Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 - Adult Entries

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hroughout the month of October, Driftless Journal readers have been chilled and thrilled by the spooky stories submitted as part of the Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless writing contest. Prizes are awarded for first, second and third place in both adult fiction and nonfiction cate-“gories” in amounts of $100, $50 and $25, respectively. Meet the ‘spooktacular’ judges Spooky story entries were scored by three local judges, Dave Smutzler, Becky Bicknese and Erin Larson. Prizes were awarded for first, second and third places in each category. The judges were given only the stories and categories, no information about the authors was shared. Retired Decorah Chief of Police Dave Smutzler is a founding member of Police Investigating Ghosts (PIGs). The team has investigated schools, theatres, businesses, hospitals and poor houses. Additionally,

Travel Channel show Paranormal Emergency aired a segment in 2019 involving a story from investigator Smutzler. Becky Bicknese is the lead investigator with Bluff Country Paranormal Investigators (BCPI) located in Spring Valley, Minn. The team was established in 2014. The BCPI have investigated famously haugnted locations including the Cresco Theatre and Opera House the Villisca Ax Murder House. A Decorah native, Erin Larson graduated from Luther College in 2016 and has worked at Decorah Public Library for nearly ten years. She is an aspiring author and has written more than thirty novels, although none of them have been published (yet). Erin is also a book reviewer, book group co-host, video editor, Twitch streamer and member of the Frame Fatales speedrunning community. She is, for some reason, memorizing the entirety of Paradise Lost. You can visit Erin’s website at culturecarve.com

The Lights That Follow Almost Too Perfectly

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By Rob Monks, Lansing, IA Adult Fiction

Maggie gripped the wheel of the car as it made its way along the back country road. The trunk full of camping gear and her three closest friends alongside her. The once clear signal from the radio was now nothing but broken static. Evan chimed in, “Looks like we’re out of range of any stations. I have some CDs we can play, though.” Evan rifled through the discs and popped one in. After a few seconds of loading, Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” began to play, the music wafting out into the night. “Classic!.” Evan said as he began loudly singing along in an off-key voice. “Yikes.” Jane said from the backseat. “I usually hate to criticize people on their karaoke skills, but this definitely isn’t your song.” “Yeah. No offense,” joked Mark, also from the back seat. “But I think any potential music career you might have is dead in the water.” Evan laughed. “It’s not how you sing it, it’s how you sell it.” He said as he continued to belt out the tune in his terrible off-key voice. Now adding air guitar to his awful performance. Maggie turned the volume down. “Thankfully for all of our ears we’re here.” She pulled the car down the narrow path that led into the treeline. “Jane’s supposedly private campsite, which apparently no one else in the world knows about,” she said sarcastically. “I told you I used to come here all the time when I was a kid,” said Jane. “It’s far enough away from any main roads that any other “normal” campers wouldn’t even think to come. Just us and the woods.” Maggie slowed the car to a stop in a small clearing. “See? Absolute seclusion,” said Jane. The group parked and began to unload as night quickly fell. “Can someone get the fire going while we set up?” Evan asked. “I can.” Mark said. “But first, nature calls.” He turned on his flashlight and aimed it towards the forest. He began to walk, but stopped as he noticed what looked like another flashlight off in the trees. “Hey guys, I think there’s someone else out here.” Mark scanned his flashlight from side to side. As he did so, the other light began to match the side to side motion. “Hello?” he shouted. “Is someone there?” Silence followed but the light’s movement continued to mimic his own. “Who else would be all the way out here?” said Jane. “We’re miles from anything.” “Maybe it’s someone who got lost or their car broke down nearby.” Mark said. He turned to the woods and shouted. “Hey, are you ok? Do you need help? Listen, I’m coming down to you. Keep your light shining in my direction.” Mark, always the boyscout, immediately dashed into the trees. “Mark, wait!” shouted Maggie, but it was already too late. She could see the beam from Mark’s flashlight moving through the treeline as he continued to call out. As the two lights closed in on each other, both lights suddenly went out and Mark’s shouting stopped. “Mark?!” Jane shouted as she, Maggie, and Evan all gathered close to the treeline. After a few moments of silence, Mark’s voice shouted back, “Need help? My direction. Come down.” His voice sounded stuttered and the words had strange inflections. Like multiple sentences jumbled together. “Stay there. We’re coming to help.” Jane said as she and Evan both ventured into the darkened forest. Their lights frantically bobbing up and down as they ran. “Guys! Wait!” Shouted Maggie. She hesitated. There was something weird about Mark’s voice. It just sounded off somehow. After another moment of hesitation she decided to follow Jane and Evan. She could hear both of them shouting and could see their lights moving around until suddenly only one light and Evan’s voice remained. “Jane!” she could hear Evan shouting. A second later Jane’s voice could be heard somewhere off in the darkness. “Help,” they heard Jane say. Her voice now strangely calm given the situation. Maggie could see Evan’s flashlight turn towards the voice and head in that direction before it also suddenly went out. Maggie stopped and began scanning the trees. She jumped as the beam fell on Evan’s face who quickly ran past her towards the car. Panicked and not knowing what else to do, she followed him. As they jumped in, Maggie quickly started up the car and they sped back down the road. “Don’t stop. Shadows searchin’ in the night.” Evan said in a strangely calm voice. As they drove, “Don’t Stop Believing” finally loaded up again. Evan began to sing along. His voice now an eerily pitch-perfect match.

