The Clock in the Graveyard

The date was October 23rd, 2011, and the weather was in a beastly calm as the night fell; a sort of foreboding aggravation, the precipitation of a storm, and the unknowing companion to evil. My lantern hung, like a third eye, dangling overhead, the rusty handle clutched in my fist. My left arm swayed slightly by my side with my slow, deliberate steps, and as I neared my destination every single of my limbs gradually froze up with terror.

         I reconsidered my position, reasoning through my motivation.

         I had been having strange nightmares for several months. These nightmares would begin with an image of the night sky, a single star shone brightly beside a full moon. Below this sky would be an empty street on an abandoned block of houses. A moment later, I would see myself walking down the street, holding a large, dim lantern. Without warning, the street would melt into a graveyard, and in the center of this graveyard I would see a cloaked figure and a large clock. The clock would then strike midnight, and the cloaked figure would approach me.

         Then I wake up, shuddering in a cold sweat, wondering what it is I'm so afraid of. Whether to stop it or discover its meaning, I decided to visit the graveyard nearest my house.

         I gathered myself and continued on my way.

         A stench like the remnant of a corpse stood in the air, a stubborn entity instructing me to turn around. The screeching of distant cats sang like cacophonous melodies. The graveyard seemed to approach me, rather than I approach it, and its full form presented itself in slow, dramatic fashion.

         The stones were scarce and isolated, each one separated from the next enough for each to appear lonely. A thin mist was settled over the field of soil and rose just above the tallest stone, nearly as high as the hat atop my head. 

         I neared the lantern to my face and stepped slowly through. I bent down to the first stone I came across and found that it was blank; peculiar, to say the least.

         I checked the next stone, and it, also, was blank.

         By time I reached the third cold, gray slate, I was in the center of the graveyard.

         I peered around myself and suddenly felt foolish for being so afraid. What did I expect? The undead?

         I chuckled at my expense and the chuckle grew into laughter. The lantern shook and swung with the gyrations of my rumbling laughs.

         To think I built such suspense! To think I experienced such apprehension over child's play! To think I came out here in the cold, on a Friday night, and stood in the center of a graveyard! Expecting to find a clock, no less!

         My laughter died back into a chuckle, and I began to walk back home. The cold, foggy air seemed more of a snowy cheer than an ominous chill, now. The gravestones seemed more like symbols of sadness and loss than of fear and murder. And I seemed more of a fool than a prophet. Ha!

         As I turned the corner, and my step was no longer a feeble shuffle, I heard a deep, sustained chime. My spine stiffened and the nightmare flashed through my mind in reflex memory.

         I tightened my grip on the lantern and willed myself to turn around.

         Far off, at the center of the graveyard, was a cloaked figure standing beside a grandfather clock. My eyes opened wide in disbelief and my jaw slacked. My hand went numb with its overbearing grip on the lanterns handle, and my feet felt wobbly. I knew I had paled, and all that was around me suddenly became like the contents of a terrifying dream.

         The figure approached me, and my reaction was to stumble back.

         Its face was a black sheet, blacker than its death black cloak. My first thought was that I stood before Death himself.

         The clock finished its chiming, doing so twelve times in even succession. I looked to it, and saw that the entire clock had begun to spin in place, getting smaller with each spin, spinning faster and faster, getting smaller and smaller, until it disappeared into the blackness of the night.

         The cloaked figure had reached me, and it extended its arm toward me. Its hand seemed to be gloved, and I stared at the hand, hovering out in front of him, as it seemed to float towards me of its own will.

         It landed on my shoulder. My gaze was locked on it. I couldn't tell if the hand was painted or gloved.

         Everything was still and silent. Hesitantly, I shifted my sight to the face of the thing. I seemed to get lost in the darkness of his face. Everything began to spin. Like the filling in of light with dark, it all faded to black.

         

         The date was October 23rd, 2011, and the weather was in a beastly calm as the night fell; a sort of foreboding aggravation, the precipitation of a storm, and the unknowing companion to evil. I sat at the desk of my empty room and felt the maddening experience of déjà vu once again.          

         I had been having strange nightmares for several months. These nightmares would begin with an image of the night sky, a single star shone brightly beside a full moon. Below this sky would be an empty street on an abandoned block of houses. A moment later, I would see myself walking down the street, holding a large, dim lantern. Without warning, the street would melt into a graveyard, and in the center of this graveyard I would see a cloaked figure and a large clock. The clock would then strike midnight, and the cloaked figure would approach me.

