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| The Van Meter Visitor |
It usually happens fast.
A
shape crossing a road. Something moving where nothing should be. A second too
long to be a mistake.
Then
it’s gone.
Most
people don’t report it. They tell a friend. Maybe a neighbor. Then they stop
talking about it.
But
the story doesn’t go away.
This
one didn’t happen once. It happened over a few nights. That’s what makes it
hard to shake.
Late
September into early October 1903. Van Meter.
The
first guy to see it—Griffith—steps outside late at night and spots something
sitting on top of a building. Not hiding. Just… there. Big. Wrong shape.
He
fires at it. Swears he hits it.
Nothing.
The
next night, more people see it. Then more. A doctor. A bank cashier. People
you’d expect to keep their mouths shut if they thought they sounded crazy.
The
same description keeps coming back. Enormous body. Wings tucked in. And that
light.
Not
reflected light. Not eyes. A glowing horn sticking out of its head like a
lantern.
By
the third or fourth night, the town’s had enough. A group of men grab rifles
and go after it. They chase it out of town to an old coal mine.
They
say it went inside.
Some
of them claimed they saw more than one in there. Movement. Noise.
That’s
where it ends.
Nobody
goes in.
The
next morning, they check again. Nothing. No bodies. No tracks that make sense.
The
story hits the Des Moines papers, gets talked about for a while… then fades.
But
it never really died.
Because
it wasn’t just one person. And it wasn’t just one night.
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| Lake Okoboji Serpent |
Before
the resorts. Before the jet skis. Back when the lakes were quieter.
1880s,
1890s—people around Okoboji and Spirit Lake start talking.
At
first, it’s fishermen. Then boaters. And then people on the shore.
Something
moving under the water. Not splashing. Not thrashing. Just sliding along under
the surface.
Long.
Way longer than anything that should be in there. Twenty feet, maybe more.
Smooth back. No fins cutting the water.
In
1883, a group out in a rowboat said it followed them. Stayed just below them.
Close enough, they could track it by the way the water lifted.
It
didn’t bump the boat. Didn’t break the surface.
Just
followed.
Another
report a few years later—something comes up near shore. Close enough that
people could see the water swell and roll like something big turned just
underneath.
Papers
mentioned it now and then. Not headlines. Just odd little stories buried in the
back.
People
tried to explain it. Big fish. Floating logs. Tricks of the light.
But
the people who saw it didn’t talk like they were guessing. They talked like
they knew exactly what they saw—and didn’t have a name for it.
And
once you hear those stories, you watch the water a little closer.
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| Bigfoot following a mountain stream |
People
laugh at this one. Until they start digging.
Most
of it sticks to the rivers. Mississippi. Des Moines. Thick patches of woods
where the farmland breaks up.
1974,
near Oskaloosa—a farmer sees something cross his field at dusk. Not crawling.
Walking upright. Big. Covered in dark hair.
He
watches it clear a fence without slowing down.
He
doesn’t call the paper. Doesn’t call the police. Just tells a couple people.
Word
spreads anyway.
1999,
Yellow River State Forest—hikers hear something moving alongside them in the
trees. Heavy steps. Keeping pace. Not crashing through brush like a deer. More
controlled than that.
They
stop. It stops.
They
move. It moves.
That
goes on for almost a mile.
No
one sees it clearly. But they leave faster than they came in.
That’s
how most of these go. No big reveal. No clean ending. Just a moment where
something doesn’t fit—and you know it.
This
one came and went quickly.
Summer
of 1978. Lockridge.
Teenagers
driving at night see something in the headlights. Low to the ground, but heavy.
Built wrong. Not a dog. Not a calf.
Eyes
light up red when the beams hit it.
They
don’t stick around.
Then
a couple more people see it. Same area. Same week.
A
couple driving home say it crossed the road right in front of them. Slow enough
that they got a good look. Big shoulders. Low body. Eyes catching the light in
a way that didn’t feel right.
Another
report puts it near a farm—moving along a fence line, then slipping down into a
ditch like it knew exactly where it was going.
It
didn’t act lost. It acted like it belonged there.
The
local paper mentions it. People start driving around at night, hoping to catch
a glimpse.
Then
nothing.
Just
a few weeks where something was out there—and then it wasn’t.
Maybe
it was overactive imaginations. Maybe it was something real that moved on once
it was spotted.
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| Every now and then, someone reports seeing a black panther |
Ask
around long enough, and someone will bring this up.
Not
a maybe. Not a “could’ve been.”
They’ll
say it straight.
“I
saw it.”
Big
cat. Black. Moving along a field edge or slipping between trees. Usually at
dusk. Sometimes at night. Always quick.
2002,
near Keokuk—a driver sees one cross the road. Low, heavy, tail stretched out
behind it. Not a house cat. Not even close.
Gone
before he can turn around.
Officials
say there aren’t black panthers here. No breeding population. No proof. They’ll
admit mountain lions pass through sometimes. But not black ones.
Doesn’t
matter.
People
keep seeing them. And the way they tell it—it’s not like they caught a glimpse.
It’s
like they had just enough time to realize what they were looking at… and wish
they hadn’t.
 |
| Thunderbird flying over Native Americans in early 1800s |
These
go way back.
Before
any newspapers. Before towns were really towns.
Stories
about birds big enough to block out the sky. Wings wide enough to throw shadows
across the ground.
Tied
to storms. Thunder. Power.
Later
on, you see similar descriptions pop up again—late 1800s, early 1900s. People
claiming they saw birds that made little sense.
Too
big. Too quiet.
There’s
an old story from around 1890—two men supposedly shoot one. Huge wingspan.
Bigger than anything that should exist.
Stories
change depending on who tells it.
Size
doesn’t.
Even
into the 1900s, people reported birds with wings stretching 12, 15 feet across.
Gliding low. Casting shadows that match nothing local.
These
stories get little attention. They show up, get shrugged off, disappear.
But
the details stay the same. And that’s usually a sign something’s worth paying
attention to.
So
what do you do with this?
There’s
no clean ending to any of it.
No
body dragged out of a lake. No creature pinned down and studied. Just people
who saw something once—and never forgot it.
That
doesn’t prove anything. But it also doesn’t feel like nothing.
The
Part That Gets People
It’s
not that Iowa has these stories. It’s where they happen.
Normal
places. Roads you’ve driven. Fields you’ve walked past.
You’re
not deep in the wilderness. You’re close to home.
That’s
what sticks. Because if something shows up there… it can show up anywhere.
One
More Thing
If
you like this kind of stuff—authentic stories, not the cleaned-up versions—I’ve
put a bunch of them together in Iowa Crime Time.
No
hype. No over-the-top storytelling. Just what happened.
If
you enjoy it, consider tossing a few bucks in the tip jar. It helps keep this
thing going.
Buy
me a Big Gulp / Support Retro Iowa
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