Dr. Apples®: The Psychic Chronicles – Chapter 11

CHAPTER  11

Between courage and fear

After the initial shock of the symbol’s revelation and its urgent message, Dr. Apples and I exchange a look of understanding. The significance of this communication, sent to us by — a beacon across dimensions, a desperate cry for help—settles on us. It’s bound to a vow we swore never to break until the time was right.

Now, against the constraints of time, it appears we have no other option. This vow has enhanced our research, pushing us further than our adversaries would like. We decipher clues effortlessly. Yet, breaking this vow might expose us to great danger. I hesitate to even write about it now.

“We need to act, but carefully,” Dr. Apples insists, his tone subdued. As he stows several small trinkets into his tailored jacket, he continues, “This message... it demands immediate action.” “I understand,” I reply, striving for composure. Dr. Apples starts, “We’re heading into unknown territories, I-” “I get it. You can’t protect me from everything. I’ll manage,” I interject, cutting off his protective instinct.

Dr. Apples examines the box’s interior, his brow furrowed, his fingers delicately tracing the lines and curves of the symbol. I can almost visualize the thoughts whirling in his head through the stretching silence. Unable to endure the quiet any longer, I break it, my voice mixing urgency with nervousness, “You should go.”

He stops, locking eyes with me, his expression intense, sending a chill through me. Pulling out a pen from his pocket, Dr. Apples presses a button, transforming it into a glowing staff. Activating the staff, he rips open a portal in the fabric of the room, its emergence stirring the library. The portal, larger than him, chills the air suddenly, a hum pervading the space, with scents of wet earth and ancient stones—a fleeting connection to the portal’s destination. Swirling colors at its edge cast the room in indescribable hues, each a story from a distant realm. He steps toward it, a determined silhouette against the portal’s otherworldly light.

“Wait, what if-” My voice dwindles to a whisper, grappling with the swift unfolding events. He turns, his gaze softening briefly. “Protect yourself, Lacie.”

With that, he strides through the portal, which snaps shut with a sound like the world sealing behind him. Anxiety clenches my stomach, not just for the dangers he might encounter but also for my looming isolation. I clench my fists, trying to grasp the bravery I see in him, to stabilize myself.

I fail.

I’m protected here but still, I’m scared. My heartbeat echoes loudly in the quiet library. He crosses the threshold, the portal snapping shut behind him with a finality that resonates deep within me. I rush to close and lock the library doors, seeking refuge in its familiarity. It’s safer here.

 A cold wave of panic washes over me, leaving me breathless. “What if he doesn’t come back?” The thought, unbidden and terrifying, spirals through my mind, followed swiftly by other fears. “What if he needs help and I’m not there?” “What if this is the last time I see him?” Stop it.

My anxiety makes me feel like the room seems to spin, the familiar shelves and books blurring into a maelstrom of color and shadow. I clutch at the edge of the table to steady myself, my breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The weight of solitude presses down on me, a physical force that threatens to crush the air from my lungs.

In that moment, desperate for an anchor in the tempest of my fears, I realize my only refuge lies within a psychic trance.

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 air is filled with the unmistakable scent of chalk dust and aged wood, a fragrance that speaks of years of learning and countless stories told within these walls.

The wooden floors, worn smooth by generations of students, echo with the soft, rhythmic creaks of age and movement. Their rich, authentic aroma of natural materials aged over decades fills the room. The desks, arranged in orderly rows, as their surfaces, etched with the initials and doodles of past students, bear silent witness to the myriad lives that have intersected in this space.

Sunlight streams through tall, narrow windows, casting warm, dappled light across the room. An electric fan hums in the background, its gentle breeze a break from the room’s humidity. At the front, a large blackboard dominates one wall, its surface a patchwork of lessons from arithmetic to history, the stark white of the chalk standing out against the dark slate.  

The teacher, a figure of gentle authority, stands at the front of the class. Her hair is individually braided in a ponytail. Her attire, practical yet neat, speaks of the era’s modest fashion. Around her, children of various ages sit at their desks, their faces alight with curiosity. The girls have various afro puffs and fashionable hairstyles, wear simple dresses or skirts. Whereas the boys have large to fine tapered afros wear trousers and button-up shirts, some untucked. The room buzzes with the eagerness of youth, each child a vessel of potential, ready to absorb the day’s lessons. The scent of fresh ink from fountain pens and the faint aroma of paste used in art projects mingle in the air, create a unique fragrance of this space of learning.

As I immerse myself in this vision, standing amidst this vibrant scene of history, I find myself next to a young Dr. Apples, about twelve, by my estimation. Yes, because across the room, Eugene, impeccably dressed, shares a laugh with other classmates, stealing glances towards Dr. Apples. Dr. Apples is seated right next to the teacher’s desk, a position of quiet honor.

