UFOs over Iowa

In 1967, two state troopers near Norwalk chased a red-orange
spacecraft down a rural highway at 2 am

Something was loose in the Iowa sky during the 1960s and 70s—something bright, silent, and definitely not from any Air Guard training schedule. Iowa papers were printing UFO stories with the same straight face they used for county board meetings. It wasn’t fringe. It was news. And to read those old clippings today is to feel the weird throb of a state trying to keep its sanity while the heavens misbehaved.

 Take 1964, for example—Lisbon and Mount Vernon. The Cedar Rapids Gazette reported locals watching an oval-shaped light that shot across the sky, stopped cold, and hovered like a nervous housefly with a PhD. One man told the paper it “hung there like it was thinking.” Thinking! This was Iowa, where nothing thinks in the sky except clouds and maybe the occasional bird with ambition.

A Ghost Tale of Clinton Iowa

This one is just for fun. There’s not a hint of truth in it, is there?

 

Folks in Clinton don’t talk much about Silas Burdett. Not when the sun’s up, anyway. In daylight he’s a joke you toss around over burgers at Hook’s or while waiting on a latte at 392. A story. A shrug.

 

But when the Mississippi fog slides in after dark, people stop joking. Conversations dry up. Eyes slide toward the windows. And if you listen, if you really listen, you’d swear you hear crackling wood. Burning. Smoldering. Old smoke that isn’t there.

 

Silas Burdett. Yeah. Him.

 

The lumber baron who ran Clinton back when sawdust blew through town like blizzards and the mills never slept. He had a voice like grinding timber and a jaw cut from white oak. Folks say he didn’t walk so much as shove the ground out of his way. His mill squatted on the riverfront where the LumberKings ballpark stands now—back before baseball, before bleachers, before anything except heat, noise, and fear.

The Lockridge Moster

Tracks in the mud, scatnottered turkey feathers--not human

October 1975. Lockridge, Iowa. Population small enough to know who’s in church and who’s not. Then something started killing turkeys. Not clean kills, either—these birds were torn apart, like something angry had come out of the timber hungry for chaos.

A farmer named Bill Beavers made the first call. Said he found ten-inch footprints stamped deep in the mud, wide as a man’s palm. “Didn’t look like no animal I ever seen,” he told the Fairfield Ledger. The cops came out, looked around, scratched their heads, and left with nothing but cigarette smoke and a few plaster casts that didn’t make sense.

Beavers said he saw it one night—black, hairy, broad shoulders, eyes catching the light. He fired his gun, it ran. Left behind that smell every farm kid knows: wet fur and something rotting. The Des Moines Register ran a short piece about it—“Iowa’s Own Monster,” they called it—and suddenly the little town of Lockridge had more reporters than cattle.

Eerie Iowa Booke Review

 

Iowa looks calm. Cornfields. Church bells. Pie contests. Then Eerie Iowa comes along and says, “Sure, but have you met the monsters?”

Michael McCarty and Bruce Walters take you down the gravel roads of the Hawkeye State and into the dark. They find a winged thing glowing over Van Meter in 1903. A lake monster curling under Okoboji. Bigfoot, naturally, tromping around Calhoun County like he owns the place.

 

It’s not just stories—they dig up history, too. Facts. Names. Newspaper clippings. All the little details that make you wonder if maybe it really did happen.

 

There’s a Kafka inspired sculpture that looks like it might start whispering to you if you stare too long. And Black Angels straight out of Hell that portend death if you look at them wrong.

 

The writing? Sharp. Weird. A little wicked. The kind that makes you smile right before the hair on your neck stands up. And the pictures. Bruce Walter’s drawings are haunting. Somewhat scary.

Who's Haunting the Hotel Julien in Dubuque Iowa

Hotel Julien (circa 1930)

There’s something strange going on at the Hotel Julien in Dubuque, Iowa. It doesn’t look haunted at first glance, but if you spend the night—look out—because you just might meet Public Enemy No. 1.

Locals say it’s haunted by the ghost of Al Capone. He rolled into town in the 1920s, and took over the entire eighth floor. His men spread out like killer bees, patrolling the hallways, their jackets bulging where guns hid.

Some say he owned the place, or had a stake in it. The hotel had been struggling for years. Then overnight, it was transformed into the finest joint in town. Suspicions, yes—but people understood, curiosity could buy you a case of lead poisoning.

Then, as quickly as he came, Al Capone disappeared—back to Chicago, and a fast-growing empire of booze, women, and bullets. But something stayed behind.

Lucinda The Phantom of Stony Hollow Road

Lucinda waiting on the bluff. Ready to jump
into legend? Maybe.

Out past Burlington, where the cornfields turn to limestone and the road hums under your tires, lies Stony Hollow Road. Quiet, crooked, and empty. A place where headlights vanish faster than they should and the night feels heavier than it ought to. Locals say a woman named Lucinda still waits there—though for what, no one’s sure anymore.

The story is simple and mean. She was supposed to meet her lover at the bluff. He never came. Maybe he got stuck in the mud. Maybe he never planned to show. She waited, heart cracking open, then stepped off the edge. No records. No obituary. Just a story that settled in the dirt and refused to leave.

