This is a short story that deals with a fear that actually has a name – chronomentrophobia, the fear of clocks. I have had a love/hate relationship with clocks for as long as I can remember, so I decided to write it into a story. Here it is:
The clock was still there, staring him down. It was a very beautiful clock, with golden hands and a mother-of-pearl face, but somehow it still seemed menacing, like it would jump out and eat him at any moment. He turned left, and the clock stared him down again. He left the room, and there was the same clock on the mantelpiece.
He nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned again, and there it was. He turned right this time. There was another clock, mahogany this time, resting on top of the harpsichord. He looked down, trembling. A clock! This time, it was made of bright red wood. Everywhere he looked, the walls, the floors, all about the house, there were clocks.
CLOCKS! his thoughts screamed.
Then, he heard a chime from the next room – Westminster’s Chime. Then, all of the clocks followed its lead until there was a din, a cacophony. Some clocks chimed the hour, others chimed the half. Others chimed one, two or three. He thought his head would explode. He shut his eyes and opened them.
Right there, hovering centimeters in front of his face, was the first clock, the hands making the shape of a grin. It chimed its eerie, beautiful, terrible chime and then all the clocks rose up as well, still chiming. They began to orbit around him, a terrible whirlwind. Then, out of another room, a beeping began to sound.
The clocks all fell to the floor like feathers and skittered away. He sighed with relief. He had never been more glad to hear the sound of his alarm clock in his entire life.