CHAPTER 2
Whispers of Fate
I take a deep breath and as I exhale, the world around me fades, giving way to the unmistakable scent of citrus and florals, reminiscent of Florida Water. It’s a gentle yet profound transition, as if the very essence of the air around me is shifting, carrying me away from the tangible to the realm of the unseen. A sensation of falling envelops me, not with fear, but with anticipation, like stepping off a ledge knowing a net will appear.
And then, the psychic visions come...
It starts as blurry images, a murmur of distant times and places that gradually sharpens into clarity. I’m transported to a familiar yet distant place, where the dry grass beneath me crackles slightly beside a running creek, grounding me in this moment that feels both foreign and intimate.
The atmosphere is thick with the magic of twilight. Lightning bugs flicker in and out of existence, their sporadic light illuminating the approaching darkness. Frogs croak a tune from the depths of the Louisiana landscape, a melody that stirs memories within me. The moon peeks through the clouds, casting a soft glow over the scene, as the sun dips below the horizon, leaving behind sinister shadows that stretch across the land.
This is the space between worlds, a liminal zone where time bends and secrets long buried whisper to those willing to listen. Here, in the embrace of an otherworldly dusk, my consciousness expands, reaching across the veil to touch the echoes of the past. The feeling of falling has ceased, replaced by a profound connection to the earth beneath me and the sky above. I am here, yet not here—caught in the embrace of a psychic trance that reveals truths hidden from the waking world.
Suddenly, the vision shifts, grounding me in a reality that’s palpably tense yet familiar. The ethereal sensations of the trance give way to the more immediate, sensory experiences of Dr. Apples, who finds himself in an unexpected yet known environment.
As the sun dips below the horizon, Dr. Apples awakens beside a babbling creek. From my vantage point within the vision, he appears young, perhaps around 16, a hunch that aligns with the youthful energy he exudes. Confusion washes over him, but as he sits up, clarity quickly follows. Despite his surprise at the unexpected locale, his sky-blue pajamas remain nearly pristine. With a sense of urgency, he leaps to his feet and dashes through the tall grass.
The blades prick his bare heels, a stark contrast to the soft flutter of fabric against his skin. Twigs snap underfoot, yet they’re barely audible over the pounding of his heart and the chorus of crickets. His perfect afro remains undisturbed by his pace. Navigating with ease, he dodges every obstacle, exiting the woods onto the pavement of a subdivision. Here, the streetlights mimic the earlier lightning bugs, guiding him home. He picks up speed, finally slowing as he reaches the familiar, manicured softness of the grass in his front lawn.
Dr. Apples halted before the front porch of his seemingly modest shotgun home, a structure that, at first glance, blended seamlessly with the rest of the neighborhood. Its plain facade gave no hint of the wonders within, yet it was much larger than any other home in the neighborhood. A gargantuan presence cloaked in ordinariness. For those who knew how to look, the air around it hummed with a quiet energy, whispering magic hidden behind its unremarkable exterior. This was a place of power, a treasure hidden in plain sight, a sanctuary filled with treasures, artwork, magic, and forbidden secrets.
Catching his breath, he scanned the front area like a predator, searching for signs of disturbance. Nothing appeared unusual at first glance, but the front door exuded an essence akin to purgatory, for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom. His home awaited him—a beautiful, expansive residence that, despite its modest, quaint appearance, harbored more than met the eye. As his breathing normalized, the familiar sense of safety enveloped him, reminding him he was back in his realm of control and mystery.
He enters his room, bewildered at how he bypassed the front door and stairs without noticing. Flicking on the light, the sterile buzz of the bulb contrasted with the room’s inherent scent of cleanliness mingled with magic. His eyes roves over the space, everything as it should be except for a ‘happy birthday’ balloon—undoubtedly his mother’s doing during his absence. With a cautious hand, he shields his right brown eye, squinting with the other, surveying for any hint of supernatural disturbances. Nothing had been touched.
A frown, both arrogant and familiar, creases his brow as he ponders the balloon’s significance. “Mamma!” he calls, hoping for some explanation, but his only response came from the echoes of his call.
The frown that etches his face wasn’t out of worry for his mother’s locale but from the nagging question of who had orchestrated this scenario.
“Why was I by the creek?” Dr. Apples mutters, his voice tings with irritation. He paces the room, his movements graceful yet charged with an underlying tension. “This is ridiculous. Who would play games with me?”
His brow furrows with frustration as he surveys the room, his gaze sharp and penetrating. “Mamma!” he calls out again, his tone demanding answers rather than seeking reassurance. But the only response was the hollow echo of his own voice bouncing off the walls.
A surge of impatience surges through him, fueling the arrogance that simmers just beneath the surface. “Whoever’s behind this,” he growls, his voice laced with a potent mix of anger and defiance, “they’re going to regret crossing me.”
