Scott Adamson, Author at Adamsonmedia.com

House of Harker

Wicked Halloween Emporium had been bustling ever since it opened to door-busting crowds in mid-August. What once was a spacious (and empty) electronics retail outlet was now a temporary depot of home-friendly horrors – each with a price tag.

For those looking to add just a bit of spooky garnish to their home décor there were laughing yellow jack-o-lanterns and screaming, bloody skulls. Buy both, and a banshee door decoration is thrown it free of charge.

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

More expensive pieces included everything from six-foot tall, glow-in-the-dark skeletons that danced at the touch of a button to animatronic witches who cackled while hovering over a cauldron full of bubbling green brew.

Jonathan Harker would’ve bought everything in sight if he could have. Over the years he had accumulated a museum’s worth of items from Wicked Halloween Emporium, and this year would be no different. His “House of Harker Halloween Hullabaloo” had become a major event for his friends and neighbors, and every holiday season the celebration became more elaborate.

He headed to the register with a buggy full of boo-inspired booty and smiled as a sales associate rang up the items. Wearing a name tag that read “Garth,” the employee appeared to be in his early 20s and had long, jet-black hair. Garth was adorned in dark attire and even wore orange sunglasses to complete the Halloween-inspired look.

“By the way, I want to rent a couple of items as well,” Harker explained. “I’ll need the karaoke machine no later than the morning of October 20, which is the day of a party I’m hosting, and a life-size replica coffin for display. That one I’d like as soon as you can get it to me.”

Harker handed Garth his credit card.

“Oh, wow. You have the same name as the dude in Dracula. How cool.”

Harker shrugged.

“It is now, but that wasn’t always the case,” he said. “I used to get teased about it a lot. Seems like anytime I told someone my name they had something to say about it – usually some smartass comment. But you know what? I finally learned to embrace it. I mean, there are a lot worse things in life than being named after a protagonist in a gothic horror novel … and it really works to my advantage this time of year.”

Garth bagged up Harker’s haul and handed him a receipt.

“By the way,” he said, “I also do deliveries after hours. We have a warehouse across town and I can pick up the coffin tonight if you want me to. We close at 9 and I could probably get it to you by 11 or so. Of course if that’s too late I understand – we can do it the next day.

“Nah, tonight would be great,” Harker said. “Plus, I’ve already got a lot of my decorations up … you can get a sneak peek.”

“Awesome!” Garth exclaimed. “As soon as I clock out I’ll jump on it. Thanks for your business Mr. Harker, and I’ll see you later this evening.”

Harker was waiting on his porch when the van from Wicked Halloween Emporium arrived at 10:50 p.m., and he waved as Garth – sans sunglasses this time – got out and moved toward the back.

“Is it just you making the delivery?” Harker asked.

“Yessir. There’s usually another guy that comes with me, but he called in sick.”

Garth opened the two doors in back of the vehicle and started to pull on the coffin.

“Here,” Harker said. “Let me give you a hand. I’ve been up these steps a million times so let me grab one end and backpedal and you can push from the front.”

Since the casket wasn’t real it wasn’t particularly heavy, but it still required two people to move it. So the pair got into position and carefully began taking it up the steps and toward Harker’s front door.

The coffin was halfway in when Garth lowered his end.

“You getting tired Garth … you need a break?”

“It’s not that,” Garth said – his eyes glowing a deep red. “I was just hoping you would invite me in.”

Harker had seen the hypnotic gaze many times before. And he pretended to be seduced by it – just as his family had done for centuries. The Harkers reveled in giving vampires a false sense of security before bringing them to their final resting place.

“Of course,” Harker said, staring at Garth while slowly reaching for his silver-bladed kukri knife. “Please come in …”

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.