark and howling. The last thing he saw as the gulley became a torrent of dust and rock was the Jeep, plucked backwards into space.

Who can really say what they would do in that kind of situation without ever being in it?

Who knew death could lead to an eating disorder?

Who gave you a gun?' 'The army.' 'Why?' 'That's what the army does, Simon.

Why did I, like thousands of others, have to carry a cross I hadn't chosen, a cross which was not made for my shoulders and which didn't concern me? Who decided to come rummaging around in my obscure existence, invade my gray anonymity, my meager tranquility, and bowl me like a little ball in a great game of skittles? God? Well, in that case, if He exists, if He really exists, let Him hide His face. Let Him put His two hands on His head, and let Him bow down. It may be, as Peiper used to teach us, that many men are unworthy of Him, but now I know that He, too, is unworthy of most of us, and that if the creature is capable of producing horror, it's solely because his Creator has slipped him the recipe for it.

Why did this have to happen? So many innocent lives have already been lost and there were still so many more to go. It was difficult knowing there were still people, who were home asleep, that had no idea what terrors awaited them when they finally started their days. It was a tragedy.

Why the law of our forefathers are brought to nought, and the written covenants come to none effect-

Wielding a hammer, however, you’re at the very heart of the experience, being flooded with wonderful sensations that simply can’t be yours if you use a firearm. Now, you might be asking yourself how I came to discover the splendors of hammer attack. I’ll tell you. You won’t want to hear it, though.

Wieder hob sie den Blick und richtete die Lampe auf ihr Gesicht. Sie schaute zum Fenster hinüber. Ihre Züge waren jetzt fast noch deutlicher. Sie konnte die Details um ihre Nase studieren, den Mund. Die Haare. Sie sah nicht gut aus. Resigniert schaltete sie die Lampe aus und ließ sie sinken. Und da sah sie es. Ihr Spiegelbild verschwand nicht. Es blieb im Fenster hängen, noch deutlicher als zuvor. Eine Sekunge lang ließ sie sich davon einfach faszinieren. Sie schnitt eine Grimasse. Aber das Spiegelbild veränderte sich nicht.

Will you not bid me welcome, Brother?” the beast mocked. The dragon’s voice paralyzed Roger where he stood. Hearing it sapped his strength, stole his will, made him feel as though his mind had been crushed between slabs of stone. There was chaos in it, and destruction—a voice crafted of darkness and the death of worlds.

With apologies to Judy Garland and Cole Porter, all the world does NOT love a clown. John Wayne Gacy might have been the final nail in the coffin in terms of anyone associating clowns with funny (if a bunch of clowns die, do they all fit into one coffin?)

William sees it all happen again. The pain is not in the event. The subjection to it and his powerless state each time is where his anguish lies. He is unable to influence the situation, despite his desire. He sees the nest outside his house. He sees the baby bird that fell. The mother bird cries frantically for her lost chick. William knows as he approaches the chick that if he touches it his scent will linger, and the mother will reject it. Circling around the fallen creature William hopes it will flee from him, back toward the tree from which it had fallen. His presence only intensifies the creature’s fear. It speeds to his left, heading for the street. Again William tries to flank the bird, but it is too frightened to return to the nest. The chick’s mother wails vainly. William walks into the street trying to herd the bird to safety. The stop light a block away has just turned green. The driver accelerates. William moves from the car’s path and it runs over the bird. The momentum from its wake lifts the bird to the underside of the car, breaking its neck, but not killing it. William watches the bird roll helplessly. It is silent for a second, before it begins to whimper. Its contorted head dangles limply from its body. The noise is tragic. The bird’s mother hears the chick’s pain, but nothing can be done. She laments. A second speeder crushes the chick, leaving only a wet feathered spot in the street. As the cars continue to pass, only one bird is heard. A mother’s grief falls deafly on an unconcerned world.

With a ring around the rosary And a pocket full of crosses Ashes to ashes They'll all fall down

Wolfman clears everything off the table except his gun. That he keeps close at hand. There is a sense of ceremony about his actions. My stomach tightens up. We are about to begin.

With heightened senses it remained motionless and looked through bulbous eyes. It could taste fear in the air. Pheromones. Sweat. Food was near, but more importantly, so was its new home.

Wives of criminals, Massau later reflected, were indeed an interesting lot. There are those who, real panthers in madness, defend their men with claws out; there are the cold and insensitive ones, who wrestling step by step, discuss each argument and answer your questions with other questions; there are the stubborn ones who can pass the entire night in total silence against the light of the interrogation; there are still others, who, shaken and in distress, discover as you do that they have lived for years beside a monster.

Woodhouse's father entered the room violently and without its consent. The rats scurried away from his work boots, and his flat cap was imbued with tweedy malevolence. His moustache bristled with ill intent and the only thing great about his coat was the quantity of fear that it inspired.

With Eyes Like Charles Manson, a life similar to H.P Lovecraft, and lyrics like Edgar Allan Poe, Kurt Cobain was the master of horror in music.

With horror he perceived that, by uniting himself as he had with the dead, he had cut himself off from the living. Stripped of all earthly hope, bereft of every consolation, he was rendered as poor as mortal can possibly be on this side of the grave.

