Dr. Apples®: The Psychic Chronicles – Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

There Is No Once Upon a Time

There is no “once upon a time” -not in the traditional sense. Time, as I’ve come to understand, is merely something made up to restrain us. From the moment of our birth, we’re stamped with it, confined within the narrow limits of the ticking clock. We grow up with this limited belief that the time we have is all there is, and then we are gone. It’s like we measure our lives, our successes, and even our potential, in hours, days, and years. But what if time is just an illusion meant to hold us back? If we could step outside of its relentless march, where would we be? If we remembered who we were before we became slaves to the clock, would we feel as restricted as we do now?

 Lately, I’ve been haunted by a sensation, a whisper of something impending that hovers at the edge of my consciousness. It’s not fear, not exactly — more like the echo of a distant storm, yet to be seen but already felt. It’s why I’ve started writing all this down in this Grimoire, as Dr. Apples requested. Sitting here in this house library where the books seem to stretch to the ceiling and magic dances all around me as colorful smoke at times; I feel protected here. It’s colder than the other rooms in the house, but here, I feel compelled to write.

 Maybe in these pages, I’ll get us out of this dubious cycle we’ve been in. See, we are searching for clues to find Dr. Apples mother. She was kidnapped by fairies a long while ago. Every year, on his birthday, Dr. Apples receives a doll—a haunting reminder of the time passed since his mother’s disappearance, each one filled with a fragment of her essence. Seventy-four dolls line the shelves of his study, a solemn testament to the years of search and longing.

 These dolls are both a comfort and a curse, a marker of hope that she’s still out there and a measure of time slipping relentlessly through our fingers. As the seventy-fifth birthday approaches, a sense of unease settles over us, heavier than the years before. And we can’t shake the feeling that this year is different, that time may run out. The fear that it might only take one more birthday, one more doll, before hope fades entirely, drives us forward and Dr. Apples into a sadistic, timeless abyss.

 I’m Lacie, by the way, Dr. Apples’ personal assistant, and- ugh-oh, great- another floating book getting stuck in my afro. The magic can get a bit unruly based on his mood. He passes me by, his right brown eye staring at me, the left grayish white eye piercing through my soul. At-ti-tude! His blue three-piece tailor suit reflects the magic in the room. He doesn’t look a day over twenty-nine years old, even though he’s old as dirt. I’ll be a lady and not divulge his age. His appearance reminds me of those idealized figures you see in football advertisements, with his athletic, slender frame. Until he opens his mouth. Then, his arrogant babbles annoy the crap out of you. I had to throw away two homemade baked goods this week alone from the local women vying for his affection. They have too much time on their hands. Humph, time.

 But what if time is just an illusion meant to hold us back? If we could step outside its relentless march, where would we be? If we remembered who we were before becoming slaves to the clock, would we feel as restricted as we do now? Can our constraints and limited beliefs break then? Would we dare to take action on what we now shrink from, or would the fear of the unknown, the teachings ingrained in us since childhood, hold us back? Would we? Would I? What will I do?

 As I write in the Grimoire, Dr. Apples glances over, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and caution. “Are you using the proper pen to write in the—”

 “Yes. Yes! Sigh. Relax, I’m not about to set the table ablaze again,” I retort, rolling my eyes for emphasis, though I doubt he saw.

 He chuckles, the sound echoes slightly in the vast library. “Hey, that was a scary moment for all of us. I didn’t know after that you would be ready to advance into writing.”

 “Ha. Ha.” My laugh was more of a nervous tick than amusement. I pause, gathering my thoughts. “Doc?” He was pacing, as he often did when deep in thought, opening and closing the nearest books around him—including the ones that floated aimlessly.

 “What?” His attention snaps back to me, an eyebrow raised in question.

 I hesitate, the words heavy on my tongue. “Don’t you feel this? This—this dark pull of magic. It’s like it surrounds me often. You never mention feeling anything like it.”

 He sops moving altogether, his expression turning pensive. “Uh, I’ve never had that feeling.” Concern flickers across his face as he turned fully towards me. “Do you feel like something’s bothering you—”

 “No! no- no—” I cut him off, too quickly perhaps. The last thing I needed was him thinking I couldn’t handle this.

 He watched me for a moment longer, his gaze assessing. “Because I can remove everything in here if the magic is a problem.”

