I've been searching the web for a quiet place to escape to in December for a few consecutive days of work on my novel. You'd think I found the perfect place: I was offered a cabin, tucked away in dunes, on an island all the way in the North of Holland, which you can only reach by ferry. There aren't even any cars on that island. It's an incredibly romantic prospect. But truth be said I can't stop thinking of storms and animals with claws and pitch black darkness by five and spirits of howling widows that show up as floating lights and doors that rattle in the wind and escaped pyschopaths.
I'll fly on my own to the most dangerous city in the world without so much as even batting an eye-lid. But to go to a hidden cabin on a dune scares the hell out of me.