Dr. Apples®: The Psychic Chronicles – Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

The weight of whispers

The days slip away here in the library. I’ve avoided attempting another psychic vision since the startling encounter with that symbol—a symbol that remains etched in my mind, elusive and mocking my ability to use google efficiently. It wasn’t the symbol that frightened me so much as it was the high-pitch noise accompanied with the vibration that was out of my control. I felt like I couldn’t get out of the psychic trance! I’ve never been unable to control my journeys. Never. In a moment of hope, I presented my sketch of the symbol to Dr. Apples, only for him to scrutinize it and blab, “Looks like a toddler’s attempt at hieroglyphics,” before nonchalantly suggesting we order Thai food. But then, with a softer tone, he added, “I’ll try hypnosis later; maybe it’ll jog something loose about that day.”

 While reorganizing the herbs in the laboratory one afternoon, I suggested Dr. Apples take a moment to reflect on my earlier psychic vision, where he had been engrossed in a mysterious book. Handing him the grimoire, I watched his reaction closely as he read the passage detailing the episode. His fingers traced the words slowly, pausing at the mentions of his mother. For a fleeting moment, his stoic facade softened, his eyes shimmering with the hint of tears as he swiftly blinked away. “Not sure, really. Could’ve been excited about a new gumbo recipe,” he quipped, veiling his sudden vulnerability with a quick jest. He shut the grimoire with a last remark about my “chicken scratch” handwriting, then turned back to his ongoing experiments with the creatures in jars—a typical deflection.

Despite the lingering unease, I’m determined to venture into psychic visioning once more. The memory of that sound still unnerves me; I’m not ready to confront it again. Yet, it’s time to muster my courage — time to put on my big girl panties -pants? Boots? Shoes? I forget the term.

 I’ve decided to revisit a simpler time in Dr. Apples’ past, a period untouched by the complexities that now entangle us. My motivation transcends mere curiosity; it’s a quest for reassurance, a need to remember that our world isn’t entirely cloaked in mystery and peril. After this nostalgic detour through memory, I plan to either brave the unsettling vision again or perhaps venture into even darker corridors of his history.

 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.

 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 Ms. BaRule’s front porch where the air around me sweats as the heat pounds against the ground. The neighborhood of tall, beautiful shotgun style houses adds to the moment of children playing outside.

 Sitting on the sun-warmed steps of his front porch, Dr. Apples hugs his knees to his chest, occasionally shaking a small glass vial and raising it towards the sun as if expecting some miraculous transformation. His gaze intermittently shifts to the children frolicking nearby. Despite his youthful appearance, suggesting an age no older than nine or ten, his eyes reveal a depth that belies his years. His attire—a combination of plaid shorts and a pristine yellow collared shirt, crowned with long polka dot socks—lends him a regal, yet playful air. He fiddles with the vial, now randomly changing colors, its secrets known only to him.

The air fills with the rhythmic chants of “Miss Mary Mack,” as a trio of girls clap in syncopation, their laughter blending beautifully with the melody. A few steps away, a group of boys dart back and forth, absorbed in a vigorous game of tag, their shouts and the patter of their steps forming a lively cacophony on the pavement.

Two boys, panting from their exertions, stray onto Ms. BaRule’s grass, drawing Dr. Apples’ attention. They pause, eyeing his now pink-colored vial with curiosity. A boy with a country twang calls out, “Hey, wanna race us?” wiping sweat from his forehead onto his afro. Dr. Apples looks up, his polite smile failing to mask his detachment, “No, thank you,” he responds, quickly averting his gaze back to his mysterious vial, undisturbed by their lingering musky scent.

The boys, briefly disappointed, quickly resume their game; a swift tap and a shout of “Tag! Ha!” sends them sprinting away, laughter trailing behind them.

As their voices fade, a new figure approaches—a tall boy, distinguished by his confident stride and eye-catching attire. His suspenders, reminiscent yet distinct from Dr. Apples’ own style, spark a fleeting jolt of envy in Dr. Apples, though his face betrays only intrigue. His presence slices through the afternoon’s monotony with a drawl that’s unmistakably southern and warmly genuine, “Hey, those are some swell socks. Where’d you find them?” he asks, his interest clear as he gestures towards his own colorful suspenders.

Dr. Apples’ demeanor shifts, a genuine smile breaking through his usual reserve. Placing the vial discreetly behind his back, he replies with a touch of pride, “I made them. It’s not hard once you get the hang of it.”

The boy’s expression shifts from curiosity to admiration. “You made them? That’s awesome! You’ve got to show me how. Oh, I’m Eugene!” His enthusiasm sparks a rare moment of connection between the two.

Dr. Apples’ interest is now fully engaged, the mundane momentarily transcended by a shared enthusiasm for craft, creativity and a budding friendship.

 Daw. This is cute, but I’m getting bored. I should move on.

 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, — just an inch to signify the subtle leap through time, 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 minor act, yet it holds the power to part the veils between moments, guiding me through the fabric of Dr. Apples’ past with precision.

The creek, a serene ribbon of water that goes through the lush woods near Dr. Apples’ home, whispers secrets as it flows. Surrounded by the towering forms of weathered shotgun houses, its banks, overgrown with verdant grass and dotted with wildflowers, create a natural sanctuary where childhood memories and dreams take shape. The water shimmers under the Louisiana sun, mirrors the ever-changing skies and the life that thrives in its depths. This creek, with its gentle flow and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze, has a small area, a puddle, where a chorus of cicadas, mosquitoes and tension saturates.

