Ghost - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
At first the ghost was no more than a chill in the air, a shimmer of mist, diffuse. Through it the furniture and the wallpaper that peeled with the rising damp became slightly out of focus, like a poorly taken photograph. It wasn't until Max closed the door behind him that it congealed into a form, a small child with brilliant white eyes, a silver skin and the smile of a predator. His clothes were odd, like a sailor suit and from one hand dangled a kite, ribbons and all. For a moment all was silent, then the tell tale click of the door locking. Max froze. He could her music now. "Oranges and Lemons say the bells of St. Clements..." He knew how that one ended. He took a step backwards. Then the ghoul spoke, and not with the voice of a child but with the rasping tones of an old fifty-a-day smoker. "Have you come to play?" His grin became a snarl, baring teeth like a wolf, and he drifted closer without taking a step. Max opened his mouth to scream but all that come out was a rasping laugh
The ghost would whimper like a lost child, clutching at a rag doll, it's eyes brimming with silver tears that shone brightly in the moonlight. It would appear to lone travellers on the long road that traversed the marsh. If they came she would reward them with a giggle and beckon them closer, distracting them, entertaining them, right up until they sank into the bog. Then she would soundlessly clap her hands and laugh like she had never seen such a funny thing, If they would not follow she would block their way and take on the form she had at her death. This new apparition was burnt, no hair, no eyebrows, features melted and raw. When she spoke it was the same scream as the day she had been burnt for witchcraft. Then without warning the hem of the travellers travelling cloak would flicker into silver flame, yet it combusted the material with the same intense heat as any fire. There was no chance of stamping it out, it spread as fast as if they were doused in paraffin.
The ghost was something of a poltergeist. It is said that in life he was a mild mannered farmer, but during the invasion of 1612 he watched his entire family get slaughtered before being treated to a particularly brutal death. He was hung by the neck and had his guts cut from him while he was still alive. Now he is restless, unable to rest in peace and full of fury. It is said that he confuses any visitors that come to the old farmhouse for the invading troops and he sets about trying to kill them with flying knives, rocks and shattered glass. No-one has spent a night in the abandoned rock built dwelling in living memory. Stay away if you know what's good for you.
I lurk...under the veil...of black. Mist... lingers… it conceals my dark desire...while I wait. I will be sated...for in my sight...looms ...despair.
In her dwelling... she cowers. Taking solace...in slumber...but ...not for long. The very chamber that shelters her...will soon… become...her...grave.
I reach…her dominion. My finger strokes her face. I used to look like that. Her beauty and youth is probably used in her favour…but now…I will feed on them. For both these things are palatable delights.
Her wails feed my soul. I grow strong...as she...grows weak. I gnaw… at her heart… and mind. I feast …on her sinew …and bones. She can see her own ghastly end...and so...can I.
At last, my hunger lessens...but my desire… grows. I crave...for more. As I depart...I leave a reckless soul...to find...yet...another.
Levitating a foot off the ancient rotting floorboards the pearly-white translucent object shimmered with a hazy bright blue. Slowly it came into focus like an object looked at through a telescope, but this phantom was close, very close. At first it's whisper was like the soft susurration of the wind in the trees, then as the ghost became more clear, more sharply focused, the whisper became an eerie rasping voice, moaning, groaning. Now we could see the form of a man with a silvery ragged line across his neck and gaunt soulless eyes.
It started with a slight shimmer, as if the air in front of him was being warped and twisted. Then, in a flash of pale, silvery light, a man appeared before him, a man which he recognized. Dressed in old-fashioned clothes - a crisp, white button up, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, tucked underneath a plain black vest with matching pants - it was the man from the painting in the bedroom downstairs.
The stories of old, they speak of many truths and many lies. What do you believe? One speaks of the forest that sleeps in the south, the paths that still have the footprints of lost travellers in its dirt. There are tree stumps within, believed to be possessed by the spirits of children, those who were lost and died in the forest. They tell of spirits who control the trees, see through the trees, trap travellers so they may never leave. I would think it just old tales. If only, it hadn't happened to me.
The ghost was a desolate figure, mournful and lonely on the rocks, beckoning ships in with her wistful song of the waves.
Several green sparks swirled in the air like a silent firework going down a plug hole. But instead of vanishing when they reached the center of the vortex, they clumped together until they had formed an amorphous blob the size of an average man. Then it began to spin around on an entirely different axis like a spinning top and the air that had been quite still in the room began to gust around it like a twister. At first only small things such as books were sucked in, but then the tables and chairs we had hid under began to move toward it and so did we.Then as we screamed and skidded across the linoleum it spoke to us. "I have come to take you to the spirit world."