A young girl at the front, Isabelle, proudly displays a golden pen during show-and-tell, her voice bright and clear. “My father gave me this pen for my birthday,” she beams, holding it up for all to see.

From the back, a disruptive voice cuts through the classroom’s harmony. “That’s nothing special,” jeers Tommy, his sneer audible. Immediate disapproval follows from another student. “Shut up, Tommy!” a voice retorts. “Mrs. Calloway, Tommy’s being annoying!”

Mrs. Calloway intervenes with a firm tone. “Knock it off,” she commands. Silence falls. “Thank you, Isabelle. Please have a seat.” As Isabelle returns to her desk, Mrs. Calloway gestures to another student. “Sophia, it’s your turn.”

Sophia, with her dark curls neatly tied back, reflects a meticulousness that mirrors her studious nature, stepping forward as the next presenter. Her usually steady hands tremble slightly as she reaches into her bag, searching for her item. As she digs through her belongings, the silence in the room builds, becoming heavy with expectation, only to break when she finds an empty spot instead of the cherished relic she planned to present. Panic, swift and intense, flares across her face. Her wide eyes dart around the room, attempting to pin down the culprit by sheer force of will. She exclaims, “Who stole my locket?” while stomping her foot, her gaze accusatory, snapping to a boy in the back, “Marcus?”

The atmosphere in the room shifts, thickening with suspicion and a burgeoning sense of injustice. Marcus, caught off guard by the sudden focus, wears a shifty look. Whispers begin to circulate among the students. Accusations that started as hushed murmurs grow louder, spreading like wildfire, effectively dividing the classroom. Lines are drawn, and allegiances are formed and questioned within moments.

Marcus stands, facing the class, his posture rigid as he confronts the barrage of suspicion. His expression, a mask of defiance, hides any turmoil that might simmer beneath. “I didn’t take anything,” he declares, his voice firm, attempting to cut through the din of murmurs and whispers.

However, his protest does little to quell the growing storm. His words seem to fall on deaf ears, drowned out by the rising tide of collective anger and the noisy tumult of a classroom divided—perhaps the smirk on his face betrays more than he intends.

Amid this turmoil stands Mrs. Calloway, her expression a blend of concern and resolve. She sweeps her gaze across the classroom; each child suddenly avoids eye contact, appearing even more vulnerable. The room falls silent again, except for the soft hum of the fan. Mrs. Calloway speaks in a calm tone, “Now what we will do is get to the bottom of this—” She’s interrupted by a student’s outburst, “Mrs. Calloway, he took it. I know he did.” Marcus retorts with a frown, “Nope, I did not.” Their bickering continues as Mrs. Calloway turns to Dr. Apples.

She leans in closer to him, smiling, “I suppose it’s your turn. I can’t wait!” She then stands, asserting control over the room, “Silence! While I figure out what to do, we have a presentation. Be respectful.” The students redirect their attention to the front, attentive once more. Mrs. Calloway returns to her seat at the front, poised and ready to maintain order.

Dr. Apples stands up from his desk, his movement a clear signal that he’s ready to present. He touches the bulge in his left pocket briefly as he faces the class. The atmosphere fills with anticipation as all eyes shift towards him, awaiting his presentation.

“Uh, today,” he starts, his voice initially wavering but quickly steadying, “I want to show you something that I have been working on for about six weeks. I had to grow a lot of herbs to stuff it.”

“Stuff it?” a girl interrupts, her voice mixing curiosity with a sprinkle of disbelief.

“Yes, stuff it,” Dr. Apples affirms, finding strength in her challenge. “I know many of you have bad dreams, and I don’t have them anymore.” His declaration causes a stir of gasps and hushed whispers as intrigue sweeps through the room.

He gains composure as he speaks, “In my family, we have a tradition of creating protectors, small guardians made from the earth’s gifts. They’re carefully crafted. It took a lot of research to create. I had to read—”

“Read?” Another interruption flies from the back, laced with skepticism and an attempt at humor that falls flat.

Dr. Apples continues with a slight roll of his eyes, undeterred. “I had to read a lot of ancient text, but I place this under my pillow, and I haven’t had a nightmare since.” He then pulls from his pocket a soft cloth item, carefully unfurls it and lifts it high for the class to see. It’s an effigy doll, immediately drawing everyone’s attention.

Held aloft, the effigy doll captures the gaze of every student. Simple yet profound, it’s stitched by hand from diverse scraps of fabric, each selected for a specific purpose. The herbs lightly swell beneath its patched exterior, subtly suggesting the protective powers contained within.

