Time Ticks By
Chronomentrophobia
“It’s not actually possible to die of fright,” I thought to myself, uncertain of whether that was true. I hadn’t realised it was a proper phobia until I had talked to someone about it a year before. Chronomentrophobia, I was told, a morbid fear of clocks. I had been offered some sort of medication for it, but I refused, thinking that I would never have to deal with a clock for more than a few minutes. I could usually block out the sound of ticking but it always made me feel sick and I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. Normally I would have left the room, but that wasn’t possible now. I was trapped.
I tried distracting myself from the noise, but I couldn’t even think of anything else to think about. I could just about think of my name before my mind was brought back to the room. Was it some sort of storage room in a watchmaker’s shop, I wondered? The wall was just about visible behind the shelves which held the alarm clocks, some of them probably very pretty if you weren’t me. The worst part was knowing exactly how long I’d been there - an hour, sixteen minutes. It was coming up to midnight. I thought about the person who had put me into the room and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. They wanted to kill me. They were killing me.
“Why are you afraid?” The shouted question came muffled through the door and I couldn’t tell if I had actually heard it or not. Had he been standing out there the whole time? Assuming I had heard it, I opened my mouth and said nothing. I was afraid because this was my fear. I was afraid because I must have been born with it or something.
“What did clocks ever do to you?” he asked, and even though it must have been a joke I thought it through. I wasn’t scared of time, was I? I didn’t mind the thought of time passing, or myself growing older, or the end of the world approaching us. I didn’t like the noise of clocks, or their little clockwork pieces. Only old ones, though- digital clocks unnerved me but they were nothing compared to the grandfather clocks and their pendulums. They seemed scarily alive, swinging away by themselves, and even scarier when dead and stopped.
The clocks on the shelves seemed to tick louder and I put my head in my hands. He must have been making them louder, I thought. This was the torture. He did want me to die. I crawled to the door and listened for some sound to tell me he was still there, but I couldn’t hear anything over the clocks.
I stood up and went over to the wall of shelves with what looked like the smallest clocks. I looked at one in particular, an oval with Roman numerals and a brown leaf pattern around it. It was like staring at the sun and knowing to look away. I picked it up and dropped it immediately.
I knelt down to look at it, terrified it was broken. It had landed face-down and there was a crack in the glass but it stayed ticking, and I turned it back upside down and left it on the floor. About to look away, I got a strange feeling that something was weird about the clock and looked again. The alarm on it was set for midnight, which now was looming fifteen minutes away.
I lay back on the floor and looked at the clocks around me. There were even clocks on the ceiling. If all the alarm clocks were set for midnight… I counted five, ten, fifteen, twenty, too many clocks. I felt myself stop breathing again as my imagination rang the sounds of a thousand alarm clocks in my head. A different ringing joined my imagination after a few seconds, a ringing in my ears, and the room faded quickly into darkness.
It might actually have been better if I woke up confused, unsure of where I was, and had a few seconds of peace before remembering my situation. But I woke up with no such luck. I heard a noise behind me and turned to see him, the man form outside the door, standing there with a pocket watch in his hand.
“I thought you were dead,” he said and smiled as if he were happy to see that I was alright. “I won’t kill you, don’t worry.” He dropped the watch and left the room too quickly for me to see through the door to the world outside. I tried to remember where I knew him from. His face was familiar, but not his smile. He looked only slightly older than me, and I wondered if he was a school friend that I had forgotten. He obviously hadn’t forgotten me, the clock girl.
Only I hadn’t been afraid of clocks as a young child. It had been when I was twelve, or some age around that, that something must have- the ticking interrupted me again, and I nearly forgot what I was thinking. The faces read six minutes to midnight, give or take a few painful seconds.
I tried to remember the faces in my class, and none that I could think of looked remotely like the man who I could tell was still sitting outside the door, counting down the minutes. School was all I could recall of being twelve, it seemed, and no faces of neighbours or other friends could come to my mind. The only thing related to clocks I could remember was being in a clock shop once.
The ticking took my mind away again, and I could have smashed the man’s pocket watch off the floor if I could force myself to move from where I was sitting. With effort I brought myself back to what I had been thinking, and tried to think of what the shop had looked like. There had been clocks on shelves and in the windows, but no back room like this with clocks hanging up. I must have been in there more than once, I realised, because I could see it.
The back room had boxes and cupboards with clocks hidden inside, and I had thought it was strange how many clocks were in the room and how silent it was. I must have been in there for a reason, because I remembered nobody could go in but the boy who was learning to make watches.
There was a day that he was outside, I recalled, and I had taken a pocket watch from a drawer in the back that he had worked on for ages. I must have dropped it, because I remembered the back coming off it and little clockwork bits coming out. I must have been scared of clocks even then, because I had started crying and he had heard me and told me that I would have to make up for my mistakes to him for the rest of my life. I couldn’t recall going to the shop after that, but I remembered the watchmaker boy.
I checked the clocks and saw the hands lining up for my death. It was midnight now.
I put my hands over my ears but I could still hear all the alarms ringing, even worse than I had imagined. I wondered if he was still outside, listening to me scream. I went slowly over to the door and hit it, then heard a small noise separate to the alarms. It was the click of the door being unlocked.