Emily's eyes fell to her feet, the water that pooled was developing ice crystals. Her eyes became wider as the crystals spread, merging until it was solid white. Before she could move her shoes were stuck fast and from behind came a cold wind. The light began to flicker, then the soft voice came again, but now right next to her ear. “Darling, I've missed you. We're going to have the best time. Why don't you take off your shoes and jacket?” The tips of her cuffs sparked with small flames. A strangled cry rent the air that she only recognized as her own voice when her lungs were empty. She had already discarded her jacket and now struggled out of the icy sneakers. Then she turned to face the room. There was no fire, or ashes, or charred logs. The light strobed and in the dark spells she caught glimpses of a figure that moved around her, rubbing electric blue hands together.
The ghost was a white cloud like figure and its eyes and mouth were as black as the night sky's.
The ghost was more silent than the grave it arose from, staring with heavy lidded eyes and a slack mouth. Her cheekbones accentuated the skeletal look and in her gaze my mind was robbed of emotion. Instead of running, or screaming I stood more still than the mossy statue in the heart of the graveyard and just as cold. She beckoned with fingers that rapidly faded to only a suggestion of form. I passed each stone without taking account of the path until I stood in a place that was unrecognizable. She became more solid again, but this time her skin bore many silver scars, thick and jagged. I began to think new things, "I want to stay here with her, forever." The thought became a desire and my insides lit with an intensity to make it possible. My body crumpled to the dirt, leaves and mud met the side of my face and my knees curled up like an unborn. It was then I heard Leon shout my name, over and over. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing would come. He was frantic, yelling, scared.
Under the halloween moon the graveyard shifts uneasily. Plants rustle, birds fly into the fast fading light, startled by the unseen. Violent eddies of wind gust dirt and leaf into mini tornados that die before suspicion is roused. Only when the soil cracks along graves long overgrown with weeds do the children telling ghost stories around a candle experience the gut churning transition from excitement to fear. With a creak that could wake the dead a crypt opens and from the darkness comes only the stench of the dead at first, then a single pair of glowing eyes that change from amber to scarlet with the frequency of a beating heart.
At first the ghost had hung limply around his grave, unsure of what to do. The sun rose and set, he lost count of how many times. The trees that had been samplings in his youth had matured to fine specimens and his tomb stone was so covered in lichen that his name was barely legible. Perhaps, he thought, those engraved letters were what kept him there. With the aging stone he recalled his name, nothing more, just that. It was his last strand to who he had been, to the life he hadn't been ready to leave. It was on Halloween 1989 that he could no longer read enough of his name for it to make sense of. For the first time he walked down the leaf strewn path and out of the cemetery gates – a nameless ghost.
The ghost sat morose on the tree bough, a white rope swaying in a breeze that blew a hundred years previously. Fabric that had long since decayed into the soil beneath her feet swayed with a white shimmering beauty about her legs. Her bones, her flesh had been decomposed and had become part of the tree. Indeed her spirit wasn't in the apparition at all, it resided in the heart of the trunk. On the night she died the tree's spirit had reached out for her and taken her in, guarded her from harm. There were evil spirits abroad the mighty oak had no intention of giving her up. She had been his daughter for longer than she had been the child of her human kin. This ghostly girl was happy, content, her memory of life erased to return her spirit to the pure state.
A black mist that hovered over the hills like a smog washing over from the metropolis and there wasn't a person in the village who didn't have an opinion on the matter. It swirled lazily as if the dark particles were heavy, flowing like plasma. At times a swirl would come from the “cloud” and twist around a person or object before retreating. It was almost without odour, just a slight tint of tinned peaches went wherever it did. Old Mr Jenkins said it was “freezing fog,” on account of it leaving everything colder than anyone expected in July.
Day by day the “smog” shrank, not disappearing as such, but becoming more dense and soupy. One morning it had formed into a fetus of sorts, a bulge for a head and four buds coming from a curved spine the photos went viral and world media arrived by helicopter and van, camera's trained. Military men explained it was a hoax, yet in the hastily erected marque the “entity” was maturing, a ghost ready to be “born.” It had been dead to this world longer than it knew. The military men were the first to be banished to the barren realm the ghost had left. He moved without constraint in any direction, a super-villain of concentrated ghoul.
