creepy character - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The man is a charm to be sure. He has the right twinkle in his eyes and a voice that is more warm than sunlight on amber. I usually like that - smiling back and enjoying an exchange of words - yet this one has that air of power, of total confidence. I back away; he's creepy. He could tell me up was down and I'd follow him just to hear more of his sweet words. There's something in the way he looks at me too, like he's doing so much more than just taking in my form like others do. In that way his own face starts to look like a mask, controlled in order to have a particular effect on me. I mentally put in my ear plugs and find a reason to leave, any excuse will do.
There is nothing more creepy to me than a person with emotions that don't match the situation. They consistently look happy when others are in pain. They are unable to truly look sad when others have a trauma to relate. Those people are feeling an inner surge of pleasure when others hurt. Children can be this way as they grow, but in an adult it's just plain creepy.
Every time I go for another pack of ciggys for my Nan, the guy behind the counter grins at me. It's not the same grin he has for her, it's the one he reserves for me. Then he lays double-entendres into his speech, never wavering his calculated glare, studying my face for a sign of recognition. But I never bite. Not in my words and not in my face. I won't invite him into my head. I'm a teenager, he's middle aged with a daughter older than me. Sometimes I'm saved by the door bell ringing and he is forced to become the genial shopkeeper again. Sometimes not and I have to endure the weight of his eyes and words. Apparently he's really involved in local charities and the school board, he even goes to the soup kitchens. But if I ever see him after dark I'm not hanging around, I gonna run.
If I were to describe our new neighbour's clothes or hair, you'd think him so pedestrian as to not be worth the trouble. He's clean shaven, average height, average build, smart casual J-Crew clothing and a small yappy dog of no apparent breed. The kind of guy that would melt into a line-up or a crowd like he was an extra, not really part of life at all. But when he talks to me his eyes don't meet mine for long. They travel down to my ballet shoes and almost back to my face, stopping somewhere around the locket I keep about my neck. His voice trails as if he's struggling against a back-drop of loud thoughts. Then after he fails to respond to my get out statement of being late to class he snaps out of his lurid daydream and smiles at me like a guilty child. If I ever turn back his way he's still watching me, but quickly pretends to be fussing with his half-dead rose bush.
Eyes of palest watery blue, like a creature who's spent it's life in perpetual shadow. Seems to slithers and oozes from one place to another, skulking, slinking, leering, head bobs erratically as if it's is too heavy for the thin long neck with protruding Adam's apple. Shifty eyes. Unnaturally long thin fingers, each like the tendril of a parasitic plant, reaching, searching. Wheezes, whines, whimpers, voice like silk, makes inappropriate compliments, incongruously large feet for the skinny legs with knobbly knees. Disappears like a shadow into the encroaching gloom of twilight.
Oily voice, greased back hair, hunched back, piercing black eyes, false smile, watches you like a wolf might observe it's prey, slight smile.
His bloodshot eyes twitch uncomfortably, under his un-brushed, jet black hair. Bloody red crossed stitches climb his crooked neck, under his corruptive and perpetual grin. He would speak with a brazen, yet intimidating voice; booming without flinch. A baleful cackle supresses from behind chipped teeth that bend in like broken piano keys. He would never be seen standing bone-straight; always crouched awkwardly, imitating a tarantula's scuttle. His presence drains anyone's elated feelings, seemingly absorbing it for is own selfish self, leaving those around his child-like persona deflated and diffused. Bold gluttonous lightening feed into his cutting scythe; fuelling it for it's next unlucky encounter. The sky that purloins over him would be smothered with darkening clouds, hiding away any hope of sky candle light.