Dr. Apples®: The Psychic Chronicles – Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
All sorts of consorts
As I am still experiencing this moment under my psychic trance……
Against his better judgment, Dr. Apples finds himself ensnared in the chaos of Eugene’s living room. Surrounded by a swarm of rambunctious children and faced with what might be the least sanitary dish ever concocted, the predicament seems inescapable.
With the flair of a stage actor realizing his cue, Dr. Apples stands, clutching his chest in mock horror. “Oh dear I have been so forgetful! My family is cursed with an ancient superstition—on Tuesdays, any food that’s grazed by a plate summons the wrath of the Consorts-demeanor!”
The room falls silent, every pair of eyes now locked on him. “What?” Eugene blurts out, confusion painted on his face.
“I know, I know, it sounds utterly preposterous,” Dr. Apples waves his hands for emphasis. “But incidents occur if I don’t follow guidelines! “
A child pipes up, “But it’s Wednesday.”
Unfazed, Dr. Apples exclaims, “For the safety of all, I must leave at once!”
“What are you talking about?” Eugene asks, his voice tinged with skepticism and concern.
Just then, Ms. Hardy’s booming voice from the kitchen interrupts the baffled silence. “Who’s ready for seconds?”
Without missing a beat, the children’s unanimous shout of “Me!”
Seizing the opportunity, Dr. Apples shouts, “Regrettably, the Consorts-demeanor waits for no one!” He rushes to Ms. Hardy, hands her the plate with rapid-fire thanks, “Thank you, immensely grateful, truly. Merci (Thank you),” and dashes for the exit.
Eugene intercepts him at the door, his expression shifting to concern. “Are you sure you—”
But Dr. Apples is already a blur, sprinting down the street, his departure marked by the sound of his oxfords slapping against the pavement and the fervent scraping of his tongue, as if trying to erase not just the taste but the memory of the cake.
Bursting through his own front door, he finds his mother, mid-cook, only to launch into a frenzied monologue. “Eugene said they had red velvet—you know how I feel about red velvet—but then, the plate! And the cake! It was an affront to all that is holy. And then, a booger, Ma! A ghastly, horrendous booger! I had to... I threw it to the cat and made my escape.”
Ms. BaRule, wide-eyed and momentarily speechless, finally manages, “ Un morve (A booger)?”
Without waiting for a reply, Dr. Apples retreats to the bathroom. Once inside the bathroom, Dr. Apples closes the door behind him, the sound of running water fills the space. He launches into a fervent rant in French, his voice muffled yet passionate behind the closed door, “Je n’arrive pas à croire qu’ils soient aussi sales! Qui, en pleine conscience, ferait ça ? Et puis, il s’habille si bien pour être aussi sale ? (I can’t believe they’re that dirty! Who, in their right mind, would do that? And then, he dresses so nicely to be this dirty?)” The water continues to run as he finishes his tirade. A moment of silence hangs in the air.
He opens the door, steps out with a resolute expression on his face, and declares, “Ils sont trop simples, Maman. Désormais, ils seront connus sous le nom de ‘Les Simples’. (They’re too simple, Mom. Henceforth, they will be known as ‘The Simples’)”.
“Simple indeed,” Ms. BaRule mutters, shaking her head with a mixture of amusement and disbelief, as the sound of water mingles with Dr. Apples’ continued exclamations about the newfound simplicity of
“The Simples.”
Feeling the pull to leave, the vibrant sensations and colors of my psychic vision begin to fade.
I feel a is tugging at the back of my shirt; pulling me back into the dim, quiet confines of Dr. Apples’ library. I take a deep breath, letting the familiar scent of Florida Water anchor me in the present. Another piece of the puzzle noted in this grimoire.
Alone among the heavy shelves of ancient books, my head throbs with the psychic toll of the visions. It’s honestly just annoying. And I have to say, based on his interactions with these ‘Simples’, I almost feel sorry for the young Dr. Apples. Almost.
Then, in a suspended moment, a soft, shimmering light forms in the air. It twinkles, ethereal, as if reality itself is splitting open to reveal a glimpse of the otherworldly—a crack in the ordinary. The magic around us is constant, but this particular glow, pulsating gently, feels like the arrival of something extraordinary. My breath catches, the light vibrating with energy, safe yet powerful.
Over the aged oak table, a box materializes from the shimmering air. It emerges, glowing, and settles upon the wood with a silent yet tangible presence. The box, simple yet exquisitely crafted, reflects the soft light. The glow dissipates quickly enough to make one doubt it was ever there.
“Dr. Apples!” I call out, breaking the quiet, “You need to see this”.
Footsteps approach, and Dr. Apples enters, drawn by the urgency in my voice. His eyes land on the box, and recognition flashes across his face.
He opens it, starting to say, “Is this the pencil case I ordered—“
“—No!” I interrupt, “It came out of the air.” Inside is a wooden symbol—the same one from my psychic vision. Struggling to contain my excitement, I point it out. “Look! It’s the symbol—the one I’ve been obsessing over!” My headache intensifies, echoing the pulsating glow of the box, yet I can’t look away.
He leans in, his inspection thorough, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Ah, the symbol you’ve been ‘obsessing over.’ How many lectures have I given on this?” His tone is teasing, but his interest is palpable.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry,” I mutter, half-apologetic, half-defensive. “But what does it mean?”
His finger hovers over the symbol, the air around us heavy with charged magnetic energy. “It means,” he starts, his voice trailing off as our eyes meet, “it’s time.”
The word hangs between us, laden with implications, with destinies intertwined. A word slips out, as I knew the path we just entered at the crossroads, “Shit.”