Dr. Apples®: The Psychic Chronicles – Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
In the light of the monster
As I am still experiencing this moment under my psychic trance……
As Ms. BaRule engages in her mysterious exchange deep within the alleyway, Dr. Apples finds himself inadvertently across from a pair of local children. Lost in their own world, they scavenge the ground for treasures amidst the market’s chaos. From a distance, Dr. Apples watches them, his posture reserved, his expression an unreadable mask despite the vibrant activity around him. The air around him vibrates with a subtle tension, felt but unseen.
The children, noticing Dr. Apples’ meticulously sharp attire, beckon him over with playful ‘come hither’ gestures, their faces illuminated by the hope of new camaraderie. They wave him closer, hoping to draw him into their imaginative realm. Despite their enthusiasm, Dr. Apples maintains his distance with measured decorum.
With a polite but firm decline, he replies, “No, thank you, I’m presently engaged in a rather exclusive activity.” His hand sweeps through the air as if revealing an unseen spectacle. As the children’s confusion deepens, and their curiosity piqued, they inch closer. Dr. Apples, maintaining his role in this playful charade, extends his hand in a stop signal, with mock seriousness. “Aht, aht. No closer, please,” he insists, as if guarding a treasure only he can see. “I’ve secured this spot of sunlight for a unique experiment. It’s an exclusive study, you see. I’m exploring the art of becoming a sunflower, but scientifically. How long must one stand in the sun for the transformation to begin? It’s a question of intellect and magic, quite serious research for the keen mind.”
A beat of silence falls, the children’s faces painting a picture of bewildered amusement. Dr. Apples’ earnestness weaves a tale so convincing, it almost defies the need for logic. “A sunflower?” one whispers, disbelief laced with wonder. “For real?” questions another, eyes wide. Dr. Apples meets their gaze with unwavering confidence, nodding solemnly. As the realization dawns upon them, their initial skepticism gives way to fascinated awe. With hushed exclamations of “Wow,” they retreat, leaving behind the peculiar boy who converses with the sun in pursuit of science and magic alike.
Ms. BaRule, reappearing with the poise of a seasoned thespian, observes her son’s playful exchange with a soft chuckle. “Planning to sprout leaves soon, Mr. Sunflower?” she teases, the sparkle in her eyes betraying her amusement.
Allowing himself a rare moment of levity, Dr. Apples flashes a brief grin, breaking his usual stoic demeanor. “Just ensuring I get my daily dose of photosynthesis, Mother. And please, it’s still Mr. Apple to you,” he retorts playfully.
Ms. BaRule then opens her doctor bag, her hands rustling through its contents—a sound of wads of cash but noticeably absent are the clinks of glass vials. She searches the bottom with a flourish. “Shoot, I’m all out of healing potions. Looks like we’re headed back home,” she announces, her voice tinged with both disappointment and resignation.
“Sold out? Already?” Dr. Apples raises his eyebrows, a mix of surprise and admiration evident. “Of course. Don’t you know who I am?” Ms. BaRule responds, her tone both playful and proud. Their laughter, blending effortlessly, fills the air, echoing the shared joy and pride of their endeavors as they meander through the market.
As their laughter weaves into the market’s din, I feel a nudge from within—it’s time to move forward.
Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I extend my hand forward, palm facing the unseen horizon of time. With a slow, deliberate clockwise swirl of my finger, I draw an invisible circle in the air—a symbol of the journey through the spirals of time.
I feel the pull of the future tugging gently at the edges of my consciousness. It’s a small act, yet it holds the power to part the veils between moments, guiding me through the fabric of Dr. Apples’ past with precision.
It’s a dance I’ve mastered, moving through the veils of past and present as effortlessly as a river flows through its banks.
As the market’s vibrant energy gently recedes, the serene ambiance of a large room at a residence wraps around me, a soothing contrast to the day’s earlier vibrancy. Here, the air is steep in the rich scents of herbs, each breath a blend of nature’s pharmacy and the deep, earthy undertone of well-thumbed pages from the many books that call this place home. This room, a sanctuary of knowledge and hidden truths, centers on a massive oak table that commands attention. Its surface, marked with the history of countless experiments and potion-making sessions, stands as a proud testament to the pursuit of understanding and mastery over the mystical and the mundane.
