Horror Quotation Novels & Stories

Because suddenly— he couldn't remember something important. Something very important. Then he tried grabbing hold of it. Tried remembering. But it kept slipping away. Like water through his fingers. Then: "WAS IT WORTH IT?" The horror's voice sounded almost curious. Then: "WILL THEY REMEMBER YOU?" Silence. Then: "NO." The darkness surged forward again. Then: "WILL THEY MOURN YOU?" Another surge. Then: "NO." Then: "WILL THEY EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU GAVE THEM?"

He started with the website nomorefear.biz. There wasn’t much to it, just a black screen with a simple quote: “No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear.” When he clicked on the sentence, he was taken to another page, featuring the image of a man embracing a weeping woman and a paragraph:

My blade pierced through the dark, vile god’s shoulder right as Xander slashed across his leg, forcing him to one knee. The shadows exploded from him. He vanished. The mist pulled back. Silence. We stood there, gasping, bleeding, shaking. Then I felt it. Not gone. Just watching. Recovering. Re-strategizing. From the shadows. From the cracks. "I will return," Zerathos’ voice whispered like rot in the wind. “And when I do… I will show you what true horror means.” And then he was gone. Gone but not defeated. Not yet.

“It's time to wake up, sweetie...” The sun was beginning to rise, but the light didn't bring comfort. It only clarified the nightmare. I looked at the eye again. The pupil didn't dilate or contract. It remained a fixed, black pinprick in a sea of terrifying blue. As my eyes adjusted, I realized the skin around the eye didn't look like skin at all. It looked like wet parchment stretched too tightly over a frame that didn't quite fit. I remembered the "rules" people joked about in horror movies. Don't go outside. Don't answer the door. But what do you do when the monster is already in the hallway, wearing your father’s throat like a stolen garment?

Text crawled over their skin in places, dissolving and rewriting, never landing long enough to become fixed. “You cut us apart when it hurt too much to look,” the girl from “Salt & Silence” said. “When you got close to something raw, you slammed the laptop shut and told yourself you’d ‘come back to it later.’” “You made us suffer so you didn’t have to,” the villain said. “You exorcised your ghosts into us and then left us holding them.” The words hit harder than they should have. Because they weren’t entirely wrong. I wrote horror to survive.

Councillor Blackwood rushes to his side, his eyes bloodshot with fright as he murmurs, “Are they gone?” As if the monsters were listening, a hissing voice booms from outside the closed door, “Da nobis per alba lupus aut mors omnibus,” the unseen monster sneers loud enough for all to here before the receding patter of footsteps disappear as quickly as they arrived, leaving us all motionless with fright. “What did that thing just say? Did anyone hear what it said?” Blackwood’s voice shakes.

I could make out spots of blood spatter against the back of his hand and the cuff of his shirt. “Well, my pretty kitties,” he said. “Tonight’s frightening feature stars two of my favorite fiends. None other than Boris ‘The Creature’ Karlof and batty Bela Lugosi.” He leaned closer to the camera and smacked his lips, flashing jagged teeth. “Any fraidy cats out there better hightail it, baby, ‘cause here she comes! Roll that film!”

My mom squeezing my arms tightly almost as a warning. I need to shut up. I panic when I realize that he is trying to take the papers away, “Sorry sorry sorry.” I chant and look at him, pleading. “You know how in a lot of horror and thriller movies, the smartass gets killed off first?” “Are you going to kill me?” my eyes widen as I stare at his hauntingly alluring eyes. “No I am not a killer.” “Again….you just killed a person.” For fuck’s sake, Zara, please shut up.

Bastard. “Good girl. Just tell Keeley you’re training a newb, so he gets two for the price of one. One last thing, Sarah. Remember that a girl’s best friend is her mother.” And the line goes dead. Porcupines, I hate that man. Paraphrasing a quote from one of the best horror films of all time to remind me about my mother—that is a shot way below the belt. Fuck, I guess this means I need to tell you about my mother now. For the love of Captain Hammer’s nipples, I really hate Zeke sometimes.

The foliage has begun reclaiming sidewalks and parking lots, even poking through the street’s asphalt. But not here. Nothing grows here. “I grew up reading a lot of classic horror, Stephen King, H. P. Lovecraft, especially,” Father Ward says. “Dad did, too. He was a different sort of pastor. A little more relaxed. Anyway, there’s a scrap of poetry by Lovecraft. Goes something like this . . . ” Father Ward closes his eyes and with a thoughtful expression recites: The Thing, they whisper, wears a silken mask Of yellow, whose queer folds appear to hide