Eerie Quotes

“If the vibrant and frolicking merry-go-round of our daily living has been ousted by an eerie void of an intractable vacuum, only inspiriting memories may shore up our inner world. ("Only silence remained ")”
― Erik Pevernagie

“At night the fog was thick and full of light, and sometimes voices.”
― Erin Bow, Plain Kate

“I look at the knife-
Resting in a puddle of water-
Near the ledge by the pulpit behind Aaron-
Where I dropped it-
And I hear it calling to me-
Take me, it says-
Take me and use me, it says-
Aaron hold open his arms.
"Murder me," he says. "Become a man."
Never let me go says the knife”
― Patrick Ness, The Knife of Never Letting Go

“The heat made people crazy. They woke from their damp bedsheets and went in search of a glass of water, surprised to find that when their vision cleared, they were holding instead the gun they kept hidden in the bookcase.”
― Kristin Hannah, Summer Island

“I paid the taxi driver, got out with my suitcase, surveyed my surroundings, and just as I was turning to ask the driver something or get back into the taxi and return forthwith to Chillán and then to Santiago, it sped off without warning, as if the somewhat ominous solitude of the place had unleashed atavistic fears in the driver's mind. For a moment I too was afraid. I must have been a sorry sight standing there helplessly with my suitcase from the seminary, holding a copy of Farewell's Anthology in one hand. Some birds flew out from behind a clump of trees. They seemed to be screaming the name of that forsaken village, Querquén, but they also seemed to be enquiring who: quién, quién, quién. I said a hasty prayer and headed for a wooden bench, there to recover a composure more in keeping with what I was, or what at the time I considered myself to be. Our Lady, do not abandon your servant, I murmured, while the black birds, about twenty-five centimetres in length, cried quién, quién, quién. Our Lady of Lourdes, do not abandon your poor priest, I murmured, while other birds, about ten centimetres long, brown in colour, or brownish, rather, with white breasts, called out, but not as loudly, quién, quién, quién, Our Lady of Suffering, Our Lady of Insight, Our Lady of Poetry, do not leave your devoted subject at the mercy of the elements, I murmured, while several tiny birds, magenta, black, fuchsia, yellow and blue in colour, wailed quién, quién, quién, at which point a cold wind sprang up suddenly, chilling me to the bone.”
― Roberto Bolaño, By Night in Chile

“There's a Reason Cell Rhymes with Hell”
― Stephen King

“The viewless air seemed to be flocking with hidden listeners. The very clearness and the crystal silence were their ambush. He alone seemed to be the target of cold and hostile scrutiny. There was not a breath to breathe in this crisp, pale sunshine. It was all too rare, too thin. The shadows lay like wings everlastingly folded.”
― Walter de la Mare, The Return

“THE MEETING"

"Scant rain had fallen and the summer sun
Had scorched with waves of heat the ripening corn,
That August nightfall, as I crossed the down
Work-weary, half in dream. Beside a fence
Skirting a penning’s edge, an old man waited
Motionless in the mist, with downcast head
And clothing weather-worn. I asked his name
And why he lingered at so lonely a place.

“I was a shepherd here. Two hundred seasons
I roamed these windswept downlands with my flock.
No fences barred our progress and we’d travel
Wherever the bite grew deep. In summer drought
I’d climb from flower-banked combe to barrow’d hill-top
To find a missing straggler or set snares
By wood or turmon-patch. In gales of March
I’d crouch nightlong tending my suckling lambs.

“I was a ploughman, too. Year upon year
I trudged half-doubled, hands clenched to my shafts,
Guiding my turning furrow. Overhead,
Cloud-patterns built and faded, many a song
Of lark and pewit melodied my toil.
I durst not pause to heed them, rising at dawn
To groom and dress my team: by daylight’s end
My boots hung heavy, clodded with chalk and flint.

“And then I was a carter. With my skill
I built the reeded dew-pond, sliced out hay
From the dense-matted rick. At harvest time,
My wain piled high with sheaves, I urged the horses
Back to the master’s barn with shouts and curses
Before the scurrying storm. Through sunlit days
On this same slope where you now stand, my friend,
I stood till dusk scything the poppied fields.

“My cob-built home has crumbled. Hereabouts
Few folk remember me: and though you stare
Till time’s conclusion you’ll not glimpse me striding
The broad, bare down with flock or toiling team.
Yet in this landscape still my spirit lingers:
Down the long bottom where the tractors rumble,
On the steep hanging where wild grasses murmur,
In the sparse covert where the dog-fox patters.”

My comrade turned aside. From the damp sward
Drifted a scent of melilot and thyme;
From far across the down a barn owl shouted,
Circling the silence of that summer evening:
But in an instant, as I stepped towards him
Striving to view his face, his contour altered.
Before me, in the vaporous gloaming, stood
Nothing of flesh, only a post of wood.”
― John Rawson, From The English Countryside: Tales Of Tragedy: Narrated In Dramatic Traditional Verse

“If I was kidnapped would you offer yourself in my place? If a double was here would you know it wasn't me? If I lost a limb would you cut off one of yours? There is only ever, of course, one answer. Yes, I say. I know I would.”
― Daisy Johnson, Sisters

“Nightmares are a great source of inspiration.”
― Michael Bassey Johnson, The Oneironaut’s Diary