I hurried out of the room as quickly as I could, and saw that he had left, and hadn’t even taken my bag. I shut the door to the clock room behind me. The place looked like an abandoned shop. Dark had fallen outside the dusty windows. My phone rang in my bag and I answered it to an anxious friend, who informed me that it was past midnight. I barely managed to stop myself hanging up on them. The last thing I wanted to hear was the time.
I tried distracting myself from the noise, but I couldn’t even think of anything else to think about. I could just about think of my name before my mind was brought back to the room. Was it some sort of storage room in a watchmaker’s shop, I wondered? The wall was just about visible behind the shelves which held the alarm clocks, some of them probably very pretty if you weren’t me. The worst part was knowing exactly how long I’d been there - an hour, sixteen minutes. It was coming up to midnight. I thought about the person who had put me into the room and I suddenly couldn’t breathe. They wanted to kill me. They were killing me.
“Why are you afraid?” The shouted question came muffled through the door and I couldn’t tell if I had actually heard it or not. Had he been standing out there the whole time? Assuming I had heard it, I opened my mouth and said nothing. I was afraid because this was my fear. I was afraid because I must have been born with it or something.
“What did clocks ever do to you?” he asked, and even though it must have been a joke I thought it through. I wasn’t scared of time, was I? I didn’t mind the thought of time passing, or myself growing older, or the end of the world approaching us. I didn’t like the noise of clocks, or their little clockwork pieces. Only old ones, though- digital clocks unnerved me but they were nothing compared to the grandfather clocks and their pendulums. They seemed scarily alive, swinging away by themselves, and even scarier when dead and stopped.
The clocks on the shelves seemed to tick louder and I put my head in my hands. He must have been making them louder, I thought. This was the torture. He did want me to die. I crawled to the door and listened for some sound to tell me he was still there, but I couldn’t hear anything over the clocks.
I stood up and went over to the wall of shelves with what looked like the smallest clocks. I looked at one in particular, an oval with Roman numerals and a brown leaf pattern around it. It was like staring at the sun and knowing to look away. I picked it up and dropped it immediately.
I knelt down to look at it, terrified it was broken. It had landed face-down and there was a crack in the glass but it stayed ticking, and I turned it back upside down and left it on the floor. About to look away, I got a strange feeling that something was weird about the clock and looked again. The alarm on it was set for midnight, which now was looming fifteen minutes away.
I lay back on the floor and looked at the clocks around me. There were even clocks on the ceiling. If all the alarm clocks were set for midnight… I counted five, ten, fifteen, twenty, too many clocks. I felt myself stop breathing again as my imagination rang the sounds of a thousand alarm clocks in my head. A different ringing joined my imagination after a few seconds, a ringing in my ears, and the room faded quickly into darkness.
It might actually have been better if I woke up confused, unsure of where I was, and had a few seconds of peace before remembering my situation. But I woke up with no such luck. I heard a noise behind me and turned to see him, the man form outside the door, standing there with a pocket watch in his hand.
“I thought you were dead,” he said and smiled as if he were happy to see that I was alright. “I won’t kill you, don’t worry.” He dropped the watch and left the room too quickly for me to see through the door to the world outside. I tried to remember where I knew him from. His face was familiar, but not his smile. He looked only slightly older than me, and I wondered if he was a school friend that I had forgotten. He obviously hadn’t forgotten me, the clock girl.
Only I hadn’t been afraid of clocks as a young child. It had been when I was twelve, or some age around that, that something must have- the ticking interrupted me again, and I nearly forgot what I was thinking. The faces read six minutes to midnight, give or take a few painful seconds.
I tried to remember the faces in my class, and none that I could think of looked remotely like the man who I could tell was still sitting outside the door, counting down the minutes. School was all I could recall of being twelve, it seemed, and no faces of neighbours or other friends could come to my mind. The only thing related to clocks I could remember was being in a clock shop once.
The ticking took my mind away again, and I could have smashed the man’s pocket watch off the floor if I could force myself to move from where I was sitting. With effort I brought myself back to what I had been thinking, and tried to think of what the shop had looked like. There had been clocks on shelves and in the windows, but no back room like this with clocks hanging up. I must have been in there more than once, I realised, because I could see it.
The back room had boxes and cupboards with clocks hidden inside, and I had thought it was strange how many clocks were in the room and how silent it was. I must have been in there for a reason, because I remembered nobody could go in but the boy who was learning to make watches.
There was a day that he was outside, I recalled, and I had taken a pocket watch from a drawer in the back that he had worked on for ages. I must have dropped it, because I remembered the back coming off it and little clockwork bits coming out. I must have been scared of clocks even then, because I had started crying and he had heard me and told me that I would have to make up for my mistakes to him for the rest of my life. I couldn’t recall going to the shop after that, but I remembered the watchmaker boy.
I checked the clocks and saw the hands lining up for my death. It was midnight now.
I put my hands over my ears but I could still hear all the alarms ringing, even worse than I had imagined. I wondered if he was still outside, listening to me scream. I went slowly over to the door and hit it, then heard a small noise separate to the alarms. It was the click of the door being unlocked.
I hurried out of the room as quickly as I could, and saw that he had left, and hadn’t even taken my bag. I shut the door to the clock room behind me. The place looked like an abandoned shop. Dark had fallen outside the dusty windows. My phone rang in my bag and I answered it to an anxious friend, who informed me that it was past midnight. I barely managed to stop myself hanging up on them. The last thing I wanted to hear was the time.