Eugene, always meticulous in his appearance, walks with purpose toward the water’s edge, holding a smooth stone. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he sends the stone skipping across the creek, creating a series of expanding ripples. Following at a measured pace, Dr. Apples takes in the scene with a reflective air, his expression somber, his mouth set in a firm line, his eyes wide with a storm of unspoken thoughts.

 As he stands by the creek, Eugene’s eyes momentarily dart to the side, avoiding Dr. Apples’ gaze. His words falter slightly as he blurts, “Look, I know I’ve been a bit off lately... more than usual, I guess,” he confesses, his gaze lingering on the water’s gentle flow. His fingers adjust the hem of his shirt.

 Dr. Apples, feeling a shift in the air, instinctively crosses his arms, his smile tinged with sarcasm. “I’m used to odd,” he replies, his tone growing serious, “I know what the kids say about my mom,” the underlying anxiety in his voice barely concealed, “we don’t have to be friends any longer.”

Eugene hesitates, his hand hovering over his pocket in a series of uncertain gestures. His features soften as he earnestly seeks to clear the air. “No! Look, yes, I’ve heard the stories about your mom. But I think it’s fine. Odd is good,” he insists, giving a nearby tree a playful slap with his open palm as if to punctuate his point. “I want us to be friends. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

Dr. Apples scans the secluded woods around them, a perfect setting to either forge or dissolve a friendship. He responds noncommittally, “Mmm hmm,” taking a half-step back, maintaining his guarded stance.

Eugene laughs softly, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s... I’ve been thinking a lot about faith, friends, and... well, new perspectives. It’s like we’re from different worlds, but I think that’s what makes this—us being friends—interesting?” His tone gave a hopeful curiosity. His words copied a narrow-minded adult.

Dr. Apples’ jaw tightens, his eyes narrows not in anger but in a growing apprehension of what’s coming. The usually vibrant connection between them dims, clouded by the looming unknown. Eugene continues, “I mean the Bible teaches us a lot like your Mom’s-”

“It doesn’t. Your Bible and my Mother are nothing alike,” Dr. Apples cuts in sharply, his tone firm, his gaze piercing. In the distance, a startled bird flaps its wings in a hasty retreat.

 Eugene’s demeanor shifts. A hesitance that shadows his features replaces his earlier openness. “Oh. Okay. Well, that’s... good to know,” his voice is deeper than usual. He cracks his knuckles,  then hits the tree again. “So, is it true?”

Annoyed, Dr. Apples exhales heavily. “Is what true? Why am I even here, friend?” His hand instinctively clenches into a fist, a habitual sign of his growing frustration.

Eugene’s eyes widen, his question tumbles out, “Is it true that your mom does voodoo? Does she put magic spells on people?”

 “You needed to ask me this in the woods?” Dr. Apples’ temper was showing. His voice edges with irritation, and his stance is rigid, betraying his attempt to maintain composure.

“I mean, I didn’t want you to feel bad about telling me,” Eugene’s voice trails off, his rationale sounding weak even to his own ears.

“Maybe you don’t want the other kids seeing me with you,” Dr. Apples retorts sharply, his glare intensifying.

Eugene steps closer in a quick motion, his eyebrows raised in a gesture of innocence and concern, trying to bridge the growing distance between them. “Wha- No! That’s not it. See, I just want to go back and tell em, that’s all!” His smile strains, echoing the nervous energy of a salesman, too eager to make a sale.

 Dr. Apples takes another instinctive step back from Eugene’s advance. His eyebrows draw together, a shadow of doubt crossing his features., “Tell them what? “

Eugene pauses, his hand absentmindedly touching his pocket, betraying his internal conflict. “You know? The truth.”

 Dr. Apples’ voice rises, tinged with frustration, “Truth? What are you talking about?” Dr. Apples raises his voice. His gaze sharpens, focused intently on Eugene, seeking truth in his response.

 Eugene’s eyes dart around, a guilty look flickering across his face as he again touches his pocket, showing his deepening discomfort. “I just…. need to know.” Eugene touches his pocket.

Dr. Apples’ posture straightens, his voice firm with conviction, “I’m not sure what you’ve been told, but my mother doesn’t practice voodoo.”

Eugene attempts to interject, “But the potions? The magic? James said that—”

Dr. Apples interrupts, his hands balling into fists, his breathing quickening as he speaks with intensity, “James? Magic? You talk to someone else about me?” He pauses, visibly upset, “That ‘magic’ you speak of is Hoodoo. It’s part of our heritage. Voodoo and Hoodoo are completely different! Why don’t you know this? It’s your culture too. It’s all around you!” His finger emphatically points at Eugene, each word underlined with vigor.

Eugene steps back, the confidence draining from his expression as he grasps the weight of his mistake. His hand still hovers over his pocket. Dr. Apples demands, “And what’s in your pocket?”

 Eugene fidgets more noticeably now, his hand hovering over his pocket. Finally, with a hesitance, he reaches inside. The sunlight filters through the leaves, casts both of them in a stark light, with a tension that fills the air.

 Dr. Apples watches, a sense of foreboding creeping up his spine. Eugene’s actions, once familiar and comforting, now seem laden with an unspoken threat. The moment stretches out, filled with the hum of cicadas and the distant laughter of children, as Eugene’s hand slowly reveals what he’s been hiding.

Could the friend he thought he knew harbor intentions dark enough to betray their bond?