Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.
The thing under my bed waiting to grab my ankle isn't real. I know that, and I also know that if I'm careful to keep my foot under the covers, it will never be able to grab my ankle.
We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.
As a species we're fundamentally insane. Put more than two of us in a room, we pick sides and start dreaming up reasons to kill one another. Why do you think we invented politics and religion?
Go then, there are other worlds than these.
the man in black travels with your soul in his pocket.
He supposed that even in Hell, people got an occasional sip of water, if only so they could appreciate the full horror of unrequited thirst when it set in again.
Eddie discovered one of his childhood's great truths. Grownups are the real monsters, he thought.
This inhuman place makes human monsters.
So what, ghosts can't hurt you. That's what I thought then.
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