Dr. Apples®: The Psychic Chronicles –
Chapter 3
The Genesis of a Quest
As I am still experiencing this moment under my psychic trance……
Dr. Apples stands in the twilight, awaiting a response from his paranoid thoughts but… nothing. He sits down in the rocking chair; it’s the only thing that seems absolute. Hours into the night, under the vast, starlit sky, Dr. Apples found solace in the rhythmic creak of his rocking chair on the porch, the tension around him thickening with each passing hour. His restlessness was so strong, I could feel it clearly, in the energy around me. He moved with the erratic energy of a brewing storm — rocking, pacing, embodying the turmoil. The silence brews up a revelation. “Where the hell is my mother?” It wasn’t just a thought audibly expressed, but rather a newfound urgency, a gasp marking the moment of an epiphany. “This isn’t like her. Wait. What time is it? She’s never out this late. Something’s... off.”
For he walked into the home and searched his room, but he never thought to check her room. A sudden realization struck him, propelling him out of the rocking chair and dashing inside the home to the hallway, where he makes his dash to his mother’s door. The hardwood floors barely have time to creak before he stands in front of the large door. Behind this door lay answers he wasn’t sure he was ready for, a threshold that, once crossed, promises to unravel the fabric of his understood world.
A mixture of fear and anxiety clouds his thoughts, a tangible sense of dread: that something profound and unsettling lay ahead. With a hesitant hand, he reached for the doorknob, its cold metal a stark reminder of the unknown waiting on the other side. Gently, almost reverently, he pushes the door open, stepping into a void that seems to hold its breath in anticipation.
The room greets him with darkness, a stiff embrace that halts him in his tracks. A flick of the switch banishes the shadows, but the light did little to dispel the chill that settled in the air. The soft hum of the ceiling fan, its sound more a reminder of emptiness than life, slightly disturbed the silence, oppressive and thick.
In front of him lay a room in immaculate order. The bed, neatly made, and the surroundings untouched. Everything was as it should be — and yet, something was unmistakably wrong. It was the stark absence of her essence that was replaced with a coldness no light could dispel. Dr. Apples’ gaze swept the room, searching for clues in a space that felt both familiar and alien. Then his eyes narrow, on an anomaly that sent a shiver down his spine.
Standing by the front door of the room, Dr. Apples notices a small, pink pillow, starkly out-of-place amidst the otherwise subdued surroundings. This pillow, very much out of place in the carefully curated space, seems to hold a silent message.
Upon closer inspection, the pillow’s hand-stitched seams hint at a personal touch, an intimacy that feels jarringly foreign in this otherwise unfamiliar space.
Resting atop the pillow was an object so light it seems almost to float on the fabric, failing to leave even the slightest impression. The pillow, with its silent scream of discord, beckons him closer.
As Dr. Apples approaches the bed, the floorboards creak ominously underfoot. The room, enveloped in an eerie stillness, is only broken by the ghostly hum of the ceiling fan. Its blades cast unsettling shadows that dance along the walls like dark whispers.
Dr. Apples’ gaze fixates on the doll, a tiny object resting delicately on the pillow before him. It exudes an aura of exquisite craftsmanship, seeming to exist outside the constraints of time. The doll’s presence is eerily familiar, tugging at the edges of his memory with an undeniable force.
No larger than the palm of his hand, the doll possesses the distinctive elegance of an 18th-century Queen Anne doll. Its features are carved with a precision that speaks of a bygone era’s mastery, each detail meticulously crafted. Despite tales of such dolls and their significance often being shrouded in mystery and lore, the connection between this doll and Dr. Apples remains elusive, lost in the depths of time.
Hesitation grips him; a fleeting moment of uncertainty mingled with fear. Yet, fueled by arrogance, he brushes aside his caution with a defiant gesture, seizing the doll in his hand with unwavering resolve.
The instant his skin makes contact with the doll, a rush of overwhelming sensations engulfs him.
Suddenly, the room is bathed in a soft, pink glow, as if reality itself has undergone a profound transformation, transporting the bedroom into the heart of a mystical forest.
Surrounding him, the familiar walls dissolve into the towering forms of ancient trees, their leaves suffused with a gentle pink light that imbues everything with a warm, ethereal hue.
In the transient quiet of his bedroom, Dr. Apples finds himself momentarily swept away into a vivid otherworld that emerges around him with an enchanting vibrancy. Lush, radiant flowers bloom with an intensity that lights up the room, casting a serene glow that makes the space feel like a timeless sanctuary. This sudden bloom of an otherworldly oasis is more than just a visual spectacle; it’s a visceral reminder of the world he once shared with his mother. The room transforms into a vivid tableau of the past, bringing back memories filled with warmth and love.
Before him, vivid visuals play out, like a semitransparent tv screen: as this enchanting vision unfolds, he sees his mother’s radiant smile, the kind that could effortlessly brighten the darkest days, and hears the comforting melody of her voice, which once echoed through the corridors of their home, infusing them with life and warmth. In these fleeting moments, he relives the laughter shared over simmering pots of gumbo in the kitchen and the soothing sway of the rocking chair on the porch where she lulled him to sleep under starlit skies.
Holding the doll, it vibrates with mystical energy, as if channeling the essence of those lost days. The vibrations send jolts like electric shocks from his fingertips to his palms and up his arms, resonating with his racing heart. Each pulse is a mix of joy and profound sorrow, a physical manifestation of the emotional storm raging within him. Clutching the doll, Dr. Apples is rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by the surge of memories. This overwhelming wave of emotion crystallizes his resolve; it’s a poignant reminder of why he cannot cease his quest. The doll, a lifeline to the past, is his tangible connection to his mother, embodying both the pain of her absence and the hope of her return.
Finally, he takes a deep inhale, as if the moment made him forget to breathe. The faint yet unmistakable scent of Casablanca lilies envelop him. A similar fragrance to his mother’s natural scent. The doll’s resemblance to her is uncanny. Then, like a light switch, the moment abruptly stops.
In the charged silence of the room, where shadows cling too closely and seem to pulse with an anticipation of their own, Dr. Apples stands with the doll in his trembling hand. The air around him thickens, filled with a silent magic that whispers of hidden truths. His fingers trace the contours of the doll, each touch connecting him to memories of warmth and love now overshadowed by the looming ghost of loss.
Dr. Apples’ lips tremble as conflicting emotions of fear and sadness wrestle within him. Overcome, he lets the doll slip from his grasp, watching as it lands softly on the bed.
The room, saturated with the scent of Casablanca lilies and thick with unanswered questions, feels like an eternity frozen in time.
A sharp, intuitive realization pierces the silence, serving as both a message and a memento—or perhaps a dire warning.
The bitter truth settles in his heart with a chilling clarity: she has been taken, and this doll is left in her place.
Why?