The Hollow Glade Pact

At sixteen, I thought I had mastered the art of leaving my body. I had read every book on astral projection in the county library, and I could slip out of my flesh with the ease of a snake shedding its skin. My obsession was demons—specifically, the lesser-known marquis of the Ars Goetia. I had a ritual planned for that night, a summoning in the astral plane, where I hoped to question a demon about the nature of the Abyss.

That evening, I lay on my bed in my cramped attic room, the scent of old wood and dust surrounding me. I focused on the familiar vibration, the humming that started at the base of my spine and spread like a current. My consciousness flickered, then lifted. I hovered above my body, looking down at my slack face, then I turned to the astral landscape that awaited me. Usually, I saw the world as a faint overlay of my physical room, but this time, everything was dark. A void swallowed me, and I felt a sharp pull, as if a hook had caught my astral spine and yanked me sideways.

When my sight returned, I was standing in what seemed like a vast, moonlit meadow. The grass reached my waist and swayed without wind. Trees with silver bark and leaves of copper surrounded the clearing, their branches interlacing like webbed fingers. The sky was a deep violet, filled with stars that pulsed in rhythm, as if they were breathing. I knew immediately I was not in my familiar astral plane. My maps of the spirit world were useless here.

A rustling came from the treeline, and a figure stepped out. He was tall, with hair the color of frosted glass and eyes like the green of sunlit leaves. He wore garments that seemed woven from the shadows themselves, and his face was unnervingly handsome, with an otherworldly symmetry. He spoke, and his voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, a melodic hum that resonated in my bones. ‘You are far from your path, little dreamer. This is not a place for trespassers.’ His mental voice was clearer, echoing in my mind with a cadence that felt ancient.

I tried to speak, but my words tangled. The man—if he could be called that—smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He circled me, and the grass parted as if bowing to him. ‘You have entered the realm of the Sidhe, and though you are a mere breath in the fabric of here, you are still a disturbance. Yet, you are welcome to stay if you prove yourself respectful. No tricks, no theft, no bargains without consent.’ His mind-voice sounded amused, but there was a warning underneath.

I nodded, understanding that I was at his mercy. He extended a hand, and when I hesitated, he laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a storm. ‘Come, I will show you our court, and perhaps you will learn why you were brought here.’ I followed him through the trees, my astral senses tingling with every step. The woods were alive with whispers—not words, but the feeling of many gazes upon me. We emerged into a clearing where a stone table stood, surrounded by beings of shifting form, some beautiful, some grotesque, all watching me with curiosity.

One of them, a woman with skin like bark and hair of moss, pointed at me and spoke in a language that sounded like water over stones. My guide translated: ‘She asks why you are here, and why your spirit smells of smoke and iron.’ I frowned, but my guide continued, ‘We have not had a mortal walk these paths since the time of the Goat King. You must be special.’ I felt a chill, though my astral body had no temperature. I asked, ‘Why did you bring me here?’ The guide’s smile widened, and he gestured to the table. ‘We did not bring you. You called to us, with your midnight rituals and your desperate questions. The Veil between worlds is thin here, and your intention reached us. We are not demons, but we are not angels either. We are the hidden folk, and we are curious.’

He motioned for me to sit at the table. There was a goblet filled with a liquid that shimmered like liquid starlight. ‘Drink,’ he said, ‘and we will talk.’ I hesitated, remembering the warnings in my books about faerie food. But I was a seeker of knowledge, and I had come to ask questions. I accepted the goblet and took a sip. It tasted of honey and twilight, and a warmth spread through my astral form, making me feel more solid than ever. The beings around me murmured approvingly.

We talked for what felt like hours. I asked them about the nature of souls, the origin of demons, the layers of reality. They answered in riddles, their mental voices weaving truths and untruths so closely that I could not tell which was which. My guide, whose name I learned was Aerion, told me that I could stay until sunrise, but only if I did not break their laws. ‘No lies, no taking anything without permission, and no revealing our secrets to the unworthy,’ he said. I agreed, my heart racing with the thrill of the forbidden.

As the violet sky began to lighten toward a golden dawn, Aerion led me back to the edge of the meadow where I had first arrived. ‘You must go now, little dreamer. But know that you are always welcome here, as long as you respect the old ways. And remember: we have tasted your curiosity, and we will remember you.’ He touched my forehead, and I felt a jolt, as if something had been implanted in my mind—a seed of the Sidhe, perhaps. Then the world spun, and I woke up in my attic room, gasping for air.

For days afterward, I felt a strange longing, a pull toward that silver meadow. I tried to astral project again, but I could never return. The way was closed to me. Yet sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see Aerion’s face, and I hear his words: ‘We will remember you.’ And I wonder if I am still there, in a way, or if I have brought something back with me. The mark on my forehead is faint, but it is there, a tiny spiral that no one else can see. I fear that I have made a bargain I did not fully understand, and that the Sidhe will not let me go so easily. The darkness in my attic room no longer feels like my own; it feels like a doorway, waiting for me to step through again.