Phobophobia A Horror Anthology

Rhytiphobia - Fear of getting wrinkles

Rhytiphobia - Fear of getting wrinkles

Madame De La Tête sat in her drawing room singing to herself. She wore a dress of fine silk and her wrinkled face plastered with layer upon layer of foundation and rouge. She was feeling rather melancholic that day but for her, that was the norm. She had not been truly happy since she had retired from performing at the opera. She pictured herself singing soprano for an adulating audience. In her mind's eye, she finished her song, hitting a spectacular note, and the crowd went wild, showering her with roses and screaming "Brava". She sighed. Those had been her glory days. Now, she spent her time talking to her "dear ones", half a dozen Persian cats, and singing only to break the silence. 

Every now and then, she had a visitor. This was a very exciting occasion for her. It meant that she could dress up, choosing a "specimen" from her "fine collection". The doorbell rang. Her heart raced. She got up from her seat and peered through the peep hole. It was a gentleman she had encountered at the supermarket. Splendid! It was time to change. She called out, "One moment!" and rushed up the stairs. She kept her collection in her walk-in closet. She had amassed the various looks and styles over the years. They were all beautiful in their own unique way. She pulled on her long, white gloves to cover her wrinkled hands. The sleeves of her dress covered her upper arms. The dress went up to the very base of her neck, hiding her décolletage. She wore stockings and pointed little shoes. Only her wrinkled, lined, ancient face ruined her fabulous look. She gazed at her own reflection, pure self-loathing emanating from her expression. Not to worry. It was time to change. She smiled. She entered her walk-in closet. 

There, in the closet, was her collection. The walls were lined with vast showcases. Each specimen had its own little glass cupboard to itself so they were all on display. Madame tried to remember which one she had been wearing when she had met the gentleman. Ah! She remembered. She approached a glass case near the room's end. Inside was a pale severed head. The face was stunning: bright eyes, a seductive mouth, rosy cheeks. Red hair tumbled in long waves from its scalp. 

Madame took the head out of its cupboard and placed it on a nearby stool. She pressed her hand to her own head and promptly lifted it, neck and all, off her shoulders. She put it in the case. She put the head with the red hair on and admired herself in the mirror. Beautiful! She took one last look at her collection before heading downstairs. 

Dozens upon dozens of women's heads smiled back at her. Black, blonde, brunette and red tresses gleamed in the dim light, some curly, some straight, others wavy, long and short. Some were tan, some pale-skinned, others had deep complexions. However, they all had one thing in common, they had all been handpicked by Madame for their extraordinary beauty. What a marvelous collection it was! What a show of beauty! It was sad that Madame could never let anyone else behold her collection. She could not be blamed for any of the disappearances of any of these beautiful but unfortunate woman. The only people who had seen her collection had all lost their heads moments after.