Ghost Stories Dub Quotes Novels & Stories

“Have you come to admire the glory of werewolf history? Or are you just more of today’s hopeless youth, lacking discipline and respect?” I blink in surprise. Of course, Luca’s oblivious to the ghost, still sipping his coffee like nothing’s out of the ordinary. I crack an uneasy grin, shooting him a deliberate look, and he in return stares at me with confusion. “What?” he asks, lowering his coffee. “There’s a ghost,” I whisper, trying not to move my lips too much. “Right over there.” Luca raises an eyebrow, his eyes darting around even though he can’t see a thing. “Oh, really? Is he giving you the stink-eye or something? Because you’re looking really uncomfortable.”

Inside, Ghost sat at the head of a long oak table, a plate of steak before her. She was striking—dark hair pulled back tightly, eyes sharp and commanding. She speared a piece of meat with her fork and paused mid-bite as the doctor entered, her gaze locking onto him. "How may I help you, sir?" she asked, her voice calm yet edged with authority. Doctor Francis took a tentative step forward, lowering his voice. "Sorry to bother you, but I’m the doctor in charge of Damon’s late wife, Anna." Ghost’s expression remained neutral, though her fork hovered above her plate. "Okay?"

The cemetery must have sucked away that fragment of her soul. "Is… this even a thing? God, it sounds like old wives' tales. I have never heard of anything this absurd before…" Now that Luke was taken away, Dijkstra had assumed the role of the skeptic. Logan was using many words, but the gist was that Greta was haunted by some demon or aura or something from a cemetery! How was anyone supposed to believe shits like that in an age where any talks like that would be debunked easily? Honestly, Dijkstra felt his old habit kicking him right now. That's right… He suddenly felt the impulse to punch Logan out of the building too.

Others grimaced, the way you do when you see someone else get kicked in the balls. I’m not the most observant of people, but I know when to take a hint. “What the fuck is through there?” I demanded to know. No one answered. “The remains of the Ancestors,” said Nicopez in the most spooky voice ever. He even got some reverb on it, somehow. “Really? Ghosts, that’s what you’re all freaked out about? What type is it? The sheet that floats, or the teenage girl? Or maybe the skeleton that plays its bones like a xylophone?” No response. “Come on, you must have seen them.”

Their manager, a very happy girl with a hoarse voice decided to chat with me during the break. She started telling horror stories about their shoot in the DMST building yesterday, and how Melvin D (Not his real name) was being stalked by the one ghost we don’t want to have anything to do with. And how the cast even got pictures of that “thing”. BUT we’re not allowed to say more until after the show has been aired. So the bit actors and actresses decided to take pictures inside the historical theater. One of them can “see” these things and took a shot of the empty hall behind us.

she stopped talking, momentarily speechless. “What?” “Ghosts. A lot of them.” They were standing on the opposite side of the stream, looking at her. They were old – all of them died centuries ago. “This isn’t like…the Dracula’s castle, is it?” “You mean the Impaler?” “Yeah, that one.” “No…but a lot of people must have died here. Lots of wars.” “Yes,” she said, shuddering, “I think I want to go inside.” “You don’t want to try--”

Ghost stories around a bonfire—what could be more suspenseful and playful? Alastair settled down next to me, his hand finding mine. He gave it a reassuring squeeze as he began his tale. "Once, in these very woods, there was a legend of a ghostly figure that would appear every full moon. They say that those who encountered this spirit were granted a wish, but at a great cost..." His words hung in the air, and the pack leaned in closer, their eyes locked on Alastair, captivated by the haunting tale. The crackling of the fire seemed to echo the suspense in the atmosphere.

He stood straight with a serious face as he began his explanation. "Ghosts are the souls of dead humans who... well, aren't ready to rest in peace. They don't have powers. All they can do is move from one place to another without being seen. Well, not by everyone though." "But... if you're a demon, why then are you in this form?" She couldn't help but ask.

Stunning in its perfect hostility. "And speaking of the past..." he says, lowering his glass with deliberate slowness. "I'm told we have a very special guest with us tonight. A ghost, really. One I spent years chasing through continents and silence, through encrypted messages and dead ends." Flora's heart slams against her ribs with such force she fears everyone can hear it echoing through the cavernous space.

With a final shove, he slammed Grayson against the cold metal of the morgue drawer. "This is her. Look at her! Look at the woman you abandoned—my sister!" Liam's voice was an icy blade, sharp and cutting. He forced Grayson to stare at my frozen body, lying there, still and lifeless. Grayson shut his eyes tight, his lips trembling as he muttered incoherently, "No, no, this isn't Belle. This can't be her! She's selfish, cruel, and vindictive. Someone like that doesn't just die—she wouldn't—she couldn't."