Where the Wild Things Are, Maybe

It's wet, cold and dark in the vineyards on the steep hill directly behind the airbnb rental here in Turckheim, France, where I am standing at night, having a smoke. The area between the dimly lit back door and the medieval stone wall I am leaning up against under a street lamp is completely hidden in the thick blackness.

In the stillness, as the smoke from my cigarette blows away, a noise breaks the silence; at first I think it is a person, walking on the path above, overlooking the town and rows of naked grape plants. Maybe some kids, I think: there can't be that many places in this tiny town to get away for some romantic privacy. But then it is pretty cold, so maybe not. The sounds come closer: rustling, then breathing and snorting. A deer perhaps. But it sounds smaller and more grunting, almost like it's talking to itself or perhaps there are more than one?

I start imagining all kinds of things that I have read in Grimms fairy tales, monsters in the dark, strange creatures that steal children from homes and drag them off into the night. The Black Forest, after all, is only about half an hours drive away. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing up and think about the short dash to the doorway, through that patch of night, to the safety of light and warmth inside.  

Opening the door I take one last look into the blackness, listening for the creature. A cat darts across the path directly in front of me, making me jump. I turn inside and close the door behind me, and return to the world of light.