Best 496 quotes in «ghost quotes» category

As Sandy and his wife warmed to the tale, one tripping up another in their eagerness to tell everything, it gradually developed as distinct a superstition as I ever heard, and not without poetry and pathos. How long it was since the voice had been heard first, nobody could tell with certainty. Jarvis's opinion was that his father, who had been coachman at Brentwood before him, had never heard anything about it, and that the whole thing had arisen within the last ten years, since the complete dismantling of the old house: which was a wonderfully modern date for a tale so well authenticated. According to these witnesses, and to several whom I questioned afterwards, and who were all in perfect agreement, it was only in the months of November and December that "the visitation" occurred. During these months, the darkest of the year, scarcely a night passed without the recurrence of these inexplicable cries. Nothing, it was said, had ever been seen - at least nothing that could be identified. Some people, bolder or more imaginative than the others, had seen the darkness moving, Mrs Jarvis said with unconscious poetry. ("The Open Door")

At least I graduated," he muttered, stabbing the key in and unlocking the door. I sucked in a breath. "I think dying was a little out of my control, thank you very much." "If you say so". He shrugged, but I saw the corner of his mouth turn up into a faint smile.

A tomb is a vault, a vault is a home,” Mr. Sadlot said casually sniffing the flower in his lapel. “That’s where the deceased chose to reside and that is where he will be placed.” Kekaju and the Hidden Swamp

At least I rescued your poor hot dog.

Aaron: Dude, one thing the guy said is you don’t taunt voodoo. Zak: Am I taunting? Aaron: Dude, you’re taunting the crap out of it! Zak: I am sorry, I am not taunting you I am just talking...Talking loudly.

Do you have any idea who Erin was kissing?" "Yeah, so we'll brush out teeth really, really thoroughly afterwards," I said, bumping her nose with mine gently. I wasn't going to let anyone spoil this moment.

But," expostulated Josiah Worthington. "But. A human child. A living child. I mean. I mean, I mean. This is a graveyard, not a nursery, blast it.

But this time as soon as he moved she began to fade. He stopped at once, not breathing again, motionless, willing his eyes to see that she had stopped too. But she had not stopped. She was fading, going. "Wait," he said, talking as sweet as he had ever heard his voice speak to a woman: "Den lemme go wid you, honey." But she was going.

Charleston is an extraordinary place. There is a deep connection between the residents and nearly three hundred and fifty years of history, and those ties between daily life and the distant past are strengthened by the occasional glimpse beyond the veil.

Clear vision holds the key.

Because every story is a ghost story, even mine.

Being dead does have its advantages.”-Alastor

Better beware of the newly dead Of the white-handed ghost And the brightness of these lamps . . .

Careful, Abbey," Caspian warned. "Don't get too close." "He killed her, Caspian! He was the reason she was at the bridge that night." "I know but--" Vincent suddenly turned to face Caspian. "Could you just shut up? All this back and forht is really confusing. I'll get to you in a minute." Caspian's jaw dropped. So did mine. "You can see him?" I asked. "Who are you?" "Not who," Vincent said, a tone of sheer entitlement in his voice. "What.

Clive, surveying the scene from the churchyard, was not particularly concerned with the how or why. It was typical of his unquestioning, uncomplicated nature, as well-meaning as the printed verse in a Christmas card. Like the card, too, he was a symbol of goodwill towards all men. His life was one perpetual effort to be liked. This had naturally resulted in considerable unpopularity. His late-autumn holiday was being spent alone.

Death never plays by the rules. And I think that's why we, as mortal beings, fear it so much. Not because it's an inevitability, but because it's so unpredictable. We all know it's coming for us. We can just never be sure exactly when.

Did you ever think about boys?' I say, staring up into the dark. 'There wasn't room,' she whispers, and her voice is unbelievably sad. 'At first, after Connor, I was just waiting. I was going to get a new boyfriend soon- as soon as I was prettier or better, more perfect. But after a while there was no room for anything else. If I though about kissing or sex, I just started feeling ugly, too awful for anything good.

Doubt is a creature within the air. It grows when someone hesitates.

Do you really think I’ve been murdered?” Michael’s voice was soft, but I still heard it from across the bedroom. He stood in the doorway with a rather solemn expression. Words failed me. Would he really want to hear the answer? If it were me, would I want to know if someone killed me? Maybe. I took a deep breath. “I’ll be honest with you. It doesn’t look good. The fact that no one knows you’re dead yet makes me worry that your death might have been intentional.” I stepped closer to him, staring all the way up into his face. “But if you want the truth, I don’t think the reason you died was your fault. You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re a good guy. I’m sorry this happened to you.” He gazed at me for a handful of seconds before nodding and his hair slid forward into his eyes. For some reason, it was the first time Michael seemed human. He was always so amiable and confident that seeing him be vulnerable felt odd. “Thank you.” “Come on. Let’s go find some answers.

Do you like a good ghost story?”-Jonah

...él es un fantasma recién muerto. Se convirtió en fantasma porque equivocó el momento de su muerte.

Even my identity has been kept hidden from me. It is a child's ghost buried in mud. It is an old woman waving at me from a passing train.