It had taken so long for the ghost to absorb the trails of careless spectres, amassing, growing. In his current density things flowed naturally toward him, caught in his gravitational pull. It was quickly apparent to him that he'd over done it, he couldn't live in this world and terrorize it slowly as planned. He was still absorbing fractions of spirits wherever he went, more mass would be drawn into him, more spirits until he was dense enough to suck in the planet.
The ghost didn't think much of dissipating again, non-existence would return to him soon enough. The only question he pondered was how to slow the destruction so that he could savour it all the more.
“Ella has an invisible friend! Isn't that cute?” said Dad. He crept away from the door downstairs, his face happily alight with mirth. Inside the room his daughter was looking at the girl who had come to play. It was odd that she should look exactly the same as the girl who was in the papers last week. She was so nice. Ella giggled as the girl moved the toys around the dolls house, placing the figures in new positions and making them speak in strange squeaky voices. Every time the play ended the girl always made the same request. “May I come back again?” When Ella nodded, the girl would say “And if you see mamma tell her I love her, she's just so hard to find.” Ella found that bit curious but she always nodded a second time. Then her friend would walk out into the hallway and be gone. Once or twice Ella would follow her out, keen to give her a small gift or a hug goodbye, but she'd be nowhere in sight. One day Ella told her parents the name of her friend and the story she had told her through the doll house game. Her mother screamed and her father blanched. Stacey was the girl the whole nation was looking for, a girl who disappeared just when Ella had gotten her new playmate...
In the old barn way out over the farmland that lies in clumps and ruts there is a spectre that does more than spook. It's said that those who venture that way after dark come to no good end. The paintings in the pubic house are of a thin woman who carries a fire poker. Blonde hair floats around her head like she's drowning and her mouth is open in perpetual scream. Rumours say she is a poltergeist, that she can move real objects, that the poker is real.
Nothing smelled right. The calls of the birds echoed strangely and the grass was several hues brighter than it should be. Elise fidgeted on the park bench, Archie had better have something good to keep her here at almost dusk. Catching glimpse of a boy sitting next to her she propelled herself forwards, landing sprawled on the too neat lawn. The boy's lips turned upward, yet Elise didn't consider it a smile. The rest of his face wasn't smiling at all, it was more like a smile photoshopped onto a face that was a little out of focus but utterly serious. He flicked his pallid, translucent fingers upward like a conductor pointed to her before beckoning her to return. Without moving at all she was sitting next to him on the bench once more. The ghost didn't look her way. He only said, without any movement at all, “Company is so nice.”
The ghost was a trapped soul, too scared to move on, desperate not to stay. At the end of his life he asked to be nothing at all. In his fifty two years he had accumulated so much guilt that when the hand of salvation came he refused it, over and over. Energy cannot be created or destroyed (souls are a form of divine energy) and so according to his wishes he was released to roam as a spirit. Over time the loneliness took over from the relief of solitude and he came to the opinion that it was God who had refused him, his own choice quite forgotten. The ghost became angry, his divine energy warped until there was none left – not destroyed but mutated into something so vile that he could never be saved. Not content to haunt, or even be a poltergeist, he learnt how to whisper in the ears of his victims. He learnt how to appear so that only they could see him and feel his “electrical” pulses. Once a mortal man, he became the self styled enemy of the divine. The natural order to him was fear, greed and power. When the ghost tired of his petty malice he found men to control, not as possession, but to whisper evil deeds to and watch while they carried them out.
The ghost rode the subway each day until five pm. Around his throat he wore a red sash to hide the gore underneath, thought to this date it was only he that could see his reflection in the window. This train was his ride home and he was quite sure that one day he'd awake to find it all some kind of beastly nightmare. He watched the people come and go, at rush hour some commuter would sit right on him, causing him to shudder and spark. Once in a while the lights would dim when that happened and the people would cast their tired eyes to the faltering lights. At his stop he'd walk to the escalator and ride up, every single time he became confused as to why the machine never reacted to his ticket and pass through the gates with more sparks causing the machines to reboot and the commuters to swear in frustration behind him. Every evening he stood before the home his wife and children lived in before passing through the door and blowing them kisses. Today was different though, the house felt different even from the outside. He passed through the oak door, tasting the familiar woodiness on the way through. The house was empty, bare, no furniture, no wife, no kids. A rage built inside the ghost like a ball of raw energy before bursting from his chest. Every electrical appliance in a half mile radius either blew or rebooted.
