Seeing Devils: An IPMA Adventure for Halloween 2013 Read online



  Seeing Devils

  An IPMA / Faerie Folk Halloween Story

  By P. Edward Auman

  Copyright 2013 P. Edward Auman

  Cover Art Image by freshidea – fotolia.com

  ISBN: 9781310603310

  Discover other titles by P. Edward Auman at www.pedwardauman.com

  Learn more about all books and stories featuring the IPMA (The Institute for the Preservation of Magical Artifacts) including Troll Brother at www.TrollBrother.com.

  Dedicated to children world-wide who love costume, surprise, play and the thrill of a scare.

  MEMORANDUM

  February, 21st

  To: Board of Directors, Institution for the Preservation of Magical Artifacts

  CC: Dr. Wilhelmina Rheinhart, President

  From: P. Edward Auman, Historian

  IPMA, Eastern U.S. Regional Offices

  Subject: Sr. Sp. Agent, Jackson Davison, IPMA Badge # 35764

  Dear Madam President and Members of the Board:

  As you are aware per the directive of the board over the past holidays I have spent the last two months investigating via clandestine methods Senior Special Agent Davison from the greater Detroit, MI area. He has continued to discredit the suggestion planted through known friends and acquaintances in his field that he visit with an IPMA recommended psychologist, and no direct line of questioning as to the change in his recent behaviors has been forth coming during my investigation.

  However, considering his claim that he can now “see the unseen” and has to date proven to be an effective aide to our investigations into the Brownie’s Stone incident and in curtailing the Yeti infestation at the North Pole, I recommend we do not suspend Agent Davison at this time. Rather, my team and I would like to grant him a special assignment on our incident investigation division and see if his new found supposed abilities, as well as his new odd behaviors, will indeed be a benefit to the IPMA. If Agent Davidson can actual see those Faerie Folk and magical influences that we cannot he would prove an invaluable asset.

  To assist you in your decision regarding my recommendation I have compiled an account, enclosed with this letter, of an event which we believe may have been the catalyst to the changes wrought in Special Agent Davison. Most of the interviews were conducted with standard IPMA procedures and interviewees have no memory, except in cases where the specific subject is resistant to magic psychological influences. While a few humans and part-human contacts were interviewed, the majority of the respondents were Faerie Folk from the Intermountain Rocky area to which he was on temporary assignment during the Mountain Troll manifestation the summer of this past year. I believe Agent Davison to have been initially compromised during the follow up investigation to which I personally assigned him during the Halloween event.

  While he and I were assisting the agents in the Western US Branch it is possible that this influence has placed him under the power of agents of magic. I do feel even in light of this that the possible intelligence and skills we might learn from him outweighs the risk of retaining him in the services of the IPMA. As you know, the security of the artifacts we have collected over the past centuries is tightly controlled. Even if Agent Davison’s activities and knowledge were being observed by Faerie Folk, it is exceedingly unlikely that they could use any of the information to make an attempt at thievery or disruption of our organization.

  Please review the following information, and any further directions or objectives you might provide us with in regards to Agent Davison’s disposition will be very much appreciated.

  Thank you.

  October 30

  Fire Access Road #213, Forest Line above Maple Springs

  Agent Davison hadn’t gotten to this point by accident. He considered the fact that he had been contacted by what seemed to be a primary source amongst the Faerie Folk for his investigation through the local sheriff’s office the direct result of the past three months of his own efforts. He knew. Somehow, he knew from the moment he arrived in the little mountainside town with the other IPMA agents to follow upon reports of a human/Troll (or possibly Goblin) interaction that this would be the location where he’d finally learn the truth of his lifelong belief.

  If not tonight, very, very soon, he promised himself, Agent Davison was going to discover whether Imps truly existed or not. Perhaps then he’d get the funding and assignment for which he’d been petitioning Director Hajan. Maybe he’d even get the last laugh on those in the Michigan branch break room that said quiet things about him behind his back, though more likely they’d just refuse to acknowledge his discovery. But it wouldn’t matter. He’d finally have his proof. He could tell his mother he’d been right, ever since they’d moved him into his older sister’s room after she moved out. He’d been right.

