August 2026 - Adamsonmedia.com

A fright for sore eyes

The Abita Springs Boo & Breakfast had carved out quite a niche, especially as the Louisiana heat abated and the calendar moved closer to Halloween. Oh, the antebellum-style home featured all the regular B&B amenities – comfortable accommodations, hot meals and friendly hosts – but a house this close to New Orleans required something extra to keep the crowds coming.

So, the owners – Martha and Mitch Guedry – had decided to present lodgers with a fun haunted house experience. The stay included a personalized tour of the grand old abode, and each room had its own horror story to tell.

**Scott Adamson writes stuff. Follow him on Bluesky @scottadamson1960.bsky.social**

You could pick the third floor bedroom where young newlyweds met a grisly end at the hands of a voodoo priest, or the second floor guest room, the scene of an unassuming door-to-door salesman who peddled shiny silverware and used those wares to kill his customers.

And diners were told to beware the breakfast menu; a long-suffering servant once decided to serve hot grits garnished with a heaping helping of rat poison to punish the owners for their cruelty.

It was all in good, creepy fun, of course; the tales of terror were simply made up and changed from year to year. Adding to the experience was the fact that the Guedrys had installed sound and visual effects that created the spooky atmosphere, and they made sure customers knew it was all for show. The booking confirmation clearly stated that “any ghosts or goblins are courtesy of the Phantom Inc. Halloween Company of Akron, Ohio, and strictly for the entertainment of our guests.”

For this season, an animatronic zombie had been placed in a closet in the foyer, reaching through the cracked door and begging for brains in a haunting, guttural voice.

Tammy and Lex Danner were quite familiar with the Abita Springs Boo & Breakfast, and had made it part of their anniversary celebration for the past several years. In fact, they had a rolling reservation each Oct. 1, and they’d spend their night and morning there trying to anticipate jump scares while socializing with the Guedrys.

“Hey, you!” squealed Martha, racing to give Tammy and Lex a hug as the couple entered the house with suitcases in tow. “Welcome back to your home away from home.”

Mitch bounded toward the front door to greet his old friends and customers.

“You guys look great!” he said, flashing a huge smile. “You two never seem to change.”

“Ah, but the Boo & Breakfast always does,” piped in Lex. “Which is why we keep coming back. The way you and Martha keep the experience fresh never ceases to amaze us. Speaking of which … can we have the third floor bedroom? Seems like last time we had to deal with a maniacal voodoo priest.”

“Oh, not this year – the Bloodthirsty Baron has moved on,” said Martha, with a wink. “Follow us upstairs and Mitch will tell you what fresh new hell awaits.”

As the foursome moved toward the stairs the door to the closet popped open, revealing a rotted arm from a hungry zombie. Both Tammy and Lex sprang backward and then let out a hearty laugh.

“Very good, guys, very good,” Tammy said. “That’s a nice way to get the party started.”

As Tammy and Lex reached their bedroom, they were told to watch for floating demons. Seems a malevolent entity had recently occupied the third floor, and was itching to devour the souls of any and all who entered.

“OK, we’ll let you two get settled in,” Mitch said. “Dinner is 6 p.m. with cocktails to follow. If you have any new campfire stories we’d love to hear ‘em, although I think Martha has lined up some pretty tall and terrifying tales for the evening already. Anyway, great to have you back and we’ll see you in a bit!”

Tammy and Lex sat down on the edge of the bed, gave each other a knowing glance and smiled.

“I gotta say,” Tammy said, “even though the Guedrys were killed here 10 years ago, this place still has such positive energy. They’re such good caretakers … and good friends.”

Lex nodded in agreement.

“Do you think they even realize that they’re ghosts?” he asked.

“Nah,” Tammy said. “Not yet, anyway. And it’s certainly not our place to tell them. I mean, they haven’t even figured out that we’re ghosts, too.”

Mystery illness

For well over a month, I’ve been dealing with some sort of illness. And I say “some sort of illness” because no one seems to be able to figure out what it is.

Could be standard pneumonia.

Could be a form of pleurisy.

Could be bubonic plague.

Who knows?

When I initially went to the emergency room back in July, I was experiencing stabbing pains all over my upper body and my breathing was labored. If I walked from one side of the room to the other, the sounds I made were reminiscent of Joseph Merrick being chased through the streets of London in David Lynch’s The Elephant Man.

So, the medical team did CAT scans, DOG scans, X-rays, and bloodwork. After several hours, they said I had pneumonia.

Maybe.

“We’re gonna treat it like pneumonia,” said the attending physician. “At least it seems like pneumonia. So we’ll put you on antibiotics and go from there.”

Five days of antibiotics and I really couldn’t tell much difference. Some days the pain was much less than other days, but I was always extremely tired.

Thus, a follow-up visit to my doctor was in order. I described my symptoms, and then underwent an EKG. After that, it was off to the lab for more bloodwork.

Because I’m a curious little fellow, I watched carefully as my blood was drawn. The phlebotomist filed up nine vials. You read that correctly … nine.

I didn’t even realize I had that much blood in me.

Afterward, I was told I needed to schedule yet another CT scan, followed by a thoracentesis (fluid drawn from the lungs) by a pulmonologist, and finally a PET scan, which I assume is a natural progression from the CAT and DOG scans.

This is where things get interesting.

The idea is to have these procedures done quickly so a course of treatment can be determined. I’ve learned that the medical profession’s definition of quick is very, very different from mine.

I did manage to get the CT scan with contrast set up for this Wednesday, and that is to be followed by the thoracentesis.

To speed things along, a call was made to the pulmonologist.