Woodward and Bernstein,” Jared said from seemingly nowhere. “What?” “They were just two reporters. Yet, they broke the Watergate scandal. They toppled an administration. That’s us.” “We’re Woodward and Bernstein.” Alec said, pointing between him and Jared. “Woodward, Bernstein, and Lucy,” Lucy corrected.

Working with some real dirt seemed fitting for a woman whose hands felt like they would remain forever filthy. She decided to go after the thickets of weeds that seemed determined to ruin her garden, just as she had gone after those dark things crawling from her drain that seemed determined to ruin her life. Summer rains had nourished the thick tangles. Healthy and strong, the weeds twisted along the yard’s edges in dense tuffs. Eden’s hoe whacked away, and at least she felt some satisfaction denying those flower-killers the opportunity to strangle the remaining beauty from her world. She swung the hoe like a pissed off Grim Reaper.

World believers of righteousness must fight the enemies of Allah through uncompromising...

Would you teach me, Seth?’ Seth smiled and leaned back in his seat. ‘You do realise, of course, that you have no idea what you ask of me?’ Seth replied after a moment. ‘Of course,’ Christopher replied quietly. ‘Could you tell me?’ ‘No. That is the problem you see,’ Seth said. ‘Magic is something you can never prepare someone for. Magic will make you, Christopher. It will find all the secret empty places of longing in you and fill them more surely than any other love. And magic will break your heart.’ A slight, rather sad smile crossed Christopher’s face for a moment. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You think your heart is already broken, you think that this crooked and winding way is the only path left for you now. But you’re wrong. The heart breaks like every wave on the beach and there’s a darkness you’ll have to pass through that you can’t even see from where you are now.

Wrath crawled out from the well, on direction from Hell, to get back what it once lost. With vengeance in mind, it set out to find, a specified soul to accost. When the Hell-well beckoned, Mother’s will now reckoned, her dead soul now wholly enslaved. Embodied in a rotting husk, the corpse reeked of putrid musk, her being wholly depraved.

Wraiths see death in everything. They do not see things in the physical world as they appear, but as they someday will be. A person about to die might appear cadaverous, with hollow eyes and jaundiced skin; a car destined to crash will appear dented in advance. Much of the world seems decayed, a near collapse. Billboards are tattered, roads are potholed, pain is peeling, metal is rusting, buildings are crumpling. To the Restless, much of the world is already dead.

Writing is a lonely act. When two writers come together to write a horror story it can be crazy. You can't step on a mine and hope it doesn't explode.

Yeah, I get it. I'll be cool as a well digger's ass." He jumped when the front door slammed shut, the harsh bang echoing around the trees. Mitch shook his head. "That well digger must be working in a hot spring.

Yep,” I said, rolling the body onto its back and staring into the horrified, bloated face, “you’re a single-bagger. My kinda gal.” I gave her a smile and a friendly wink. The face stared back at me with that same frozen look of terror. “Oh, stop being so dramatic,” I said, “You’ll be pretty again, I promise.

Yeah, there has to be a few screws loose when a girl asks you to drop everything to spend a three-day weekend on very short notice, and you say okey dokey without a care in the world.

Y era como la vaga y desagradable idea de que sin darnos cuenta, habíamos estado bromeando con estas grandes fuerzas elementales en cuyo poder estábamos indefensos, cada hora del día y de la noche. Pues aquí, sin duda, estaban en juego poderes gigantescos, cuyo solo aspecto visual estimulaba ya la imaginación.

Yes' Simon nodded. 'This would suggest that these patterns grow inside the batteries until a critical point is reached, when the shapes develop no further, and the phone ceases to function.

Yes, this was a haunted place. He had read about certain materials absorbing the sounds of their surroundings like divots in a vinyl recording, and now, as the sun started to dip below the horizon, this concept chilled him more than the creeping cold. Put a needle to the mortar of these walls and listen to the screams. His own would be among them.

Yet, despite all, it is a difficult thing to admit the existence of ghosts in a coldly factual world. One's very instincts rebel at the admission of such maddening possibility. For, once the initial step is made into the supernatural, there is no turning back, no knowing where the strange road leads except that it is quite unknown and quite terrible. ("Slaughter House")

Yeah, try wearing a piss cutter for eight years… then it wouldn’t be so bad.

You are afraid to lose, you don't react, you are afraid of the horror of something which can be brutal killings and such... You are prepared to a victim I can said from here!

You are fifty different kinds of twisted." "Only fifty? Val, you wound me.

You are ruin and chaos to them, but you are lovely to my eye.' 'You're brave or daft, then,' she said, quite rightly. 'Chaos and ruin. Where does that leave me, then?

You can get used to horror, he thought. When it has lost immediacy and is no longer pungent and has become a steady diet. When it has degraded to a chain of mind-numbing events. (“Lover When You're Near Me”)

You bring more light into this room than the window

You ate my dog, you undead freak!” Hey! Watch the slander. I hear the acceptable term is ‘corporeally challenged’ now. No need to be rude.

You Can Not Be Honest With Others, If You Are Not First Honest With Yourself.