Best 496 quotes in «ghost quotes» category

Neither of us had lived in a house since we were kids; apartments, it turns out, are very different things, psychologically. Houses—especially old and creaky houses—are individuals, somehow; their fronts are faces, their closets are pants pockets.

Never in any Jane Austen novel did the love interest pretend to be a fortune-teller," Helen said, "Why would someone do that?

Nice. I like a little desperation in a guy. It builds character.

None of this would be a problem if you were clever enough to keep your extracurricular activities a secret.

No! no! My engagement is with no bride--the worms! the worms expect me! I am a dead man--I have been slain by robbers--my body lies at Wurtzburg--at midnight I am to be buried--the grave is waiting for me--I must keep my appointment!

None of this is his fault, but here we sit in the police station.

No,” she said. “You are not Patrick Swayze. I am not Demi Moore.” She touched a switch on the little box and it started ticking. “And this sure as hell isn't pottery class.

Nothing is ever as simple as it seems. At the edge of perception, weird things dance and howl.

Oh God just look at me now... one night opens words and utters pain... I cannot begin to explain to you... this... I am not here. This is not happening. Oh wait, it is, isn't it? I am a ghost. I am not here, not really. You see skin and cuts and frailty...these are symptoms, you known, of a ghost. An unclear image with unclear thoughts whispering vague things... If I told you what was really in my head, you''d never let me leave this place. And I have no desire to spend time in hell while I'm still, in theory, alive.

Now that's a ghastly moon, not ghostly.

Now, though, there was a second part, an artifact of his recent illness, as if his melancholy had, in a universe adjacent to this one, claimed his life. As if he was his own ghost, standing slightly behind himself, observing.

Perhaps her parents are still with her, even after all these years. Carving a celestial path for her which she follows blindly. Whispering encouragement in her ears and reminding her why she chose the life she now leads. Avenge us.

Only after you've done the exorcism, then you'll understand that ghost's also a species.

Remember thee? Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat in this distracted globe. Remember thee?

Que dormía, acurrucada, metiéndose dentro de él, perdida en la nada al sentir que se quebraba su carne, que se abría como un surco abierto por un clavo ardoroso, luego tibio, luego dulce dando golpes duros contra su carne blanda; sumiéndose más, hasta el gemido.

Pesticide is meant to deal with pests as passion is to deal with unnecessary loss of interest! Passion kills the ghosts of "I can't".

Quick," I hissed. "Tell me what you know about this place." The ghost frowned. His face appeared sweaty and his hair was a mess, like he'd been running his fingers through it. "How about, 'hey, Frankie. How you doing, Frankie? I see you're missing both your legs, Frankie.

Shadow’s heart stopped. While Theo did not observe it with his eyes, he felt the life juice leave the dog’s body. In the final shudder of the death throe, Shadow gave up his ghost.

She finally took her first good look at the guy beside her. Kerri's eyes widened...because she could see right through him, all the way to the nineteen-foot Christmas tree on the other end of the brightly-lit mall. "You're a ghost!

She’d just seen her dead grandmother and had a lovesick warlock on her lawn. The last thing she needed was to worry about extraterrestrial probing.

She’d wanted Randall Parks from the moment her hormones kicked in. Her best friend, her guardian when things got rough, her knight in somewhat-rusted and dinged up armor—he wore many hats in her life and none more important than that of best friend.

She had golden blazing sun kissed hair, which hung down in loose, lazy spirals, a heart shaped pouted mouth, which was pink tinged with violet blushing, wide, spangled blue eyes that glimmered sparks to flicker and ember in the vivid intelligence of the moon’s love, and a yielding body, that seem to tangle in loose rhythm as I walked near to her.

She shot him a look. "What?" he asked. "Where's my journal? I want to jot this down for posterity." Huh? He lifted a confused brow and she smirked, ornery light glinting in her amber brow. "You just spoke, like what? A whole four sentences? Not to mention there were a few adjectives thrown in there. That must be some sort of record. It should be memorialized accordingly, don't you think? She batted her lashed. Jesus, the woman was too much.

She’s got to be a ghost. First of all, she’s just too beautiful. Her features are gorgeous, but it’s not only that. She’s so perfect I know she can’t be real. She’s like a person who stepped right out of a dream. The purity of her beauty gives me a feeling close to sadness –a very natural feeling, though one that only something extraordinary could produce.

Showmen's Rest was truly something to behold. Throughout the entire yard, statues and carvings of elephants, clowns, and tight-rope walkers danced on the gray and white surfaces of tombstones and grave-markers. For the first time, Michael got the feeling that the men and women who'd been buried there were probably really happy with their final resting place. It was a touching tribute, one that honored their passion in life and that had been constructed out of love and respect.

She walked with darkness dripping off her shoulders, I've seen ghosts brighter than her soul.

Silent as a flower, her face fell in dismay, aware that the ghost of lust ate and left, sensing that there was a different scent of perfume consuming the room, and that she had numbered and counted the he loves me, he loves me not of each petal, where the lifeless dust had settle.

Simone crossed herself and prayed as she watched headlights coming at them, fast and furious. Her hands shaking from fright, she buckled herself in while Jesse screamed out like a terrified child in the back seat. As if he could die.

Some ghosts just want a little attention. Some have unfinished business that they need to work through, emotions they have to process. A few..." She looked pointedly at Galen. "A few don't understand they're dead. You can see why I'd jump to conclusions about you.