“Your ears are lovely, he said, but there's a kind of eerie beauty to your profile.”
― Yasunari Kawabata, Beauty and Sadness

“I descend into the darkness so quickly that it isn't until I see the glint of silver that I register where I am: in the belly of a beast who detests me.”
― Melissa K. Magner, The Underground Moon

“Mary Katherine must never be punished. Must never be sent to bed without her dinner. Mary Katherine will never allow herself to do anything inviting punishment.”
― Shirley Jackson, WE HAVE ALWAYS LIVED IN THE CASTLE

“Now let us leave this place, it is rather eerie.”
― Iris Murdoch, The Message to the Planet

“The wedded couple lived in London. The man, under pretence of going a journey, took lodgings in the next street to his own house, and there, unheard of by his wife or friends, and without the shadow of a reason for such self-banishment, dwelt upwards of twenty years. During that period, he beheld his home every day, and frequently the forlorn Mrs. Wakefield. And after so great a gap in his matrimonial felicity – when his death was reckoned certain, his estate settled, his name dismissed from memory, and his wife, long, long ago, resigned to her autumnal widowhood – he entered the door one evening, quietly, as from a day’s absence, and became a loving spouse till death.
[...]
He is in the next street to his own, and at his journey’s end. He can scarcely trust his good fortune, in having got thither unperceived – recollecting that, at one time, he was delayed by the throng, in the very focus of a lighted lantern; and, again, there were footsteps that seemed to tread behind his own, distinct from the multitudinous tramp around him; and, anon, he heard a voice shouting afar, and fancied that it called his name. Doubtless, a dozen busybodies had been watching him, and told his wife the whole affair. Poor Wakefield! Little knowest thou thine own insignificance in this great world! No mortal eye but mine has traced thee. Go quietly to thy bed, foolish man...

- Wakefield (1835) -”
― Hawthorne Nathaniel

“Exiting a bus, déjà vu overwhelmed me, that ephemeral phenomena of alignment so perfect it is eerie.”
― Aspen Matis, Your Blue Is Not My Blue: A Missing Person Memoir

“...she can’t shake the discomfort of last night. It has seeped into the daylight.”
― Francine Toon, Pine

“I continue through the forest, all the way to the gazebo where Hettie and I once watched a show of a thousand-colored stingrays, where we once danced to lulling music, and where I finally realized it was all a lie.”
― Melissa K. Magner, The Underground Moon

“All the windows were fogged over now. Neither Walt nor Lem tried to clear the misted glass. Unable to see out of the car, confined to its humid and claustrophobic interior, they seemed to be cut off from the real world, adrift in time and space, a condition that was oddly conducive to the consid eration of the wondrous and outrageous acts of creation that genetic engineering made possible.”
― Dean Koontz, Watchers

“For the first time Gersen saw indigenous fauna of Moudervelt: a band of lizard-foxes, with gray-green pangolin scales and a single optic orb. They reared high to watch Gersen pass by; when he slowed the car they advanced with dancing sidelong steps, for purposes Gersen could not guess. He drove on, leaving the troop staring after him.”
― Jack Vance, The Book of Dreams

“The city had an eerie abandoned feeling to it. There were cars on the roads, which created a few random obstacles to avoid, but they were unoccupied. People had given up trying to escape and, for some reason, left their vehicles in a hurry, probably due to infected attackers.”
― Jason Medina, The Manhattanville Incident: An Undead Novel

“Even my identity has been kept hidden from me. It is a child's ghost buried in mud. It is an old woman waving at me from a passing train.”
― Laura Kasischke, Space, in Chains

“He has a box of things that are separate and strange
I think when he looks this way and that
That he is making a play for me
I think in so many ways he does it all for me”
― Dorothea Lasky, Rome: Poems

“I couldn’t deny the intense draw I felt in that dimly lit museum collection. The air around me hummed with an energy that was foreign and nostalgic all at once.”
― Rachael Arsenault, She Who Rises

“It was then, as I hesitated, that the head stepped in and said, 'We don't want a witch hunt'.
I looked from one to another of them, and then back to her. Three very different women but in each of their faces I saw the same desire: the zeal of the witch-finders, their urge to burn them all.”
― Sally Hinchcliffe, Hare House

“It was an old house far from other people, and they were there specifically to make it less drafty and miserable. It would be stranger if there were no odd noises and eerie feelings.”
― Thomm Quackenbush, The Curious Case of the Talking Mongoose

“The scene had the innocence of all unsettling things that take place in silence.”
― Yuri Herrera, The Transmigration of Bodies

“The pain I absorbed seemed to float toward me like mist on a cool spring morning. It was a mix of melancholy love for the timbered mountainous country that surrounded us, the grief of separation from family, and a wound within the soul that agonizes beyond the words that describe love. These feelings permeated my skin, seeping deep within the cells of my body.”
― Monica Nelson, Mere Sense: A Memoir of Men, Migraine, and the Mysteries of Being Highly Sensitive

“Some hearts are like haunted houses; someone dwells within, yet remains unseen. Someone weeps, but all you hear are your own echoes. A cold, as chilling as sorrow, lingers in every corner, seeping from every pore, making you numb. An eerie silence pervades, broken only by the sound of your own heartbeat.”
― Shahid Hussain Raja

“He stared at the tree, and the tree stared back.”
― Milan Sno