This doll, modest in size, displays its history in its stitching. Its face, crafted with simple black thread, offers a serene and somewhat protective look. The fabrics, a mix of vibrant colors, wrap it in a coat that makes it appear both ordinary and mystical.

The reaction is instant—a loud collective intake of breath as if the room had been vacuumed of air. Students at the back stand on their tiptoes, trying to get a better view, their actions echoing the curiosity of wildlife peeking out from hiding. Whispers start at the front and ripple back, mingled with expressions of judgment. Eugene turns away, visibly uncomfortable.

“Ewwww,” a voice expresses, not just in disgust but also with a curiosity too piqued to turn away. “Ha. Ha. See why I don’t like him,” another voice adds, tinged with scorn.

Then, a shout pierces the murmurs, “It’s a voodoo doll! He’s coming to get us!” Dr. Apples responds quickly, “No, it isn’t! It’s an effigy doll!” His frustration mounts, and he takes a deep breath to calm himself, his eyes wide with anger and determination. “Ya know his mama’s a witch,” someone else whispers, casting a judgmental glance his way.

Caught off guard, Mrs. Calloway stands up, momentarily stunned by the varied reactions. Her face mixes surprise with deep thought, possibly reflecting her own uncertainties about the nature of an effigy doll.

As he holds the doll in his left hand, a locket, dull under the classroom’s fluorescent lights, slides across the wooden floor and comes to a stop at his feet. The students in the front row shift their gaze between the locket and Dr. Apples, suspicion etched on their faces.

“Sophia, it was him!” a voice declares, charged with certainty and accusation, cutting through the tense air. “He stole it. Look, he’s even got magic to hide it!”

“Hun? Stole what?” Dr. Apples’ gaze drops to the locket at his feet, then lifts to meet the accusing eyes. His eyebrows draw together, a crease forming between them as he shakes his head in disbelief. “No—no, I didn’t,” he stammers, his voice tinged with confusion and his hands trembling slightly. His heart pounds louder in his chest, feeling the heavy weight of the unjust accusation.

“It was him!” another accusation flies from the middle of the room, sharp and pointed, turning every head towards Dr. Apples, now the suspect by proximity. “I didn’t take this,” he asserts firmly, his voice a bastion of denial against the rush of accusations, seeking the refuge of truth in a sea of doubt.

As his frustration simmers beneath the surface, the effigy doll in his left hand begins to emit a faint, ethereal glow in his defense—a soft luminescence that seems to pulse with his growing frustration. His eyes widen with surprise as he notices the glow, and for a moment, his lips part in awe before he recomposes his expression to neutrality.

“Look! It’s glowing!” exclaims one of the girls, her finger pointing at the doll, her voice a mix of wonder and disbelief.

“No way, you’re seeing things,” retorts another, skepticism overtaking his judgment.

“Am not! Just look,” the first girl insists, her frustration coloring her words.

Their bickering drew the attention of the rest of the class, a collective pause as eyes turned to witness the faint glow from the effigy doll. Dr. Apples’ attention swivels to them. With a gentle, almost reverent movement, he cradles the doll in both hands, pulling it close to his chest.

 A kid yells, “You using magic to steal?” Dr. Apples yells louder with glossy eyes, “Wha- I would not!”

Before Dr. Apples can defend himself further, in the back of the class, Marcus stands over Tommy, his voice sharp with betrayal as he yells, “Liar!” Tommy’s chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he rises, facing Marcus with a silent challenge that hangs thick in the air. The room holds its breath, the tension almost tangible, a precursor to the inevitable clash.

“Ya best be ready to prove them words, Marcus,” Tommy seethes, the rage in his voice barely contained.

Without warning, the standoff erupts into chaos. Marcus’s first punch, more hopeful than precise, narrowly misses Tommy’s cheek, who retaliates with a swift push to Marcus’ face, causing his knuckles to crack. The scuffle escalates quickly, punches thrown with reckless abandon, each movement a blur of motion and emotion. Desks and papers become casualties of their confrontation, scattering in the wake of their turmoil.

Mrs. Calloway rushes to intervene but finds herself hindered by a ring of students, drawn to the spectacle, forming an inadvertent barrier. The clash spills over to the middle of the classroom, then to Dr. Apples’ desk. Marcus’ momentum sends him crashing into it, causing papers to fly and the desk to skid across the floor. Dr. Apples, caught off-guard, sidesteps just in time. He finds himself backed against the wall, the fight inching dangerously close.

Pressed against the cool wall, Dr. Apples’ eyes flick rapidly, tracking the brawl’s every shift and sway. His jaw clenches tightly as chaos barrels toward him, his hands splayed against the wall for stability.

Cornered, he watches—helpless.

The space between him and fists shrinks by the second, with the inevitable collision about to meet him.