Sometimes Geraldine feels like she can drive forever. Maybe that’s partially why she took a job at Milo General Motors. Driving is the best means of escape that the human race has, at least, that’s her opinion. She’s never had the guts to try drugs before, both because her sister was a junkie in the last few months she knew her, and because she’s heard the overdose horror stories, seen 'Requiem for a Dream', smelled the vapours of a meth lab that Julia’s boyfriend built, heard the crunching glass of crack vials and heroine needles when they happen to break. Even this alone is too surreal, not to mention that if she were high or tripping on acid or whatever the drug of choice may be, this would give the ghosts more power to morph into something even more nightmarish than they already are.

Staying in that house alone didn't appeal to me - some ghost hunter I was. Nothing had happened, and I was already jumpy.

Sometimes it's as if I can shrink away to nothing. Sometimes I feel as pure and perfect as a ghost. The hunger, the headaches, the dizziness—these are the only things that are real.

So much time spent believing we had ghosts in our machines has accustomed us to haunting ourselves.

Standing on Abiram Stein’s front steps, facing the street, Kat felt very different from when she’d stood in that same spot forty minutes earlier, facing the door. Suspicions were facts. Fears were real. And ghosts were alive as she stood where her mother had once stood, unsure how to follow in her footsteps.

Sometimes in the corner of my eye, I saw a girl running through the loft. A see-through girl, a silhouette. She looked the way the world looks without my glasses. Vaguely hued, indistinct. She looked the way a body looks underwater, lost in the blur of bubble and wave.

The day your heart fills only with fear and insecurities, everything you see becomes the ghost that you were always scared of.

That night, I took a while falling asleep and when I did, I had a strange dream. She was sitting in my rocking chair and rocking herself, her dead eyes fixed on me. I lay on my bed, paralysed with fear, unable to move, unable to scream, my limbs refusing to move to my command. The room was suddenly freezing cold, the heater had probably stopped working in the night because the electricity supply had been cut and the inverter too had run out. At one point, I was uncertain whether I was dreaming or awake, or in that strange space between dreaming and wakefulness, where the soul wanders out of the body and explores other dimensions. What I knew was that I was chilled to the bones, chilled in a way that made it impossible for me to move myself, to lever myself to a sitting position in order to switch the bedside lamp on and check whether this was really happening. I could hear her in my head. Her voice was faint, feathery, and sibilant, as if she was whispering through a curtain of rain. Her words were indistinct, she called my name, she said words that pierced through my ears, words that meshed into ice slivers in my brain and when I thought finally that I would freeze to death an ice cold tiny body climbed into the quilt with me, putting frigidly chilly arms around me, and whispered, ‘Mother, I’m cold.’ Icicles shot up my spine, and I sat up, bolt upright in my bed, feeling the covers fall from me and a small indent in the mattress where something had been, a moment ago. There was a sudden click, the red light of the heater lit up, the bed and blanket warmer began radiating life-giving heat again and I felt myself thaw out, emerge from the scary limbo which marks one’s descent into another dimension, and the shadow faded out from the rocking chair right in front of me into complete transparency and the icy presence in the bed faded away to nothingness.

That’s way cool!” said Danny. “Sick way to use a Paranormal ability, but way cool.

The air changes. Then that invisible spider crawls up my spine, tickling the hairs behind my neck. I have come to know this spider these last couple of years. It whispers there’s something else in the room, breathing with you, watching you, grinning at you. I hate that damn spider.

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 doctor from the mainland came and went. Silence settled over the island again, like a displaced curtain falling back in thickened, heavier folds. For there was a different quality in the silence now. It had tasted something, rich food on which it had long been thinly rationed. Shadowy things were trooping up, called by that scent of blood, like flies that smell carrion. They were not strangers to the old house; they had been ill-fed and at a distance, now they were hungry and avid and near.

The guards came after her. They hunted a ghost, for Ead Duryan was no more.

The girl's arms jutted out at awkward angles, not quite hands on the hips belligerent but not relaxed either, as if they weren't all the way under the girl's control. "I came to find you." "I didn't know. If I'd known..." "It doesn't matter now." The girl's attention was unwavering. "This is where you are." "It is at that." The girl looked sad. Her soil-dark eyes were clouded over by tears she hadn't been able to shed. "I came here to find you." "I couldn't have known." Maylene reached out and plucked a leaf from the girl's hair. "Doesn't matter." She lifted a dirty hand, fingernails flashing chipped red polish, but she didn't seem to know what to do with her outstretched fingers. Little girl fears warred with teenage bravado. Bravado won. "I'm here now." "All right, then." Maylene walked down the path toward one of the gates. She pulled the key from her handbag, twisted it in the lock, and pushed open the gate.

The ghosts . . . try to remember the sunlight. Light has died out of their skies.

The Idea of Ghost, like the Idea of North. A mere looped whisper, in darkness or in light. And no matter what this person may have been like before he or she died, no matter what they--specifically--might have wanted, ghosts only really want one thing: you, with them. Not to be alone. Not to be trapped. Not to be where they are. Not to be.

The most special times in a person's life are not meant to last forever. They're like bubbles rising from a plastic ring dipped into a soapy solution. The soap bubbles rise, with the sun flashing brilliant colors, then bursts into a showery memory mist.

The long-deluded will at last see the truth, and thus their expressions will have seen a ghost.

The point is when you're involved with the paranormal, don't be surprised when the paranormal gets involved with you.

The one plus side to demonic infestation is that children cannot be harmed by a demon. The sanctified aura of a child somehow repels the demon and they can only oppress them if the parent makes a contract allowing them to do so. Because they can be very clever in tricking people into agreeing to additional contracts, it is important to never converse with a demon. Either call in a priest or move out as soon as possible.

The people who are scared of ghosts are the ones who discuss most about them.