         And I could scarcely remember investigating the nearby graveyard in hopes of discovering the dreams meaning. I could also scarcely recall going through October 23rd several times before, each time visiting the graveyard and each time ending up back home, waking from that nightmare with the urge to visit the graveyard once again.

         Well, I decided to attempt to confirm my mad, paranoid suspicions with a bit of writing.

         Today is Friday, October 23rd, 9:30 PM.

         I placed a sheet of paper with this written on it in the center of my bare desk and ventured off to the graveyard.

         As I suspected, the cloaked figure and the clock from my dream were there. Even when expected, I couldn't help being terrified.

         The clock spun into oblivion, and the cloaked figure placed his hand on my shoulder with a bold, imposing air to his movements. Like a sudden fainting, everything turned to blackness.

         

         I awoke in a cold, shuddering sweat, the remembrance of my dream immediately engulfing me in its haunting presence. I tried to shake it off, as I got out of bed to get ready for work.

         I grabbed my coat from off the chair of my desk when a slip of paper I couldn't recall placing there caught my eye.

         Today is Friday, October 23rd, 9:30 PM.

         I looked to my watch.

         Not quite, I thought with a chuckle.

         I quickly put my shoes on and went off to work.

         As the door came to a close behind me, my face drained of color.

         My hat slipped off my head as I dashed back to the desk and grabbed the paper in my fist.          I read its message over and over, tossing it around in the confines of my mind, thinking, rethinking and studying my memories and conceptions. Is it possible I have gone mad? Does madness require instigation or can it be characterized by the lack of it?

         The paper fell from my trembling hands and slid onto the dusty floor. I hadn't a clue what to do next. I feared too greatly a visit to the graveyard.

         I ran the nightmare through my redundant-prone mind many times more.

         I thought, perhaps, that I should just move on; deal with the fear of a recurring nightmare and never go near that ghastly graveyard again.

         I then considered psychiatric help. Would I be institutionalized- locked up and kept from society, lest my madness rub off?

         I fell into my chair in a heap of detachment. My thoughts felt disconnected and reality seemed distant.

         The hours ventured on, beating the seconds over the head with minutes. I ate not, I moved not, I slept not, and day and night went by with no regard for my existence. The sun fell, the moon rose, the moon fell, the sun rose. I rose.

         I picked the paper up from off the floor and un-crumpled it. I re-read the haunting words I couldn't remember writing.

         Today is Friday, October 23rd, 9:30 PM.

         But perhaps now I've been saved, I thought, hope flashing through my mind like a passing glimmer of light.

         I raced outside, looking for someone to ask what the date was.

         The air was cold and I could feel stench eroding from my body.

         A woman in a fur coat was walking by, holding her child's hand.

         "Excuse me, miss, please, what is todays date?" She must have thought me a crazy homeless man.

         She recoiled a bit and quickly answered, "October 23rd." She walked on.

         My face sagged and my hopes imploded. Surely she was mistaken.

         I ran to the other side of the street where a man holding a suitcase quickly scampered by. "Excuse me, sir! Pray tell me, what is todays date!"

         He stopped in his tracks and looked to his watch. "October 23rd, good sir." He then looked at me and suddenly moved on.

         I fell to my knees. Could they both have been wrong?

         A group of children passed by.

         "What is today's date!" I cried out.

         They glanced at me nervously and sped their pace.

         I broke into a fit of tears and returned to the silence of my home.

         What was I to do next?

         Was my only choice to visit the graveyard?

         I sat in the chair of my desk until nightfall, grabbed my lantern, and my hat that lay outside my door, and resolutely headed to the graveyard.

         At first, the yard was an empty, melancholic landscape. I nearly exited in defeat.

         With another glance, the clock conjured, along with the cloaked figured. I became desperate on sight.

         "Please, save me! Help me!" I begged.

         The figure came towards me, and the clock begun to spin.

         "No, no," I sobbed. "Not again! I can't go through it again!"

         His arm extended to my shoulder, and I cried out.

         Everything was black, and then I woke up. I awoke in tears as if they never stopped. I awoke in fear as if I had always been. I awoke mad, unable to remember when I wasn't.

         And I had the painfully irresistible urge to go back to the graveyard.

         I lay until night, eating enough to live and functioning enough to exist.

         9:30 came. The horror repeated.

         I started to leave a small mark of the pen for each October 23rd that went by.

         The cycle continued with the intent to remain indefinite. Now, the desk, the walls, the floor- they are decorated with the tiny black marks of my pen, like thousands of detestable bugs.

         And with each mark that I regret to create, and with each ticking of the obsolete clock, my soul further rots, and I wonder if the nightmare will ever come to an end. Perhaps I am doomed.

         



Word count: 1,941