Quotes About Haunting

The past is haunting us. In Queens, in Manhattan, it is shadowing us, punching us in the stomach. I am small, and my father is big. But the Past—it is the biggest.

the girl with the tip-tilted nose, the forget-me-not eyes, the rose red cheeks and the lily-white neck and shoulders who gave the explanation in a trembling voice: "It's the ghost!

We recognize the touch of the Opera ghost.

A ghost who bleeds is less dangerous!

THE OPERA GHOST REALLY EXISTED.

The Phantom of the Opera did exist. After all, these are no ordinary bones.

They had felt his breath . . . Yes, the ghost was there, around them, behind them, beside them. They sensed him without seeing him. They heard him breathing - so close to them, so close!

I had survived, and I should be dead. I was haunted by my own life.

The present is haunted by the X-present. I call this manifold of present and X-present 'nowness': a shifting, haunted region like evaporating mist; a region can't be tied to a specific timescale.

There are too many ghosts walking this earth. They weigh heavy on the living.

Why, you're a ghost," he said, "and so am I. We're spirits haunting these bodies of flesh and blood, just as spooks haunt houses of wood and stone." "You believe in haunted houses?" "All houses," he said, "wherein men have lived and died, are haunted houses.

All stories are ghost stories," I

Edinburgh is a great big black bastard of a city where there are ghosts of all kinds.

The smell of roasting meat rose from the street stalls in a sizzle and a fiddle player begged for coin as he rasped a haunting melody. Life could not be more perfect.

In destitution, even of feeling or purpose, a human being is more hauntingly human and vulnerable to kindnesses because there is the sense that things should be otherwise, and then the thought of what is wanting and what alleviation would be, and how the soul could be put at ease, restored. At home. But the soul finds its own home if it ever has a home at all.

What is love? she asked... It is a perpetual longing for someone that gets into your blood. That someone lives inside your head, haunting you, filling your soul with dreams-dreams that could well turn to tragedy were they never to be fulfilled, he reaplied...

It was all quite ghastly and I was very fond of it.

Perhaps these are inward irritations always produced by love: the acutely sensitive nerves of intimacy: the haunting fear that all may not go well.

El hombre necesita del misterio como del pan y el aire, necesita de las casas embrujadas, de las personas innombrables, de las calles sin retorno que hay que esquivar.

En ocasiones, en la vieja casa encantada del cerebro, oigo a lo lejos, alguna puerta olvidada. La música de una lejana fiesta espectral, y la agitación de los ecos bajo el chirriante suelo.

Someone is walking over your grave.

Silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.

She turned her car onto the last stretch of straight drive leading her directly, face to face, to Hill House and, moving without thought, pressed her foot on the brake to stall the car and sat, staring. The house was vile. She shivered and thought, the words coming freely into her mind, Hill House is vile, it is diseased; get away from here at once.

Perhaps someone had once hoped to lighten the air of the blue room in Hill House with a dainty wallpaper, not seeing how such a hope would evaporate in Hill House, leaving only the faintest hint of its existence, like an almost inaudible echo of sobbing far away...