Quotes About Ghostly

Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On me alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat. Ghoul! Chewer of corpses! No mother. Let me be and let me live.

Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On me alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured face. Her hoarse and loud breath ratting in horror, while all prayed on their knees.

The place was also slightly haunted,

She was so pale she could have been moonlight.

Fear was not red, fear is pale as a dead man's face

moonlit winter trees bare branches paint gray shadows ghostly risen roots

you are as much a ghostly phenomenon now as you will be after death. You are simply not aware of the fact.

each time I hear the bells toll the brief notes of the early hours of the morn, I imagine ghostly hands pulling rotting bell ropes. Or perhaps rotting hands pulling ghostly bell ropes; I don't know which image suits my macabre fancies this endless night. Fever

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.

So the ghostly figure which has haunted these pages, as it haunted my life, goes down into the impenetrable gloom. Like a shadow she first came to me in the loneliness of the night. Like a shadow she passes away in the loneliness of the dead

Bellis gasped. Everywhere lights where suspended. Globes of cold illumination like frost moons, with no trace of the sepia of the New Crobuzon's gaslamps. The city glowed in the darkening water like a net full of ghostly lights. The outer edges of the city were low buildings in porous stone and coral.

Her absence is a presence, ghostly and haunting, touching all who knew her. It is impossible that she disappeared, inconceivable that she will never return. She is at once nowhere and everywhere, a constant shadow, elusory and insubstantial, her life an unkept promise, a half-remembered dream.

She knows her place, she sure does know her place. There's something ghostlike about this girl . . .

There must be something ghostly in the air of Christmas — something about the close, muggy atmosphere that draws up the ghosts, like the dampness of the summer rains brings out the frogs and snails.

Hares stood out as strange and unpredictable beings, much like the gods themselves; their habit of darting around as ghostly figures of the night – precisely the time when the spirit world would be most feared – merely added to their mystery while their violent "boxing" each spring earned them a special resonance in the warrior culture of Britain.

Elly's eyes were huge and her mouth was open and she was clutching her hands over her chest. Her mouth was moving but he couldn't hear what she was saying. She looked weirdly pale, even her clothes. "Elly?" She held out her hands. As she was about to touch him, her fingers became foggy tendrils. He could see right through her, as if she had turned to mist. "Elly?" he said. He reached out for her, but she was gone.

We leave no trace as we pass on. Ghostlike, we cast no shadow.

Becoming a refugee is a gradual process, a bleaching ou, a transition into a ghostly existence.

Sometimes I think I am going mad. I live for days in the mystery and tears of things so that the commonest object, the most familiar face- even my own- become ghostly, unreal, enigmatic. I get into an attitude of almost total scepticism, nescience, solipsism, in a world of dumb, sphinx-like things that cannot explain themselves. The discovery of how I am situated- a sentient being on a globe in space overshadows me. I wish I were just nothing.

Have a haunted haunted Christmas, And a scary New Year's, too. Have a haunted haunted Christmas, And to one and all say, BOO.

Meanwhile, in the satisfaction you receive from her way of reading you, from the textual quotations of your physical objectivity, you begin to harbor a doubt: that she is not reading you, single and whole as you are, but using you, using fragments of you detached from the context to construct for herself a ghostly partner, known to her alone, in the penumbra of her semiconsciousness, and what she is deciphering is this apocryphal visitor, not you.

Any cat can make a house seem haunted.

The ceilings had set off a ghostly echo, giving all that desperate hilarity the quality of a memory even as I sat listening to it, memories of things I'd never known.

Occasionally a car swooshed by in the rain and its headlights would swing round momentarily and illuminate the room-the pool table, snowshoes on the wall and the rowing machine, the armchair in which Henry sat, motionless, a glass in his hand and the cigarette burning low between his fingers. For a moment his face, pale and watchful as a ghost's, would be caught in the headlights and then, very gradually, it would slide back into the dark.