You don’t open the door during the Wild Hunt. That’s the only rule there is and it’s the only rule you need. If you open the door, they come in. If you open the door, you come out, and you’re never seen again.
They come without warning. The only thing that heralds their arrival is their laughter, a discordant chorus of whooping coupled with the frantic beating of faerie horse hooves and howling of jet-black hounds as they ride.
I slam the door behind me, sliding- shaking- to the ground. My heart hammers against my chest, beating in my ears and pulsing at the tips of my fingers. I take a breath and hold it, gritting my teeth until my jaw aches and the world spins.
The hooves get louder outside, clattering against the asphalt as the beasts gallop down the main road- my road. The raucous cheering of the advancing Wild Hunt reverberates against the wood behind me, bouncing through the streets like a ricocheting bullet, and just as deadly. We’re the only town nearby, I think. They’ll be looking for volunteers.
Here’s the thing about the fae, the most important thing: they cannot lie. They can twist their words and they can leave things out but they cannot tell you anything outright false. They can change their shape and size and voice and can promise you a million different things so long as it is feasible and then you open the door and you’re gone.
The only thing that protects me from them is this door, and unless I am quiet, they will hear. Unless I am quiet, they will come.
Those still outside shriek their last protests, gathered up within moments by the horsebound faerie knights and assimilated into the otherworldly procession. I’ve seen it once, just once, last year when they rode by my town- what happens to those gathered up. I spied it from the window, caught sight of the changes beneath the beams of the streetlights.
If they are human when they grab your arm, you aren’t once you’re pulled onto the horse. Your ears stretch long and pointed, your eyes turn solid black, and your teeth grow sharp and needly. There’s something about your eyes once they catch you, once they touch you. Something they put in you- or something you get just being in their presence. It’s something wild, something forever feral, and it glimmers in your gaze like a fire on the verge of an inferno.
The last time they rode through was a year ago. My girlfriend, Janet, was at a party across the street. In the last Hunt, the faeries took her. I’d spent the entire night just texting her as she hid, texting her so I could have something to focus on other than the screams. Texted her so there was something else I could do besides wait for the inevitable.
Her last text read I hear footsteps.
It didn’t come for me like it did for her. Sometimes I wonder if it should have. Sometimes I wish it did. The house she was in was right across the street- not a hundred feet away from my own. Why didn’t they come for my house instead? What was so important about her that she took priority over me? Or was she just unlucky?
I don’t want to keep thinking about it.
The horses whinny outside, clacking hoofbeats stalling on the pavement. The armor of the faerie hunters shake and jingle as they dismount their steeds. I do not dare move from my spot to see where they may be going. All I can do is hope they aren’t coming for me.
The screams start again, intermingled with the barking of dogs and the splintering of wood. The sound of wood- of doors- finally thaw me. I crawl on my hands and knees away from the entryway, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, before turning around to look.
The door should keep me safe. Since the last hunt, I paid good money to reinforce it. If all goes according to plan, the iron will stop the faeries from being able to make contact with it. Apparently, it wards them off, or at least stops them in their tracks. I think it has to do with being man-made. I can’t be too sure.
Regardless, I pray it’s enough.
I sit there, waiting, listening. Slamming doors and screaming people, kicking and flailing and then giving in. The Wild Hunt is getting louder. They’re getting bigger, stronger. They march along the streets, riding boots thudding against the cement in their nonstop search.
I hear footsteps.
“Vanessa.”
My head snaps up and I see it. There, in the window set into the door, stands a figure. The frosted glass of the windowpane obscures most of his appearance, but I can see the points of his ears and that’s all I need to see to not reply.
“Vanessa,” the faerie on the other side of the door repeats.
I do not respond. I can’t afford to. The door is reinforced. The door is enough. It will speak for me.
“Vanessa, there is someone here for you.”
I bite my lip, trying to process how what he said could be a lie. He could be the one that’s here for me. I nod. Yes, that must be it. My fingers curl into tight fists as I keep myself seated on the floor. I’m not falling for it.
“Vanessa, I think you should come out,” he says, and I stifle a scoff.
Of course you do, I think. You all do. That’s what you’re here for.
“Vanessa, please,” a voice calls, and I pause.
It’s not the male faerie’s voice. It’s not a man at all. The voice belongs to a woman, a woman I can remember watering flowers and walking our dog and giving me chocolates when I was recovering from the flu. I sit there, frozen in shock, the color drained from my already sheet-white face. I open my mouth, lips trembling as I speak up.
“Juh-” I choke out, “Janet?”
“Yes!” she exclaims, and I hear the grin in her voice.
I scramble to my feet in surprise, legs numb and jelly-like as they wobble beneath me. No, it’s not possible. The house had been ransacked. If she’d survived, she would have texted me, and she would have come back home and she wouldn’t be standing outside my door next to a faerie. No, I think, shaking my head and retreating a step. This is a faerie trying to play a trick on me.
But faeries can’t lie.
“Janet?” I call again. “Is that really you?”
“It’s really me,” she says, laughing. “It’s me. Janet. I’m Janet from 207 Silver Lane. And you’re Vanessa and you’re my girlfriend.”
My jaw falls open. It’s really her. I move to the door, fingers uncurling to reach out for the doorknob. “Janet, what are you doing out there? What’s going on here? They’re still out there and they’re going to catch you!”
“I’m not in any danger, Vanessa. They aren’t hostile toward me. So, if you stick with me, you’ll be safe!”
You’ll be safe.
My hands wrap around the doorknob and I push it open.
Janet’s there, just as she promised, her eyes a gleaming orange and her teeth sharp and needly. She laughs beside her hulking faerie companion, her kinsman, and I feel his and her arms wrap around my body, a warm embrace, a fire in the death-cold night on the verge of an inferno.
I am home.
I ride.
Ariana Ferrante is an #actuallyautistic college student, playwright, and speculative fiction author. Her main interests include reading and writing fantasy and horror of all kinds, featuring heroes big and small getting into all sorts of trouble. She has been published by Eerie River Publishing and Soteira Press, among others. On the playwriting side, her works have been featured in the Kennedy Center American College Theater Festival, and nominated for national awards. She currently lives in Florida, but travels often, both for college and leisure. You may find her on Twitter at @ariana_ferrante, and on Instagram at @arianaferrantebooks.