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Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

FALL HOURS Garden Center Tues-Sat 9am-5:30pm Closed Sundays & Mondays Pumpkin Patch Open weekends in October Saturdays 9am-5:30pm Sundays 10am-4pm

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The Harvestman By Laura Thompson, Decorah, IA Adult Fiction

The two boys stopped at the entrance of the cave to catch their breath - the chilled air wafting out was a welcomed change from the warm October day. “Are you sure this is the right place?” asked Ollie, still panting from the bike ride and short climb up the hill. “I think so,” said Jack, “it looks right.” “And what do we have to do again?” asked Ollie. “You just hold out your hand,” said Jack, “and slowly count to a hundred. If the Harvestman wants you, he’ll grab your hand and take you – just like that!” Jack snapped his fingers for added effect. Ollie took a single step into the cave, his eyes straining to see past where the light faded quickly into darkness. “We have to go farther in,” said Jack as he started walking forward. Gravel crunched with each step, echoing all around. Ollie followed, staying close to the wall. The exposed limestone was rough beneath his hand. “How far in do we have to go?” asked Ollie. “As far as we can,” replied Jack. “My grandpa says that you used to be able to go way back in and that the floor was made of ice, but the town decided it wasn’t safe and they didn’t want anyone in it so they put up a gate and closed it off.” The ground had begun to slope downward and between that and the darkness, both boys were now just inching along. “Here it is,” said Jack. Ollie took a few more hesitant steps forward and crouched down beside his friend. There, secured into the rock, was a small gate. Ollie imagined what it would have been like to have to crawl through the small space on the other side in complete darkness. “Now,” said Jack, “reach through the bars and hold out your hand.” “I’m not doing it alone!” said Ollie. The cold and the dark were beginning to wear on him and Ollie was quite sure that there were spiders close by that he couldn’t see. “Fine,” said Jack. “I’ll do it, too.” Ollie could barely see Jack’s outline, but he could see just enough to know that Jack had reached his arm through the bars and was holding it there, so Ollie did the same. “Now close your eyes and count to one hundred,” said Jack. “Why do I have to close my eyes?” asked Ollie. “Because the Harvestman won’t come if there’s a chance that he might be seen,” said Jack. Ollie closed his eyes and began to count. “One . . . two . . . three . . . .” “They say that The Harvestman has lived in the caves under

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Place these bluffs for centuries,” said Jack. “Some think he was an Indian who fell in one day and never found his way out. Others say he’s a pioneer who went crazy and decided to live underground. Most think was never even human at all.” Ollie continued to count quietly, “Thirteen . . . fourteen . . fifteen . . . .” “Either way, people of the town have been disappearing since before there was a town. They used to go missing all the time, but now The Harvestman only takes someone every now and then,” said Jack. “Thirty-three . . . thirty-four . . . thirty-five . . . .” Ollie kept his eyes closed and wondered if Jack was doing the same. “They say that his skin is so pale you can see through it and it’s as cold as ice,” continued Jack, “and he moves by crawling and slithering since it’s been so long since he’s been able to walk upright.” “Sixty-two . . . sixty-three . . . sixty-four . . . .” “His eyes are nothing but black and his teeth are sharp and pointed. Some say that he drinks the blood of those he takes. Others say that he lets them live for days and watches as they try to find their way out. No one ever has…” said Jack. “Eighty-five . . . eighty-six . . . eighty-seven . . . .” Jack’s legs were beginning to ache from crouching down and his outstretched arm was growing heavy. He decided to count along with Ollie to distract himself. “Ninety-one . . . ninety-two . . . ninety-three . . . .” Jack began to count faster, anxious to be done. “Ninety-nine, one hundred!” said Jack, loudly. He opened his eyes which had since adjusted to the darkness and saw nothing but the rock wall surrounding him. Jack shifted his weight and the gravel once again crunched beneath his feet. He reached out as if his hand might feel something that his eyes couldn’t see, but there was nothing there. Jack was alone.

Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

“Voted as one of the top 10 most haunted theaters in the Midwest, the Cresco Theatre opened in 1915 and offers a 100-year history of live performances and modern motion pictures. While the theatre is still in operation, it is now home to some unwelcome guests. Visitors have witnessed what appear to be ghosts of vaudeville performers on the stage, while another lone ghost has been seen sitting in the theater while the lights are off, disappearing when anyone tries to approach. More unknown entities have been reported in the basement, where strange electrical disturbances occur and odd sounds and voices are heard when the Cresco theater is empty.” -Travel Iowa

MOST HAUNTED TOP THEATERS IN 10 THE MIDWEST

115 2nd Ave. W., Cresco 563-547-1066 For upcoming shows & events, visit

crescotheatreoperahouse.com

Hazel Tree By Erica Bouska, Decorah, IA Adult Fiction

I waited years. The creatures knocking at my doorway lamented my age. I was too small, too immature. Maybe next year. All I wanted was to fulfill my duties, to be the gateway my neighbors whispered about and my ancestors promised I was. I knew the story of my planting. The trees see, hear, whisper. The wind carries our tales and asks only our leaves in return. A woman with a full belly planted me. It shall protect our family, she believed. Hazel trees are powerful. She forgot to ask why. We are small compared to our brethren but quick. Oaks may stand triple our height, but we will be full decades before they peak. We last as long, twisting and twining our branches and roots on the forest floor while the tall ones hide us from the sun’s malignant gaze. While I grew, only one of the household could reach my trunk and lean against my bark. The little girl came to me often, first babbling then speaking, stumbling then stomping. It was months until the creatures noticed her. They knocked on my door once more on Samhain, clucking in disapproval. Too young. Could corrupt the doorway. She wandered out just as dust choked the sunlight. With sword in hand and eyepatch fastened, she whispered to my branches. But I was not listening alone that night. Even the seasoned stood little chance against the fae’s cruel promises. The little innocent pressed an ear against me, laughing at the whispers reverberating from the other side. Her visits became daily, spilling every secret into my bark, sharpening the tongues on the other side with every word. My neighbors lamented. Another lost to ignorance. But we were simple trees, vessels for others to use as they wished. The thinning of the veil is palpable. The Samhain I was first useful, the creatures were incessant--an ever louder drove of buzzing flies. When the sun fled the sky, they knocked. Then they passed. They bled from my branches, crawled out of my roots, seeped from my trunk. It was as if my bark was peeling. Every body took something from me, something I wanted back, I needed back. The aching bowed my branches. My roots cracked through the ground, the only pain I could express. The creatures could not pass without cost; their world would not relinquish them willingly. The wind howled--my neighbors, trying to soothe me. They had

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told me, not prepared me. They had told me, not prepared me. How could I live through this pain? My branches, once straight and proud, were curving and twisting. The last of my nuts fled for the ground. At each creature’s return, the pain relented--a monster retracting its teeth from my bark. It took hours before the last returned. But as they slipped through my bark, I heard their discontent. A mask. How did she know to wear a mask? I was left trembling, the pain’s phantom haunting me through the weeks. My branches grew creaky, my fruit rotting as each month passed. At winter’s death, I grieved, withering at the thought of the day I once yearned for: Halloween. Each year passed the same, the anticipation a pain of its own. The girl resumed her visits each spring, whispering to the bark as if I was more than a seam. The divulgences were a cornucopia; the creatures pressed against my door gorged themselves. Years felt like decades, dread dragging the days. At sunrise each Samhain, the creatures howled. A mask. I thanked whatever superstition granted her that protection. But one year, the light would not come. The sun stayed hidden, dark clouds granting the creatures more opportunity. They waited by my branches, ignoring my cries, lurking for the girl. As if hearing my pleas, she emerged, wearing an eyepatch and beard that were beginning to show their age. She wandered toward me, confused and bleary, rubbing her free eye. The creatures began to whisper to me. Take her. Take her for us. We cannot touch what we can’t see. Take her. I was in agony. The torment was stretching for longer than I could bear. I felt heady and achingly aware. “Hazel?” She set her small hand on my trunk. I was crying, begging, pleading as their whispers became relentless. Flies everywhere, biting, scratching, scraping, scarring. Take her. Something deep inside me cracked. She screamed when I wrapped my bark around her and dragged her through. The creatures followed, laughing and shrieking. But the pain did not relent. The cracking turned vicious. My scream did not stop. Her world would not relinquish her willingly. Two parents walked into their backyard searching for a child that would never return. All they found was a felled hazel tree and hazelnuts rotting in the dead grass. Note for Driftless Journal Editors: In Irish mythology, hazel trees are doorways between the mortal and supernatural realms. Samhain is the Irish autumnal festival that is the origin of Halloween.

Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

The River By Alan Kissinger, Decorah, IA Adult Fiction

“I think it’s romantic.” “Really? A hetero romance from a time before women were allowed to vote?” “As an allegory. Letting go of the thing that’s most important to you because it’s getting in the way of love. Otherwise, folktales about selfish men making deals with river spirits and chasing women are not that interesting. Not to mention the tradition it’s created of throwing garbage into the river.” “Speaking of, can you believe he’s throwing in his guitar?” “It kind of makes sense. All those nights she’s gone out to support him at bars she hates. She missed Thanksgiving with her folks last year, the New Year’s implosion—the list goes on.” “Giving up music seems a little harsh, though. I thought he would throw in his phone. All that time scrolling and not a single post of the two of them together. Not to mention his suspicious texting habits.” “I’m just throwing in the case,” Taylor chimed in without looking up from his phone. “What?” Kris and Morgan both spun around to face him. Taylor pocketed his phone leaving the three of them in the dim glow of what was left of the sun. The moon was beginning to rise over the river, met by the applause of insects and the sporadic cheers of frogs. “I’m only throwing the case in,” Taylor repeated. “That guitar is priceless and this will still get the point across.”

“This is no longer romantic. Bye, Taylor.” Kris and Morgan climbed into the pickup. Morgan leaned out of the window, “For the record, there is a simpler course of action to take here.” The roar of the engine and crunching gravel faded as they made their way down the two track. The river’s current was indiscernible, it’s surface smooth and glassy. The moon perched high in the sky and studied its reflection in silence. The air was still. Taylor saw her silhouette approaching down the two track, her hair fluttered in the moonlight. “Kelly!” Taylor yelled, heaving the guitar case into the river. The ripples dissipated instantly, the river’s surface smooth again. “I threw my guitar into the river, just like—“ Taylor’s speech was interrupted by buzzing. Her head snapped towards the illuminated rectangle shining through the pocket of his jeans. “Unbelievable,” Taylor muttered. Shaking his head he reached into his pocket. A small splash echoed across the water. “There. Happy? You always want more. Anything else you want me to—“ Taylor’s voice was cut short as cold water rushed between his legs, around his waist, over his chest. Morgan focused on the road. Songbirds serenaded the pickup as it lumbered down the two track. The sunrise glinted off of the eddies in the river. “I really appreciate you driving me down,” Kelly said. “He still hasn’t responded to any of my texts and I’m starting to get worried.”

Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

Orphan Annie By Adelle Housker, Mabel, MN Adult Fiction

Annie had the key to her mother’s house on a cord around her neck. As she walked across the yard, past a truck she did not recognize, it softly thudded on her chest. She took it off, and put it in the lock, just as she had done for the past two years since her father’s death, but this time it did not turn. Her mother had not mentioned changing the locks. Annie had come to hay and tend livestock while her mother was away visiting relatives. “Henry will take care of you until I get back,” her mother had said. The bulkhead for the cellar swung open on Annie’s right. Laughter came from the shadows. A man with an armful of minibar liquors walked into the umber light of the setting sun. Annie set her overnight bag on the ground. “Are you Henry?” “I am. It’s been how long since you last saw your mom?” “Six months.” “Oh yeah, you’re not going to recognize her. She’s lost so much weight. She’s grieving, you know. I help her out, getting things fixed around the house, sure, but most of it is just being there to listen to her when she needs someone to talk to. She doesn’t have the sense to be more careful with who she invites over, but I take care of her, even when family doesn’t.” “I’d like to put my bag inside, but I’m locked out.” “That happened to me. Janet told me to go around the corner and get the key from under the rock.” While Henry deposited his bottles, Annie retrieved the key and unlocked the house. When she came back, Henry was opening his second bottle. “I remembered your mother telling me about when her husband had been locked out, how Mike took a ladder and climbed to the balcony, so I tried that. Don’t worry. It’s locked now,” Henry added. “But you know, something strange happened. I let myself in, walked downstairs, went to unlock the front door, and it was already unlocked. Was someone in the house? Did they hear me walking around upstairs and leave so quickly they forgot to lock the door behind them? People come in and out of here like a revolving door,” said Henry. “Too many to keep track of. Your mother told me that a nice-looking couple of purported Christian values even attempted to