  “So…” The lady sheriff started, and then hesitated as the odd agent of an organization she’d never heard of before gave her an irritated look. “How’s this go down?”

  “What do you mean?” Davison grumbled, turning back to the view out his window.

  Outside was an extremely dark scrub oak and maple forest, with a few evergreen trees mixed in for good measure. The moon shone, but there were enough leaves left on the trees to shade the ground beneath and play tricks on the eyes. Most of the maples had begun dropping leaves, though most of them still held, fading from reds and oranges to brown. The oak leaves were more stubborn. They only ever seemed to turn brown and often bunches of them on a given branch would hang right on until a terrible December or January blizzard would finish the job and rip the leaves from their branch by force.

  Anything could come walking out of that forest, and none a one of the possibilities would surprise Davison. But it would surprise the young sheriff sitting next to him. Perhaps he should let her go after all.

  “I mean,” the sheriff replied, resting her arm up on the back of the bench seat segment between them in her county colored SUV, “Are we just supposed to wait? Or is there a time frame? Is there someone going to meet us here?”

  Agent Davison looked back to the sheriff again. She had a thicker dark green jacket and matching hat on to counter the biting night air of late October. “We wait.”

  The sheriff nodded her head, tweaked the radio on her hip a little as if that was part of her moment to moment duty, and then went back to popping her gum.

  “Tell you what though,” Davison started with a mellowed tone. “Maybe I should just meet them here and you can go ahead and go.”

  The offer was clearly instantly appealing to the sheriff. But it didn’t sit quite right. So her body language changed back to her designated role as she replied, “Nah. I think someone better keep an eye out on you. How will you get back?”

  “Well, actually, my fleet car is parked just in town near the Johansson neighborhood. If no one shows in an hour or two I’ll just hoof it back there and drive back to the hotel…if that’s alright with you.”

