Quotes About Haunting

In the morning I wake amid fading scenes of different characters, different settings, all restatements of that first desire, a ghost who haunts me as the beauty he was at sixteen.

What is mikkary?" "The feeling a room gets when there's been murder done in it," Mildmay said. Kay's face was very still for a moment; then he said slowly, "Yes, I know that feeling well.

Ghosts often exist even in the bodies of people we love.

A voice called out, cold as chloroform and old shame.

That place is haunted, don't you know?

I knew it; I bloody knew it," he muttered. "It followed us. Whatever was in that house, it followed every one of us.

I've always been attracted to the idea of ghosts being memories frozen in time, that a psychological haunting can be just as terrifying as a supernatural one.

Music can take you back in time to that place when you first fell in love and really haunt you.

Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of a sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about something that's on its mind and can't make itself understood, and so can't rest easy in its grave, and has to go about that way every night grieving.

I'm alone. That just figures. Ghosts always go first for the one who's alone. In fact, I bet they're here right now. Lurking.

I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant. None of those things, however, came out of my mouth. All I was able to do was turn to Liesel Meminger and tell her the only truth I truly know. I said it to the book thief and I say it now to you. A LAST NOTE FROM YOUR NARRATOR I am haunted by humans.

The peculiar other-world feeling of the Arctic regions - a feeling so singular, that if you have once been there the thought of it haunts you all your life - is due largely to the perpetual daylight. Night seems more orange-tinted and subdued than day, but there is no great difference. (Life on a Greenland Whaler)

The past is remembered with such arresting lucidity because it is not being experienced as past; the illness experiences that are being told are unassimilated fragments that refuse to become past, haunting the present.

Delicate, hauntingly uncertain music floated out of the house. Vane heard it as he walked up from the stables. The lilting strains reached him, then wrapped about him, about his mind, sinking into his senses. They were a siren's song- and he knew precisely who was singing. Halting on the graveled drive before the stable arch, he listened to the moody air. It drew him- he could feel the tug as if it was physical. The music spoke- of need, of restless frustration, of underlying rebellion.

Our unconscious ideals cause us to sacrifice our true lives to a beautiful chimera, a haunting dream, a compelling illusion.

When I encountered these haunting words from Franz Kafka, I realized exactly why this light sermon about the search for God had struck such a nerve: Everyday life is the greatest detective story ever written. Every second, without noticing, we pass by thousands of corpses and crimes. That's the routine of our lives.

So do we pass the ghosts that haunt us later in our lives; they sit undramatically by the roadside like poor beggars, and we see them only from the corners of our eyes, if we see them at all. The idea that they have been waiting there for us rarely crosses our minds. Yet they do wait, and when we have passed, they gather up their bundles of memory and fall in behind, treading in our footsteps and catching up, little by little.

we need ghost stories because we, in fact, are the ghosts.

Not everybody believes in ghosts, but I do. Do you know what they are, Trisha? She had shaken her head slowly. Men and women who can't get over their past . . . That's what ghosts are.

The world was the Overlook Hotel, where the party never ended. Where the dead were alive forever.

When the dawn was still long hours away, bad thoughts took on flesh and began to walk. In the middle of the night thoughts became zombies.

There were no ghosts. Only memory.

So do we pass the ghosts that haunt us later in our lives; they sit undramatically by the roadside like poor beggars, and we see them only from the corners of our eyes, if we see them at all. The idea that they have been waiting there for us rarely if ever crosses our minds. Yet they do wait, and when we have passed, they gather up their bundles of memory and fall in behind, treading in our footsteps and catching up, little by little.

As I said at the beginning, this is a horror story.