This query rattles him, to the point that he marches outside. He walks around, inspecting the perimeter of his home. The pristine condition of everything around him only deepens the mystery. The discomfort of the morning dew on his toes and the slight dampness on his pajamas were the only evidence of his stroll.
“This must be some sinister game,” he mumbled, paranoia threading through his considerations. But who would dare? And underestimating his powers at that? The notion that someone could toy with him, possibly challenging his claims of invincibility, sparked a mix of emotions—from irritation to a bewildered concern.
Arriving back at the front porch, he steadies his composure as his thoughts show on his face: a mixture of confusion and paranoia. A mundane yet deeply personal anomaly caught his eye, challenging his grasp on reality. There, sitting incongruously on the porch steps, was the family gumbo pot—a vessel steeped in tradition and memories, as integral to his family’s history as any magical artifact in his possession. Its presence here, outside, in the cool evening air, was an affront to the normalcy and order he relied on amidst the chaos of his magical life.
He approaches the pot with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity propelling him forward. The gumbo pot was unmistakable, its surface etched with the patina of countless family gatherings, a tangible link to a heritage that transcended the magical boundaries of his existence. “Impossible,” he mutters, reaching out to touch it, to confirm its reality.
Yet, as his fingers brushed against the cool metal, the pot shimmered and, with a whisper that seemed almost like a sigh, vanishes into the air. The sudden absence of the pot, more than its unexpected appearance, shook Dr. Apples to his core. Magic was his domain, a realm where he wielded control with confidence and skill. But this—this simple trick of the ordinary, morphing into the extraordinary and back again—left him reeling.
The disappearance of the gumbo pot, a symbol of his family’s legacy and a fixture of his non-magical life, blurred the lines between the worlds he navigated. “Have I finally gone mad?” He mutters. The question now carries a weight that anchors itself deep within his psyche. In a reality where the extraordinary was commonplace, it was the disruption of the ordinary—the vanishing of a beloved family gumbo pot—that threatened to unravel the very fabric of his understanding.
To answer his question. Yes, I believe he was going insane. But in his world, insanity flirts dangerously close with revelation, and the lines between them were as thin as the veil that separated the mundane from the magical.
Dr. Apples felt around the seat of the rocking chair, then settled into it. The old wooden floors complained under the chair’s motion as he leaned back, trying to find a moment’s peace in the familiar creaks and groans. From dusk till the witching hour, he was consumed by the day’s baffling events. His left hand tapped an anxious rhythm on the armrest, while his right formed a tight fist. Moonlight spilled across his skin, the darkness around him seeming to deepen his isolation and amplify his swirling thoughts.
“This is absurd,” Dr. Apples scoffed into the night, his voice dripping with frustration and a hint of disbelief. “How can I, of all people, fall asleep in my bed and then wake up by a creek?” He let the question hang in the air, a rhetorical challenge to the universe that dared to puzzle him.
He then raises his voice slightly, not out of fear, but as if proclaiming a fundamental law of his existence, “In this Earth realm, teleportation isn’t within my arsenal. I’m made of solid matter, not whims or fancy!” His words carry a defiant edge, a young magician confronting the limits of his understanding with the arrogance only a gifted teen could muster. “Or so I thought,” he adds. A sliver of doubt creeping into his certainty.
The idea that someone could manipulate him so effortlessly was insulting. “Who would dare to toy with me?” he mused aloud, his tone a mixture of indignation and intrigue. “I traverse dimensions; I commune with the astral plane. And yet, here I am, questioning the very fabric of my reality.”
His mind raced through a litany of magical possibilities — a spell gone awry, a dimensional slip, or perhaps a targeted curse. Yet, each theory seemed more improbable than the last. As the night wore on, Dr. Apples’ certainty in his own sanity waned. The fear of the unknown, of an unseen force capable of penetrating his guarded life, gnawed at him relentlessly.
Stepping back onto the porch, a sudden chill brushed against him — not from the night air, but from the realization that he might indeed be unraveling. “Am I going mad?” The thought, once easily dismissed, now clung to him with disturbing tenacity.
In that moment of doubt, a subtle shift in the air caught his attention. A whisper, barely audible, “It’s time for madness tee-hee,” seems to call out to him, a siren song to his frayed senses. “Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice cuts through the silence, only to be met with the echo of his own words.
The whisper fades as quickly as it appeared, leaving Dr. Apples alone with his thoughts and a new, unnerving sense of anticipation. Was this another layer of the mystery unfolding, or simply a trick of his stressed mind? The distinction blurs, the boundary between reality and illusion growing ever more tenuous.
Faced with the creeping shadows and the whisper that seemed to know him, Dr. Apples made a choice. Rather than retreat into the safety of his home, he steps forward into the night, drawn by the need to confront whatever lay beyond, to chase down the whisper that dared to call his name.