  It was apparently. As the sheriff turned the SUV around on the tiny dirt road and then headed back towards the lights in the homes at the edge closest to him, Davison actually waved. He was already feeling a little bit of loneliness. But he stifled it and resolved to get on task. It was time to hunt Imps.

  ~~~

  Agent Davison’s watch glowed fairly eerily in the night as he checked it again. The cool blue/green was bright enough it reflected on a few surfaces around him and lit up his knees and the ground below as he was sitting hunched up against a larger maple tree on a low rock. He didn’t mind though. He knew from his experience as a young boy that scary things, scary Faerie Folk, normally put
off red or amber auras. He didn’t need his training with the IPMA to know that. He’d seen it with the Imp that had haunted him repeatedly as a child. Blues and Greens were nothing to be afraid of. In fact, the techy glow reminded him more of his DVR in his apartment in Detroit rather than ghosts or other scary possibilities. Why did they always use greens to make frightening ghosts in the movies? He thought to himself. That’s really not that scary.

  But the hissing voice beside him did scare him. He sprung to his feet as it spoke and didn’t catch the first sentence.

  “Hey, Jackson,” A funny looking little Faerie said from the rock that was next to him as he sat. “Why so jumpy? You did want to meet with us, didn’t you?”

  It’s voice seemed to crack and fizzle with electricity and yet it was soothing at the same time. Beguile! Agent Davison thought quickly. He’s using Beguile on me!

  “Un-uh! None of that!” Davison blurted out as he straightened out his suit coat. “We won’t be beguiling me into anything tonight.”

  “Oh, now, Jackson. I don’t know what you’re talking about. But shall we proceed?” The reverberation and soothing was still there, but the crackle and electricity was removed. The little forest pixie was smiling generously and nodded its big bulbous head. The creature’s skin reflected what little moonlight made it past the canopy and made him glow a sickly pinkish hue. Definitely not a green or blue. Davison resolved to keep very alert around this fellow.

  “Yes. Let’s get going. It’s getting late already,” the agent replied.

  “Late?” The pixie pounced from the rock to a tree nearly twenty feet away and then tutted at the agent. “Not late. You still have a couple hours before you can meet an Imp.”

  Davison checked his watch again. Two things registered in his mind. Firstly, it was only 9:21…not nearly as late as he thought it was. Secondly, there was a tiny little red dot in the aura detector section of the IMPA standard issue watch. Yup. He’d have to be on his toes with this Pixie.

  “Come. There’s a journey ahead if you want to see them tonight,” the pixie had turned and was bobbing its head as he caught up. Then it pounced again and landed nearly thirty feet ahead on a small deer track this time. That was to be their path apparently.

  As they scrabbled along the path and began the ascent up Loafer Mountain’s face, Davison decided it would be well to engage the Pixie. He could get information, but he could also perhaps distract it from anything other than the reason he came to the forest. Pixies were notoriously flighty. The agent remembered a time when a certain, very notorious Pixie in Billy’s Hollow on the other side of the Rockies was supposedly leading him and a Western Branch junior agent to a confirmed Bigfoot sighting. The little twit had disappeared halfway up the mountain from Estes Park. Eventually the two agents turned around and went back to the little cabin-style restaurant they had met the Pixie behind and sure enough, there he was, staring in the restaurant window drooling. They’d asked where he’d gone and why he left them and the Pixie acted as though he’d forgotten all about their trip. That was the first time the IPMA confiscated a Pixie Stick. Davison smiled at the thought. It had felt good to take the one thing the little Pixie would never want to give up. And it put the Historian from the Eastern US branch on a path to obtain his own Pixie stick.

  “Hey!” Davison called. “What’s your name anyway? Are you Sherel that contacted me?” Davison asked.

  The little Pixie giggled before turning around further up the path on a low hanging oak branch to answer. “No. Sherel is the Sprite that drove you up here.”

  “The Sheriff?” Agent Davison asked incredulous. “You’re saying that lady sheriff is a Sprite?”

  “But of course!” The little Pixie giggled again.

  “But my watch didn’t even…” Davison continued as he clambered over a fallen tree trunk, this one a larger pine.

  “Oh! The precious IPMA watch!” The Pixie giggled.

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Never mind! But you didn’t actually look at the watch, did you?” the Pixie asked, still snickering and bobbing its head. His pink, fleshy little tail twitched around him too now.

  Davison had to think about it. “No…I guess I didn’t.”

  The Pixie pounced from where he was to another branch very near to where Davison stood catching his breath. “You know what night this is, don’t you? You are from Michigan, aren’t you?”

  The human stared at the Pixie with raised eyebrows. His answer was breathless. “Devil’s night?”

  “Of course, fool!” The Pixie laughed out loud. “Beelzebub.”

  “What?”

  “Beelzebub,” the Pixie grinned. “My name. You asked didn’t you?”

  “Oh. Right.” Davison huffed a few more breaths.

  “All Faerie Folk tend to… get along a little better on Devil’s Night you know,” Beelzebub grinned again. “Sherel thought it would be nice to put us together tonight.”

  “I see. Sounds like a setup, alright.”

  “No, no. No setup,” Beelzebub shook his head seriously. “But remember what night it is… You’re going to meet lots of different Faeries before you can see an Imp. This is no car-rolling human version of Devil’s night in Detroit either. The moon is full this Devil’s night.”

  Davison was instantly suspicious. The Pixie was attempting a straight face, but beneath… was something more. A very subtle smirk perhaps. And it was Devil’s Night after all. What did these Faeries of Mount Loafer have planned. If they were contemplating some sort of revenge for the human interaction with the trolls this past summer it had better not be him they were going to try to teach a lesson to. He’d have a thing or two up his sleeve for them in return.

  “What’s your real name Beelzebub?” the agent asked as they started moving again.

  “Rumplestiltskin,” the little faerie responded without turning back. “Humans are so rude. It’s not as though I questioned your name when I heard you have a last name for a first.”

  Davison didn’t need to see its face to know the creature was probably grinning ear to ear at that point.