 “No. It’s just me being anxious,” I assure him, though I wasn’t quite sure myself.

“Alright. Now get to work,” he said, not unkindly, before turning to leave the library.

 I couldn’t let him have the last word, not with that authoritative tone of his. “Make me,” I call out after him, louder than I had intended.

 The response was immediate—a purplish hue of dust slammed the library door shut behind him, making me jump. I let out a huff, more at myself than the magic, and turnback to the Grimoire. Despite the earlier tension, a small smile crept onto my lips. This was our routine, our odd but comforting dance of wills. And so, I continued to write.

 He’s so annoying. I’m here doing what I’m supposed to do as a loyal personal assistant and what does he do? Micromanage. Doctor Apples is what he wants to be called so whatever. Even though I know and understand much about him, my enigmatic employer, is a riddle wrapped in a mystery. He moves through life like a shadow, at times barely noticeable, yet his presence is felt in every corner of the room. I’ve seen him manipulate the very essence of magic, weaving spells that defy explanation, giving potions to the locals to help aid their sicknesses, even scare off bullies who mess with the kids in town. There are moments when I catch a glimpse of sorrow in his eyes, a fleeting expression that speaks of a past riddled with secrets. And this compels me to write.

 I’m recording in this Grimoire, recounting through my psychic visions the moments of a young Dr. Apples’ life. We’re documenting to find the missing gap we have been alluded to for years. And, we are documenting, in case something happens to us. And, maybe, this story will motivate our predecessors to continue. Recounting is about time and boundaries. My methods of experiencing a psychic vision is unique.

 Each time I close my eyes and reach out with my mind, the world shifts into a vast expansion of mystery and wonder- I’m lying. I don’t close my eyes at all. I unfocus my eyes, think about what I want to ‘see’, and then a gush of wind blows past me, but I don’t feel it.

 I didn’t explain that right.

I feels…. it feels like I’m standing physically there, in the past, or the present and I watch the encounters unfold, like a movie. No one there can see me and I don’t interfere -it’s impossible. I can’t move the person out of the way of an incoming bus. I can’t yell that this person is lying to them. I can only observe and feel and smell and…sometimes taste the metallic from the blood in their mouths. I don’t like those psychic visions. I like the simple ones. The simple visions of a child playing with no surprises. Too much of the violent ones make me feel like I’m losing my mind.

 I see fragments of history, echoes of lives long gone – a medieval marketplace, a secret meeting under the cloak of night, a whispered prophecy. These visions come at a price – a headache that lingers for hours, a sense of dislocation, as if part of me is still lost in those other times and places.

 His loyalty to his lost mother, a tale of heartache and determination, is the only part of his past he openly acknowledges. But there’s more, so much more hidden beneath the surface. Sometimes, in my visions, I stumble upon fragments of his history – a young boy with eyes too old for his face, a man battling unseen forces, a hero or perhaps a villain in his own right.

 I often wonder about the true extent of his powers, about the secrets he keeps locked away. My loyalty to him is unwavering, yet I cannot deny the aura of mystery that surrounds him. It’s this enigma, this unspoken promise of untold stories, that binds me to him, that drives my resolve to document his tale, to unravel the threads of his secretive existence.

 Creating this Grimoire, this book of knowledge and spells that Dr. Apples can use in his magical practice, is more than just a task. It’s a journey. He is a powerful magician, and the knowledge contained within these pages spans dimensions of secrets and wisdom.

 But delving into these memories, these past experiences, takes its toll on me. Every journey into the past leaves me drained, blurring the lines between what was and what is. It’s a cost I’m willing to pay, but it’s not without its consequences.

 If you’re seeking a perfect tale with a neatly tied ending, this story won’t satisfy you. We’re in the midst of an unfolding narrative, one that teaches us about life, about pushing beyond the limits imposed by fear and societal norms.

 So, as I pen down these words, weaving the tapestry of Dr. Apples’ life, I do so with a mix of awe and trepidation, knowing that each page might bring me closer to understanding secrets I’ve never asked to uncover. But there’s more at stake here, a sense of urgency that I can’t quite shake. This sensation, this whisper of impending doom that has been haunting me, it feels like it’s drawing closer, becoming more tangible with each word I write. In fact, I feel it staring through me right now.