Above, dried herbs dangle like silent guardians from the ceiling beams, their delicate fragrances intermingling with the robust aroma of leather-bound books stacked on sagging shelves. These shelves house a diverse collection, from heavily annotated modern scientific texts to ancient grimoires whispering forgotten secrets. The juxtaposition of Erlenmeyer flasks and crystal vials on the shelves bridges the gap between traditional and contemporary practices, highlighting the dual pursuit of magic and medicine.
In one corner, a brass cauldron rests; its surface etched by time and the alchemical processes it has witnessed. Nearby, a meticulously arranged set of delicate glassware catches the light, shimmering with the promise of new discoveries. A collection of precision scales and glass pipettes stands ready.
The room’s hardwood floor creaks softly underfoot, a comforting, familiar sound that speaks of home. Candlelight flickers, cast dancing shadows and illuminates the space with a warm, golden glow. Ms. BaRule and Dr. Apples, both donned in lab coats, move with effortless synchronicity around the oak table that stands between them. The table is chaotic yet purposeful, with an array of herbs, amber bottles filled with mysterious liquids, and a bubbling cauldron emitting enchanting mists.
Dr. Apples, with the precision of a seasoned alchemist, selects herbs, each choice deliberate, arranging them on the table. His mother, overseeing their experiment, alternates her focus between the precise measurements of ingredients and the cauldron’s captivating contents.
Dr. Apples leans closer to his mother. Eventually they are cheek to cheek, his youthful curiosity piqued by the enchanting display. A silent exchange transpires between him and her as she glares at him with a frown. A look from Ms. BaRule, laden with unspoken words, is all it takes for him to understand the boundary crossed. His eyes widen in a mix of respect and disappointment before he leaves her sight. He retreats to a corner of the room, where he sits beside a jar casting a curious light, and immerses himself in a book. Within the jar, an enigmatic creature lives, blurring the lines between the alien and the mammalian—a sight as mesmerizing as it is bizarre, yet it fails to distract him from his reading.
The world outside, momentarily seeps into the sanctum of the laboratory through the sound of laughter of children at play. Dr. Apples, immersed in his study beside the glowing jar, is drawn out of his scholarly reads. The laughter, pure and joyous, strikes a chord within him. The laughter outside, like a birdcall to a distant observer, momentarily shifts Dr. Apples’ focus. He looks up, his posture subtly changing as his gaze moves from the pages to the wall, revealing a yearning for that carefree laughter. This momentary glance, filled with silent longing, peels back the layers of his usually enigmatic persona, exposing a glimpse of vulnerability. Yet, as quickly as this beautiful moment happened, a playful, off tuned shrill of a scream churned his face to utter annoyance. His eyes shift back to his book, which he grins, affirming his love of solitude. The laughter of the children gradually fades away, leaving behind the familiar, comforting sounds of the laboratory and the gentle bubbling of the cauldron.
Dr. Apples’ eyes widen, his curiosity piqued to the brim, turns a page of the ancient book with a reverent touch. The words and illustrations before him ignite a spark of excitement that seems to consume him wholly. Standing, he leans over the book, his gaze intense and unwavering as his fingers trace the ancient text. His eyes widen with wonder and thirst for knowledge. Before I can gander what he’s reading, a light from the jar glows brighter and ascend into a slender beam that stretches upwards to a height of five feet before it unfurls into a peculiar, mesmerizing symbol -reminiscent of an arcane shape Dr. Apples has tried to teach me but I purposely ignored him.
The room falls into a profound silence as the symbol above the jar begins to dim, its radiant light shrinking away. Suddenly, the air thickens with a high-pitched hum that pierces the quiet, sending vibrations through the room as if carrying the essence of the symbol itself. This hum, sharp and unmistakable, seems to emerge directly from the room, creating visible ripples in the air. It’s a sensation I’ve never encountered in any psychic vision before—a resonance that bridges our world and the unfathomable. A chill runs down my spine, a silent acknowledgment of fear in the face of this unknown. Yet, despite the intensity of this moment, Dr. Apples and Ms. BaRule remain absorbed in their research, seemingly oblivious to the phenomena unfolding around them.
The symbol pulses once more, releasing a wave of energy that ripples throughout the room. Closing my eyes does little to shield me from the vibration coursing through my body. But as quickly as it arose, the hum dissipates, spiraling back into a silence. The familiar, comforting sounds of the laboratory settle around me once again. Dr. Apples continues to read, a Cheshire grin spread across his face, while Ms. BaRule methodically packs glass vials into her doctor's bag, each action precise and deliberate, unperturbed by the extraordinary events that just transpired.
What the hell was that?