  ~~~

  It wasn’t too long, about twenty-five minutes, before Beelzebub/Rumple had led Agent Davison into the edge of the Maple Springs Airfield, a meadow in the middle of the forest and foothills at nearly 6000 feet above sea level where a recent faerie battle involving a few humans and a human-faerie folk hybrid had occurred according to the interviews Jackson and the IPMA historian recently conducted. The full moonlight made the meadow pleasant, but the surrounding forest around its edges seemed all the more dark and sinister.

  “Well, Agent Davison,” the little pixie stood in the grasses with hands clasped together in front of him as though excited. “When you spoke on the phone with Sherel, did she fully explain the trials to getting to see an Imp for yourself?”

  “She said it was a difficult trail,” Jackson swept his left hand dismissively. Had he checked he would have noted the aura indicator shining brightly red. The flash of color before him was not lost on Rumplestiltskin who smirked a little at the thought.

  “Oh?” the pixie raised an eyebrow. “Is that all she said?”

  “Yes.”

  Nodding the pixie continued, “Well…I suppose that’s fairly accurate. But let me explain a little more clearly before you commit to tonight’s tasks.”

  “I’m strongly committed,” Jackson adjusted his suit coat sleeves pompously.

  “I’m sure you are,” the pixie grinned again. “But let’s review. You will face some challenges tonight before you can ever see an Imp.”

  Agent Davison folded his hands in front of him and adjusted his shoulders, relegating himself to the lecture he was receiving, head bowing a bit in a mild show of exasperation.

  “Some of these challenges will cause you pain,” eyes widening even more so than his grin, Rumplestiltskin continued. “Do you do well with pain, Agent Dav
ison?”

  “I have been trained,” was the only reply offered in a low tone.

  “Right,” Rumplestiltskin wrung his hands and his head drooped for a moment pondering what else to say. “Well, just so you’re aware there is some…risk…that you may not survive the trials tonight.”

  Jackson nodded. Even if his life was in danger, he considered for a moment that it was worth the risk to make the most important discovery in his IPMA career.

  “Well then,” the pixie hesitated. “Do you have any questions before we begin?”

  Davison’s lips squeezed close together and then he gruffed, “What’s your real name, Rumple?”

  Turning to address the meadow, the pixie replied, “Johnny Appleseed…But you can just call me Johnny.”

  “What’s next Johnny?” Jackson asked, hands still clasped together in front of him.

  Craning his head over his left shoulder, grinning a toothy grin, Johnny raised his arms high and pronounced, “The first trial!”

  The little pixie leaped to a nearby shrub oak branch just to the side and behind special agent Davison’s right shoulder. “Get across the field to that small gap in the oaks over there…alive.”

  Davison noted the little deer track hole in the tree line on the other side. It was a couple football fields away across the narrow side of the field since the meadow ran further to his left and right than it was wide ahead of him. He thought of arguing for a moment. Then he pondered asking what it was in the meadow that might threaten him. But he realized that the time for questions was already past. And he also realized that knowing Pixies in general, let alone one feeling the influences of a full moon devil’s night, it was likely there was nothing whatsoever to fear.

  Johnny took a short gasp as Jackson took his first three steps into the grasses and then listened. He twittered and then started springing away to the east side of the meadow from oak branch to oak branch as though he were going to take the long way around. “See you on the other side, human!”

  Jackson resolved there was nothing to be afraid of and so he tugged his suit coat down a bit and stomped off confidently into the meadow. The grasses, interspersed with occasional brush and thistle plants with thorns meant he didn’t take an entirely straight course across the meadow. He half felt and half watched for deer tracks and paths through the field, presuming that was probably the safest passage, tried and true.