Dr. Apples®: The Psychic Chronicles – Chapter 4
Pollo’s Shadow
The vivid sensations and colors of the psychic vision slowly recede, feeling almost like someone’s pulling me back by my shirt into the present. I land back in the quiet, dimly lit confines of Dr. Apples’ library. Taking a deep breath, the scent of Florida Water ground me. ‘Another piece of the puzzle,’ I think, my hand trembling as I write.
Yet, despite my efforts to ground myself, remnants of the trance linger like wisps of a fleeting memory. It’s a sensation I’ve grown accustomed to, but today, there’s an added tension in the air; like I’m center stage of a play. As I open my eyes, Dr. Apples stares at me with a mixture of irritation and intrigue.
“What?” I snap back, equally annoyed.
“So?” he presses, his tone expectant.
“So, what?” I feign innocence.
“What did you find out?” His impatience is thinly veiled.
“Nothing conclusive yet,” I reply, my voice betraying a hint of uncertainty.
“Lies,” he accuses, his expression hardening.
The squish of something slimy and moist in his grasp draws my attention, and I raise an eyebrow inquisitively. “What’s that?” I inquire, my curiosity piqued.
Attempting to conceal his surprise, Dr. Apples shifts uncomfortably, but the baseball-sized creature dripping with slime remains visible behind his back. “It’s nothing you need to worry about,” he insists. He’s an awful liar.
“I can see that thing you’re hiding,” I assert, refusing to be deceived.
“Huh? No,” he protests weakly, his facade crumbling under scrutiny.
“Yes, it’s dripping on the floor,” I point out, my tone tinged with amusement.
Caught off guard, Dr. Apples relents, albeit begrudgingly. “Well, it might know something,” he admits, his frustration clear.
“I doubt it,” I reply skeptically.
With a determined air, he strides out of the room, declaring, “Oh, it’ll talk.”
He’s not even wearing gloves.
Dealing with Dr. Apples can sometimes feel like trying to reason with a stubborn child. Let me paint the picture for you. Since the day his mother disappeared, he’s been obsessed with capturing mystical creatures. He hopes they might reveal clues about her whereabouts. Do these creatures know exactly where she is? No. But occasionally, they hint at others who might, or they suggest strategies that could edge us closer to finding her.
And there’s more to this than just chasing leads. Every year on his birthday, a mysterious doll arrives, each infused with his mother’s essence. Seventy-three dolls later, what started as a beacon of hope has become more like a fading shadow. I haven’t witnessed the arrival of all these dolls—I’m only 23, after all! But I’ve seen enough to feel their weight.
As one of his assistants, I’m charged with their safekeeping. It’s a duty I approach with both honor and curiosity. Dr. Apples also insists I learn magic, ostensibly to protect the dolls—and myself. This is a different realm from my natural psychic abilities, where I navigate potential futures and traverse past timelines with ease. Magic, on the other hand, challenges me in new ways. How proficient am I? Let’s just say I could accidentally teleport a snail if I’m not careful—and that’s not a boast. It’s a reality of my learning curve, one that underscores my eagerness to master these skills and safeguard these poignant reminders of his past, which now line the walls of our long, eerie hallway, as beautiful as they are haunting.
The days leading up to Dr. Apples’ birthday shroud the house in a palpable tension, more suffocating than a dense midwinter fog. In his eyes, a constant battle rages against ghosts of regret that haunt him relentlessly. His demeanor darkens; an edge emerges in his behavior, marked by increased pacing and brooding. His interrogations with captured creatures intensify, reflecting the deepening of his inner turmoil. Each arriving doll doesn’t lighten his burden; instead, it deepens the weariness in his eyes, his longer black locs becoming gray emblems of yet another year of dwindling hopes. These dolls appear mysteriously within his home, each accompanied by the faint, haunting scent of Casablanca lilies.
After each doll’s arrival, I perform a ritual: I gently pick up the doll, study its features, and craft a delicate frame for its display on the wall. This is an unspoken agreement between us, a pact never discussed. Dr. Apples, ever enshrouded in his privacy, has imparted to me his wisdom and knowledge of magic. In return, it seems only fair to respect his solitude regarding this one secret.
As I pass the dolls lined up like silent sentinels along the hallway, their mystery draws me closer. Each possesses an undeniable allure, woven with a sadness that resonates from their mixed-media forms. This quiet compels me to ponder their significance deeply. Each doll, a silent echo of a moment forever paused in time, seems to murmur secrets just beyond my reach.
Their quietude, mirroring Dr. Apples’ own, veils more than sorrow—it conceals truths awaiting discovery. He engages with the creatures he ensnares with a mix of curiosity and desperation, reminiscent of a child convinced that all the answers lie just beneath the surface, if only he searches diligently or mercilessly enough.
Hmmmm.
A realization dawns on me—the true key to unlocking his mother’s whereabouts and the mystery of Dr. Apples himself might not lie in the whispers of other realms or the silent testimony of the dolls. Perhaps, it’s hidden within the very essence of who he was before the world’s burdens transformed him into the annoying butthole he is today.
Beneath his crusty exterior is a rich history, events that have molded him. Maybe, by exploring his past, tracing the line from his boyhood to the present, I could find a memory or a clue that lights our path forward!
Once this headache eases, that’s exactly what I’ll do—dive into the depths of Dr. Apples’ childhood. Understanding the boy might just be the key to unraveling the enigma of the man and, hopefully, to reunite him with his mother.
As this resolution solidifies within me, the air in the library shifts subtly, introducing a chill that slices through my newfound resolve. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a tall shadow by the library door—a silhouette shrouded in darkness, outlined with a faint, starlike luminescence.
For a moment, it could have been the Grim Reaper, but Dr. Apples’ library is bound by an ancient pact that forbids such presences. It moves with eerie grace, a silent specter whose presence is as commanding as it is fleeting. The figure glides down the hallway, disappearing as if it were merely a trick of the peripherals.
What the hell was that?
I hold my breath, half-convinced the figure is a trick of the light or a figment of my stressed mind. But as it fades, the air in the library returns to tranquility.
This house, especially this library, is a bastion magically shielded against the unknown; yet it just witnessed a presence that should be impossible.
I shake my head, trying to dismiss the image, but it’s seared into my thoughts, a silent mental whisper of ‘why’ echoing within.
Dr. Apples might scoff at my experience, but this was no optical illusion. Something is amiss—a silent summons from the shadows that I can’t ignore. Sitting here, pen in hand, the weight of this new mystery presses upon me, hinting at a journey not just into Dr. Apples’ past but perhaps opening realms usually confined to legends and whispers. I guess this is a sign that our quest is observed by more than just mortal eyes.