When I come to you in the darkness, my body long ago decomposed, you will try to awaken though you no longer sleep. By then, dear love, it will be too late. When your eyes open to find me there, it is I that choose your end. Pretty or poetic – often both though I doubt we share the same notions of beauty. There is nothing else for a ghost but to be the servant of the nothing. Don't take that as regret, it is merely a fact. I am sent to collect and I never fail. Tonight there is a heart that beats one final day, I have counted out the double-thumps until the witching hour. Waking my subject at midnight isn't necessary, I could do it at anytime, but I am an artist and the details matter.
In your world I am dead, but I'm still here. I'm not entirely sure what I am, I have no form. I can sense, but not in the way I once did. I “see” but not like before. It isn't the matter that attracts me, the blood and bones; such things repulse me. I think I can help you. I can take all that stuff away so that you can be like me. Arranging your “accidents” is a bother to be sure, but how else am I to separate you from all that flesh that binds you to soil, demands that you breathe. When you join me we'll together populate this nothing, though really I haven't found an end to it yet. Should we loose each other the isolation begins again and I must “liberate” another soul. There, that's better, don't you feel free? Step away from the ugly form you were. Come to me darling, I will cherish you until boredom turns we good friends into enemies and you must go your own way, ghostly and unready for eternity alone. Then you shall be just the same as me, victim to monster. I am the master. I see you've accepted my tutelage.
When you come to this place I will find you. When you come with your divine soul shining in your eyes I will snatch you away. I will take what God wants and trap it in a cage He cannot break. I will own you, keep you, bring you pain. He made me ghost, He banished me to nothingness where I wonder for eternity. So this insubstantial vapour of what I once was has learned some ghostly tricks over the centuries. Fight me and I will wear you down, appease me and I torture you for failing to give me my sport.
I'm not anything you can relate to from fiction. There is no way to make me your friend, only your master. Come closer, let me tell you of the dark ways, the ways of power. The best you can hope for is to be a helper demon to me, but like Genghis Khan, I only want the strong to be my generals. Do I sound like a normal ghost? Something a child might paint or dress as for Halloween? You have no words to fully encapsulate what I am so “ghost” is what I'll settle for.
When we meet I'm going to need a fast answer, so decide before you sleep tonight. Either way you will come with me... it's only the level of your suffering that changes...
The ghost had lived in the mansion for generations. For the most part she kept her temper so long as no-one disturbed her picture that hung in the hallway – a hideous portrait blackened by age. Over the centuries new owners had sort to remove it only to come to harm on the ladder or else have a freak accident as they went to fetch one. The ghost considered herself a reasonable haunting entity. If they left her well alone she would tolerate them, even help once in a while with lost keys and frightening intruders away. Once again the ownership of the house had fallen to new hands, but this time the new folks were overly concerned with redecorating and her portrait was number one in their conversations. How they insulted it. The ghost was sure that once she had made her presence felt they would retreat like the others...
The fall evening had been quite warm until Zoe stepped onto the farm track. What had been only a mild drop in temperature since sundown became sub-zero at once and she pulled her jacket around her tighter. The air was developing a mist that moved in unusual swirls, she watched it quite unafraid until it condensed into the shape of a small and wiry man. His eyes were black sockets and his mouth a line as if drawn on with crayon. In her attempt to flee, she stumbled backwards, tripping over a bramble and landing on the damp leaf-strewn ground. She screamed loud enough to scare the birds from their roots but the ghost was unimpressed. He waved his hand like a magician to produce a new mist that condensed into a small silvery girl. Zoe got to her feet. The ghouls held hands and multiplied outwards like a string of paper men cut by a child. The world began to turn about her, slow at first and then faster. Whether it the earth moving or her head spinning she didn't know...
The haze over the rose bush had been there since noon and Maud was bothered. It was no cloud and she'd polished her bay window repeatedly, believing it to be a strange smudge on the glass. Disgruntled, she closed the blinds and turned on the television. The haze moved to the front door causing the moisture in the air to form a crackling ice on the outside. It was the ice they found most odd when the old lady hadn't been seen for a few weeks. Ice in late spring, not usual in these parts. For those days the ghost had played checkers, told her stories and kept her laughing. It wasn't that the old ghoul hadn't done worse things, murderous things, but he wanted Maud and he chose to entertain her to death. Spellbound, watching the image of her late husband before her, not noticing the blank picture frame over the hearth, the old girl didn't remember to eat or drink. Dehydration took her into delusions, playing further into the hands of the ghost.