If you stop there after midnight and say her name three times—“Lucinda, Lucinda, Lucinda”—she’s supposed to appear on the cliff, pale and silent. Yeah! It sounds like Beetlejuice, but Lucinda was there first, so who’s copying whom?

Terror In Small Town Iowa, The Van Meter Visitor

Townspeople shot at the beast as it crawled 
down the electric pole, then flew away.

Mass hysteria? Maybe.

A bat-winged demon with a spotlight for a forehead? Maybe.

Either way, something strange unfolded in Van Meter, Iowa, in the fall of 1903, and it left the entire town rattled, reeking of gunpowder, and a little embarrassed in the aftermath.

Van Meter wasn’t exactly a bustling metropolis, just 900 people, give or take a few farmers in the fields. But for five nights in late September and early October, this sleepy town on the Raccoon River hosted something nobody could explain, and just about everybody saw it.

It started with lights—floating, brilliant beams that cut through the night like the high beams of a Model T before such things existed. Then came the sounds. Buzzing. Hissing. A low hum like a nest of hornets, and then came the creatures.

One paper breathlessly reported that “two weird-looking, terror-striking monsters are living in a coal mine on the edge of that town.” Apparently, they were nocturnal, winged, and loud enough to serve as a town-wide curfew bell. At sundown, doors were locked, curtains drawn, and more than one brave Iowan supposedly dove for the bed skirts.

Now, you may think: “Sure, people were simpler back then. Easier to fool.” Maybe, but consider this: the list of witnesses reads like a Chamber of Commerce roster.

First up was Dr. A.C. Alcott, who was trying to enjoy a quiet night when a beam of blinding light sliced through his window. Outside stood something “half-human and half-beast, with great bat-like wings,” a horn protruding from its head that shot light like a railroad lantern from hell. The smell, he said, was “worse than death.”

A Haunted House in Leach Hollow

Neighbor's say Burch in Leach Hollow was haunted.

Everyone agrees the Burch House in Leach Hollow is haunted. It’s an old farmhouse surrounded by scrub oak and hazel brush out in the middle of nowhere.

When they had enough of the hauntings, the family sold all their stuff and moved to Nebraska. They rented the place to Clyde Nepper and his new bride in 1908—conveniently forgetting to tell them about the supernatural happenings. After a short while, the Neppers heard strange noises—a weird rapping on the walls and voices. One night when it got to be too much, Nepper hitched up his team, and they fled the house.

Several friends returned with him the next night to help ferret out the cause of the sounds.

“We got down to the house after dark,” said Earl Heisler. “I laid down with my clothes on and had a gun in my pocket and one on the floor near the bed where I could reach it without moving.”

The noises started at about 10 p.m. It sounded like someone was moving in the other room—with wooden shoes or a peg leg.

“I wanted to reach for that gun on the floor,” said Heisler, but “I couldn’t... it seemed that my whole body was asleep, and I couldn’t move a finger.”

1897 UFO Outbreak Over Iowa

It turned out the UFO outbreak was 
nothing more than kids and overzealous
adults playing with kites and candles.

The year 1897 saw an outbreak of unidentified flying objects over Iowa.

On April 7, observers spotted a mysterious airship over Vinton at 9 PM. It swayed like a bird flying against the wind, “darting to and fro, and up and down.” After a half-hour, it was gone. At 8 p.m., it was seen flying over Nashville, Illinois, flashing a large red light.

On Saturday, April 10, the mysterious airship hovered over Waterloo. After dark, all that could be seen were two flickering white lights. And then, the mystery was solved. Five boys reeled in their kite—it was of normal size, with a long tail, and to each end of the tail, they had tied Chinese lanterns.

Even after the boys’ prank was unwound, the airship sightings continued. Two men observed it flying over H. B. Allen’s Farm at about 10:30 Saturday night. It hovered very low and seemed to rest over Fairview Cemetery—flashing green and red lights.

That one had more earthly origins. It turned out to be a switch light on the Illinois Central Railway.

People in Shell Rock joined in the act on Saturday. They saw a mysterious flickering light—that switched between red, white, and blue. It floated a few hundred feet above the town, then turned and headed toward Waterloo.

Is the Alice French Mansion Haunted

If you want to do a drive by, it’s located at 321 East 10th
Street in Davenport. (Alice French house in 1910)

I’m not sure it’s haunted, but—if you follow the online rumor mill, strange things are happening at the Alice French house in Davenport.

If you’re unfamiliar with her, don’t sweat it. No one else knows her either, and the handful who do, know her as that lesbian writer from Iowa’s past which is a real shame. Alice was one of the highest paid woman authors at the turn of the century, but as reader preferences changed she didn’t, and her books fell out of favor.

Alice died in 1934, but the mansion she bought in 1906 lives on. Visitors report feeling cold spots, and seeing a dapper Victorian gentleman seated in the parlor. Others say lights mysteriously switch on and off, and doors slam open and shut when no one is nearby. Some people have heard strange voices in the basement—whispered conversations.

Could it be Alice and her special friend, Jane Crawford? Or is something else haunting the Alice French mansion? We may never know.