818 Quotes About Ghosts

He used to call vampires "the breathing ghosts"- for, as he put it, we existed in a kind of limbo-land between the living and the dead. We breathed, but we were not alive. We flitted through the air, but we still left foot prints on the ground. We were, and are, neither one nor the other, but something else entirely.

As I approached the one casket, I pulled out an empty bottle I grabbed earlier and held it with my one hand while summoning the spirit from one’s body. Not too long, I have gathered it and captured it in the bottle. And one by one, I did the same procedure for each of the souls that were present. Call me inhumane, but this is how I usually do in the morning—or the evening, but it depends on how busy I am—, and it’s not easy. But this is my job as the soul keeper.

Kissing Red must've killed off some of your brain cells," Ryder decided. "You can tell a woman what to do---if you play it right---and maybe, maybe half the time she'd do it, or something close to it. That's a live woman. A dead one? I figure that's closer to zero.

Are you in pain?' I asked, because I know that everything in the world that matters shows up as some kind of pain. Or pang. Joy included.

Generations of neglect for this feud have come back to stab us in the back in the form of one boy. One boy who lit the match for an apocalypse threatening our very species! One boy whose nightmarish reputation has plagued a country he has no right belonging to!

Time can be strange sometimes. It can leave imprints in particular places, leaving ghosts of memories trapped.

He wasn’t sure why he felt so compelled to follow the singing, or why he needed to bring the foot with him, but he knew the two phenomena were connected. And in the midst of the mystery lay his father. His father’s sanity. Nicholas was sure of this.

Life writes the poetry, but it will always call for witnesses and scribes alike to tattoo its echoes upon the ghosts of trees.

I hadn’t noticed before, but two of the ghostly musicians looked very familiar, and rather out of place. A big redheaded man in Western clothes sat at a steel guitar, grinning and tapping his boots as he traded solos with Miles Davis. Next to him, a pretty blond woman played the fiddle, leaning down from time to time to kiss the redheaded man on the forehead. JD Grissom and his wife, Anne, from the Dallas Museum, had finally found a party that didn’t have to end.