From "The Masque of the Red Death":

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swing to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies), there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.

In as few or as many words as you need, write about this tale of Plagueis and Tarentum that inspires dread and hesitation of the same manner. Entries can be poetry or prose, and will be judged on flow, feel, creativity, and aim for suspense and unseen terror. Remember, this is about the feel of terror and dread, and not the sight of gore or otherwise. Try to channel Hitchcock or Poe, and make the hair on the backs of our necks stand up.