En un sens, le titre d’ancien, utilisé à son adresse par l’homme des bois, le ravit. C’est la reconnaissance implicite du peuple des bois à son égard, l’offre respectueuse de partager une existence en ces terres. Opinant du chef, Gibbie soutient : - J’ai les paumes pleines de farine. - Mes doigts sont percés d’échardes, agrée simplement Kardys. Les bruits reprennent dans le moulin, chacun revenant à ce qu’il faisait. Le grand forestier poursuit : - Alors, c’en était bien un… - Un Pâle-de-la-Nuit, réaffirme lugubrement le meunier. Et d’ajouter à la cantonade, avant de se replonger dans sa chope : - Je l’ai vu et entendu comme je vous vois.

Even then I found the word fitting, soothing. Fireflies. Fire flies. Fire, fly.

Ghosts are everywhere, not just the ghost of Momma in the woods, but ghosts of us too, what we used to be like in those long summers.

Every town has ‘THAT house’: the one that once held dark secrets. You know the house… the one no one will purchase? The one whose walls have seen blood? The one that even birds avoid, and the darkened windows resemble empty eye sockets? There are furtive, yet insistent, whispers about ‘that’ house, murmurs that perhaps the house is best left alone, lest the dark stain left upon that abode’s history seep into our own present-day.

For most, ghost hunting was a few steps escalated from telling scary stories around a campfire.

Ghosts do not haunt, they regress. Just as when you need to go to sleep you think of trees or lawns, you are taking instant symbolic refuge in a ready-made iconography of early safety and satisfaction. That exact place is where ghosts go.

Every man will tell you little boys should not play with dolls but ask any mother and they will tell you, every little boy has gone to sleep cuddled into one at one time in there life.

Fear is the ghost of ancient. It consumes faithless human.

Fear no more as long as her memory surrounds you like a ghost…cry no more as long as she weeps for you like a willow.

Ghosts are the manifestation of the longing of loss.

Ghosts can't become solid, Lex thought. Ghosts can't throw cheese balls! And then: That might be the weirdest sentence I've ever thought.

He fills me with horror and I do not hate him. How can I hate him, Raoul? Think of Erik at my feet, in the house on the lake, underground. He accuses himself, he curses himself, he implores my forgiveness!...He confesses his cheat. He loves me! He lays at my feet an immense and tragic love. ... He has carried me off for love!...He has imprisoned me with him, underground, for love!...But he respects me: he crawls, he moans, he weeps!...And, when I stood up, Raoul, and told him that I could only despise him if he did not, then and there, give me my liberty...he offered it...he offered to show me the mysterious road...Only...only he rose too...and I was made to remember that, though he was not an angel, nor a ghost, nor a genius, he remained the voice...for he sang. And I listened ... and stayed!...That night, we did not exchange another word. He sang me to sleep.

Have you ever or are you now involved in espionage or sabotage, or in terrorist activities, or genocide? I think we can put a big yes down for all of the above.

He clicked the Save button, and there was the sound of a trumpet fanfare. A cleverly designed Flash animation in emerald green illuminated in gold leapt out at him in a 3D effect like the titles of an epic film: WELCOME, ASH, TO BIG BROTHER, THE AVENGER! The words exploded in a shower of gold dust. A voice boomed chillingly, ‘If you want help to sort them out, look no further! Big Brother will avenge you!

He is a ghost he shouldn't be watching soapies!

Hello?” I ask. No one is there. Not a word. Not a whisper. Not a single sound resonating from the other side of the receiver. “Hello? Anyone there?” I ask again. Repeating myself. I am beginning to feel rather anxious now. Scared, would be a better word to use. Shivers have begun to creep up my spinal cord, and I can feel the urgency of goose pimples begin to line up on by frightened pale skin.

Grace Poole shrugged. "If you're sure. I can whip something up in the cauldron." "Do not eat anything she whips up in a cauldron," Helen whispered.

He’d need the woman’s help to set things right; he just didn’t like having to wake the dead.

Hey, you mortal! You are nothing but a ghost; only immortality can make you real!

He wasn’t gullible enough to be bullied by the ghost’s accusation – for Andrew Fletcher had his share of guilt, but he’d never thrown anyone down a well, either.

How does it feel to be helpless, Led? To depend on something that fails you? There's no more running from who you are; no one to hold you together anymore. You're alone now-- The ghost of Tokyo has come for you all.

History is all around us and you, my lucky few, are living in some of it..

How can you see into my eyes like open doors Leading you down into my core Where I've become so numb without a soul My spirit sleeping somewhere cold Until you find it there and lead it back home

His ghost comes back to be remembered. If he can’t be in this life, he procures a way to stay in orbit, and in that way, is never forgotten.

How do you feel when you read stuff written by dead authors? A visit by a ghost?

I'd have your back off-site too, if you'd let me." ~Cain, Ghost of You

I am Indonesian. I don't buy fear of western ghosts. But when you deal with a giant garagasi of sumatera, there's no word worth enough to express the eeriness.

I am on a mission from the Hawaiian spirits.