After providing my name, age, social security number, date of birth, next of kin, family medical history, marital status, insurance information, favorite Muppet, chronological list of movies in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and whether I think there should be a remake of The Incredible Mr. Limpet, I was told that the next available appointment was in October.

“Is there anything sooner?” I asked. “I really don’t feel good and I’d like to find out what I’m dealing with. Plus, I need to know if there’s any point in ordering more running shoes … right now they’re just sitting in my cart.”

Perhaps, they said, there would be a cancellation and I could have it done in September. But that still seems like a long wait.

Surely there’s some pulmonologist walking around with a needle who has 20 minutes to spare. I mean, he or she can even do it on their lunchbreak; I don’t mind if they eat a sandwich while they stick me.

If an earlier time does come up, they’ll let me know through the “patient portal.” As you might know, this is the preferred method of modern communication. However, when I tried to log on, it kept locking me out, telling me my information was incorrect.

A call to the help line revealed that my address was listed as somewhere in Florida ( I live in Alabama.)

“You have me confused with Tommy Tuberville,” I said. “He’s the one that lives in Florida. Here’s my correct address.”

And now, I guess, we wait.

Hopefully by the time they get around to my thoracentesis, the results from my CT scan with contrast will still be valid. And once that’s done, then I can move on to the PET scan, which I assume will be scheduled sometime in December.

It’s all very frustrating. I’ve spent most of my life in very good health, and now I can’t really do much of anything until and unless they pinpoint my problem.

I’m so desperate I thought about checking the Department of Health and Human Services for advice, but realized RFK Jr. would advise me to rub a dead raccoon across my butt cheeks and lick a frog.

All that said, I’m getting impatient … impatient enough that if you’re a pulmonologist on lunchbreak next Thursday or Friday, I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a call.

I’ll be glad to meet you at Subway – and I’m buying.

Friendship trees

Ardelle Grove’s apartment at the Hoovestawood Independent Living Community was more than adequate for her needs. It had a spacious living room with a cushy recliner; a cozy bedroom with a bathroom attached; and a full kitchen with all the bells and whistles. Best of all, it featured a small balcony that overlooked the woods behind the apartment.

Whenever she was home – and she usually was – she’d make sure to be on the balcony to watch the sun set. Witnessing a sky streaked with pink, orange and yellow start to fade as the fireball extinguished itself for the day was always a joy, like watching an artist slowly cover a giant canvass.

Yet, it was the trees inside her abode that meant the most to Ardelle. There was Nellie, Sam, Sarah, Arturo, Melody and Clarence – names she had given the dwarf jades that she cared for. And her meticulous “care” for the trees was the main reason that the first Wednesday of each month, she got a visit from a social worker.

This time when she heard the knock, she was doing some careful pruning of Nellie.

“Ah, you’re here again … just like clockwork,” Ardelle said as she opened the door to Rachel, the case worker assigned to her. “Come on in.”

Rachel smiled and gave the living room a quick onceover.

“It’s always immaculate in here, Ardelle,” she said. “A place for everything and everything in its place.”

“I’ve always been tidy,” said Ardelle, returning to her pruning duties. “Even as a child, I kept my room clean and organized. Fortunately, Nellie, Sam, Sarah, Arturo, Melody and Clarence like it this way. They do better in a tidy environment.”

Rachel walked to over to one of the bonsai trees.

“Which one is this?” she asked.

“That’s Melody. I moved here seven years ago and brought her over from the old house. I guess you could say she’s my oldest friend. Never could find the right combination of sunlight there, but she’s flourishing here. She’ll be around long after I’m gone. Hopefully, all of them will.”

Rachel forced a pained smile.

Ardelle had named her trees after friends who had passed away. Some of them had been cremated, allowing her to add their remains to the soil. It was her way of watching them live on.

While Rachel was pleased Ardelle had a hobby – the trees were, in fact, all thriving – she believed anthropomorphizing them was unhealthy.

“I know you miss your friends and want to honor them, but is talking to these trees a good idea? You treat them as though they’re human.”

Ardelle shook her head.

“No, I treat them as living things, because they are living things. You plant them, water them, feed them, nurture them, and they grow. They depend on me. Just because they don’t talk to me doesn’t mean I can’t talk to them, or they can’t understand me. Would you be saying this to me if I had a cat or dog and talked to them? I bet you wouldn’t.”

“I’m just afraid you’re missing out on life, Ardelle,” Rachel said. “There are all kinds of activities here at Hoovestawood. There’s movie night, game night, trivia night, even a happy hour every Thursday … you could mix, mingle and make new friends.”

Ardelle put down her pruning shears and gave Nellie a spritz of water.

“I like people fine, I suppose,” he said. “Used to, anyway. But I like trees better. Did you know my friends here absorb carbon dioxide at night? They also filter indoor air pollutants … pretty sure no one at happy hour can do that. Plus, they don’t need much water, which is good since that dang AI plant down the road has used up almost all of it. I appreciate your concern, Rachel, but I only have a few years left. If I want to spend them with trees, is that so bad?”

Before she could answer, a rhythmic beep started echoing through the room.

“I think your smoke alarm is going off, Ardelle.”

“Nope,” she said, “that’s you … it’s your battery warning.”

Rachel grabbed the device strapped onto her left wrist, opened the battery compartment, and saw a red light flashing “23 percent.”

“I better get to a charging station before I power down,” she said, sheepishly. “But think about what I said … there’s more to life than trees. We’ll talk about this again next month.”

Rachel quickly left the apartment and closed the door behind her.

Ardelle chuckled.

“You hear that, friends – there’s more to life than trees. How would she even know?”