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| The Courier. December 31, 1919 |
The Courier printed this picture of the Waterloo Laundry Company and apartments that was scheduled to open on February 1, 1920. The building at Jefferson Street and Park Avenue was three stories high. The Waterloo Laundry Company was on the bottom floor. The top two floors housed 34 apartments - 10 two room units, and 24 one room units. Each unit included a kitchenette, bath, dressing room, and closet.
The Black Angel rises out of Oakland Cemetery
in Iowa City—ten feet tall, solid bronze, dark as a storm rolling in. Her wings
are raised, her head tipped downward, like she’s watching something you can’t
see. Or waiting for it.
People will tell you all kinds of things about
her. She moves. Cries at midnight. If you kiss under her wings, you’ll be dead
within a year.
It might be nonsense. Maybe not. Either way,
nobody walks up to her like she’s just another statue.
People don’t understand that she didn’t start out
that way.
When the statue went up in 1913, it was bright
bronze. It was commissioned by Teresa Feldevert after the deaths of her son and
husband. She wanted something permanent that would hold their memory in place.
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| Fjord Ferryman at the Museum of Danish History in Elk Horn |
Something weird showed up in Iowa, and for once it wasn’t a rumor or a blurry photo of something out in a cornfield.
It
was a troll.
A
big one.
If
you’ve been near Elk Horn lately, you’ve probably seen it or at least heard
someone mention it. It’s become a thing to take your picture next to it and
post it on Facebook.
They
named it Fjord Ferryman. Sounds like something out of a storybook, which
doesn’t exactly scream “western Iowa,” but here we are.
It
went up at the Museum of Danish America, which makes sense once you think about
it. Elk Horn leans into its Danish heritage. Windmills, festivals, all of it. So if
a giant wooden figure was going to land anywhere in Iowa, that’s one place it
wouldn’t feel completely out of left field.
Still,
it’s something to see.
It’s
sitting in a wooden boat, holding what looks like a tree branch for an oar,
like it’s rowing across… nothing. Just prairie. No water. No river. Just dirt,
grass, and sky. And somehow it works.
When
you get closer, the scale hits you. It’s bigger than it looks in pictures. Way
bigger.
If
you’ve ever dipped your toes in West Okoboji Lake, you’ve probably felt that
little jolt when something brushes against your ankle. A strand of seaweed,
maybe a fish, or… something else.
Lake Okoboji Serpent
Something
long. And scaly. And watching.
The
locals will tell you it’s probably just the Okoboji Serpent. Then they’ll
smile, like they’re kidding, but maybe not.
Ever
since white settlers arrived in the Iowa Great Lakes region, there’ve been
whispers about something big—very big—lurking beneath the blue-green waves of
Okoboji. Something that leaves waves when there’s no boat, casts shadows longer
than any muskie, and with a head like a horse, a neck like a garden hose, and a
tail that goes on forever.
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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.
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| Villisca murder house in 1917 |
No
haunted house gift shops. No fog machines. No one sells ghost tours out of a
van.
It’s
just… normal.
Which
is exactly why these places stick with people.
Nobody
goes looking for something weird out here.
They
just run into it.
