The Sleepy Hollow Inn, Part III

The Sleepy Hollow Inn
By M. Davenport



There are some things I do in my day-to-day living that would amuse or horrify the die hard Dracula worshippers. I enjoy "New Age" music a great deal, for example. It is the modern equivalent of what is known now as classical music, although classicists shudder at such a thought. (I am sure it is there somewhere inside and they are fighting it tooth and nail to keep from admitting it.) Kitaro is my favorite modern composer. For some vampire enthusiasts they create the image of a vampire rising at sunset with Bach playing in the background before they go out into the night accompanied by techno rhythms and blood. These people frighten me.

I enjoy movies and television as well as true theater. Again, there are some who argue that if vampires really did exist they would prefer their known form of entertainment, i.e. plays and classical music. It is not the vampire who is stuck in time (although there are a few who change slowly), but the people who want to keep a certain time alive in their imaginations I believe.

My views upon the Internet are much the same as anyone else's: I adore it! There is so much information there at your fingertips! And to be able to communicate with someone in Japan in real time and not have to wait months for a written reply by ship simply boggles my mind a little, even now. It is a wonderful, mind-expanding tool. As with everything else, it can be abused and I have known several, vampire and human alike, who have become addicted to it. This addiction saddens me whereas many other addictions do not because this addiction lets people avoid living life instead of attempting it. They hide behind a computer screen and have their relationships never knowing truly if the other person is indeed what they say they are, or even who. It is a cocoon they create for themselves and dare not let themselves change into something, someone grander.

All of this ran through my head as I did a quick search of my guest's writing endeavors.

Veronica James was not in the running for a Pulitzer, nor was she considered an up-and-coming Stephen King. She was, however, considered to be quite prolific and had managed a novel each year for the past five years and had even won several prestigious writing awards, as well as a Hugo for her latest science fiction piece. Veronica James had been compared to Isaac Asimov and Gene Roddenberry for the modern times. Her latest work was a book of poetry which was really quite good from what I read in excerpt. I love poetry but find a lot of modern poetry to be lacking in content and filled with foul language which is a feeble attempt to shock you into not noticing there isn't an image present throughout. This was different and I ordered myself a copy through Amazon.

So armed with this information, I went in search of Mrs. Veronica James in order to greet her properly. She would receive the celebrity treatment of one Jonas nickels. That being me.

Veronica James was outside in the nippy September air. She had on dark rimmed glasses and held herself quite regal and poised on the porch swing. The notebook I had seen earlier was lying in her lap while she tapped the end of her pen on her lower lip. Her eyes were looking far away. Was she seeing a new world or just re-creating this one? How often, I wondered, did she re-create Edward James?

I started to go back inside when she heaved such a heavy sigh my heart, if I had one, went out to her. It was filled with thousands of words that had no meaning, or perhaps too much.

"Am I disturbing your ruminations?" I inquired with a slight bow. Women still like that despite Women's Liberation.

"No, please, come and sit by me." Veronica James' voice was soft and accented slightly with an almost Southern hue.

I took my place beside her on the freshly painted porch swing. It creaked slightly with my added weight as porch swings often do in complaint. This was a sound that never changed through the centuries. As long as there were porch swings, there would be that sound, and, for a brief moment, I was tempted to recall my own childhood and the long flowing skirts of my mother. It was difficult not to wander into my own past, but I managed and wa glad. Some memories should be relished like good expensive chocolate or a lover's impassioned kisses.

"Are you hard at work on a new adventure?"

"No," she said, "just collecting notes for a possible one." I smiled and she smiled back. She was really quite a beautiful creature with long flowing hair and gentle eyes that always held a hint of sadness in them. How had Edward James landed her? This was one of Life's great mysteries I was sure and hoped my curiosity would not ask the one question of how they had met and gotten together. Luckily I was saved by a question she asked me.

"Tell me, Mr. nickels, do you believe in God and the Devil?" Mrs. Veronica James turned and faced me then. It was plain upon looking in her eyes that this wasn't a writer's ploy, but a genuine question, and one she hoped I would answer. But, what I wanted to know was, why?

"Yes, yes I do." How could I not being what I am! "I don't believe the Devil is in red pajamas with horns and a tail, but I am pretty sure he exists."

"And God?"

"Again, I believe He exists. And I don't think He is an old god out of touch with time and humanity. He is waiting, I think, giving people, as a whole, time to grow up. But people are regressing instead of moving forward spiritually," I said.

"So, you believe miracles still happen?" I nodded. "I do too," she said, and relaxed visibly.