Quotes About Eerie

Slipstream fiction is usually defined as fiction with a contemporary setting in which story elements are mimetic (that is, seem real) - except for one or two eerie strangenesses. Unlike outright fantasy, these are not explained or integrated into an alternate-reality setting.

I've always been drawn to spooky things, to the unusual, to things that are dark but in a friendly way.

There's a lot of 'Silent Hill' in the Upside Down, which people have noticed.

Yautja are weird.

the pale hand of an enormous albino with long white hair.

He is here. There is the sweet perfume of death in the air.' He drew a deep breath. 'I love it even more than the smell of fresh quimmy.

The evening advanced. The shadows lengthened. The waters of the lake grew pitchy black. The gliding of the ghostly swans became rare and more rare.

She remembers an eerily young Sean Connery, in that first James Bond film, using fine clear Scottish spit to paste one of his gorgeous black hairs across the gap between the jamb and the door of his hotel room.

The air was stained by shadows, a darkness burst by lightning like camera flashes.

Walter suddenly became aware of a strange chill seeping into his lower body.

That would be the last thing Professor Hopkins saw on the pier that night.

The sky was like ebony and the only illumination was the harsh white light of the central streetlamp, which cast shadows so hard it seemed you might cut yourself on them.

New Orleans is kind of dark in a very beautiful way.

They just … give me the heebie-jeebies, that's all. With their … eyes and paws and … faces.

You are such a failure at being eerie! I'll have you know I won 'most mesmerizing fireball' at the Elflympiad! He would have followed me if you hadn't been so annoying! Now he'll never drown in a creepy swamp!

Okay, that's just eerie," Blue said.

Her black eyes picked up a touch of green from her sweater, transforming them into the eerie night forest color of childhood terrors.

Never a good thing, opined Atticus nervously. Doors closing by themselves.

The trees' bony fingers make spell-casting gestures in the wind as they pass.

My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist will blow away your expectation of what late-model literature has to be. Unified by obsessions too eerie not to be real, this gorgeous rearrangement of our century's mental furniture is testimony to a new talent of Burroughs/Coover/Acker scale.

that they always give their horoscope readers (like Joyce every morning, over vegetable juice she made herself in a special machine) that special eerie feeling of particularity and insight, exploiting the psychological fact that most people are narcissistic and prone to the illusion that they and their problems are uniquely special and that if they're feeling a certain way then surely they're the only person who is feeling like that.

So many horrid Ghosts.

He looked like some plant bleached by darkness.

I looked like a ghost. And I should know. I've seen a few.