remove an antique safe from the basement.” Annie knew. They were only prevented from doing so because in their greed, they had overestimated their ability to move one-and-a-half tons. When they had finished robbing Annie’s mother, they stopped offering a sympathetic ear and a contorted face, and whatever other cheap things Annie’s mother had traded for the valuable. When the objects ran out, a possession of a different kind proved to be a value yet remaining. Annie’s mother noticed how the men looked at her daughter, and it occurred to her that she might still get the sympathetic ears and the helping hands. Annie requested Henry’s keys. He unhooked them, a startlingly large number – more than there had been last visit – held them out with hesitation, and finally brought himself to part with them. “At one point Janet had so many duplicate keys it was impossible to keep track of them all,” said Henry, “so we changed the locks. Now at least we know where all the keys are. For a bit we’d thought one was misplaced, but she remembered she’d given it to you.” “I didn’t have a key to the door, though.” They walked to his truck. The sun disappeared beneath the rows of corn. Henry finished refreshing himself, noted the dusk, and drove away. Annie knew it was silly, but she couldn’t help but turn all the lights on and double-check the locks. Who possessed the missing key? The man from the gas station who’d lied about serving his country, the one from the dispensary with fetid breath, the married older one fond of pressing against her? Annie flipped the light switch to the basement and walked down the stairs to make sure that door was locked too. She nearly tripped over an open book on the last landing, a book of James Whitcomb Riley’s poetry she and her parents would recite in the damp cellar waiting for the tornado warnings to end. Once a tornado had gone right over them. It sounded like a train. Annie picked up the book, and read, An’ the Gobble-uns’ll git you Ef you Don’t Watch Out! She lifted her eyes. Something sat in the shadows. As Annie walked towards it, she could make it out. It was her mother, gaunt, motionless, gagged, and tied to a chair. From behind her, the latch to the basement door turned. It opened.

Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

Grain Bins By Esme Gastfield, Preston, MN Adult Fiction

We have all had those spooky fire stories we tell either on vacation or at a sleepover with the lights turned off and a flashlight shining in our faces for a more “spooky” effect. Personally, I never liked telling spooky stories; I never had a super creative mind. However, I do believe I am really good at writing stories and writing about what I believe. Let’s go back to when I was 13 years old. I was very gullible about what people would tell me. If you told me gullible was written on the ceiling, I would’ve definitely looked up. My friends told me about blind Mr.Corvin, who lives in a shack next to the abandoned grain buildings in Preston, MN. Mr.Corvin spends his days watching over the grain bins, punishing the kids who come, and locking them in the basement. That was the story I had been told. So, being me, I walked there one night with a couple of my friends. We explored the bins; We saw lots of graffiti and a noose. We didn’t want to think a whole lot about the rope; We carried on our merry way around the bins, looking at ladders, and taking pictures of what we saw. We made loops around the bins, and each time I thought I saw something up on the ladders connecting the bins; but I would think, “It’s maybe a bird or something.” Also, going back to the noose: it seemed to sway in a different direction each time we would pass, or disappear into the wind. I always wondered why the rope was there? Why does it just stay there swaying back and forth, and how did it get there? Some said Mr. Corvin would use it to show his latest catch, and display it to others to make them fear coming back and vandalizing the grain bins. I started having a tingling feeling on the back of my neck like something creepy was coming. I turned around and saw a shadow flicker in and out of the shadows. I thought maybe it was just a drunk walking home from the Servicemen’s Club in town. Letting it pass we kept walking around laughing and joking. That was until we heard a clashing of two metal forces and saw a light come on in the shack where Mr. Corvin supposedly lived. My friends whispered, “If you see a light on, in his shack, you are in danger,” and “ Blind Mr. Corvin can see his victims.” As a gullible 13-year-old, of course I was scared! When I finally got my mind straight, we found ourselves at the front of Mr.Corvin’s shack. I tried to back away slowly, but I stepped on a stick. How was there a stick? THERE’S NO TREES AROUND! We heard the latch on the door come undone; I turned and bolted out of the area, I never caught a glimpse of the supposed blind Mr. Corvin.

Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

The Horseman By Makayla Carlton, Herrin, IL Adult Fiction

The fog started to close in as Ashton was running through the woods of Sleepy Hollow. He screamed with terror as the sound of hoofbeats got closer and closer. The boy stopped dead in his tracks as he approached an evil looking tree that had some kind of portal at the bottom of its trunk. Ashton tried to run away from the tree, but it was too late. He was face-to-face with the Devil himself; the Headless Horseman, astride a big black horse. The Headless Horseman galloped toward Ashton with his silver sword, severing Ashton’s terror-stricken head. Dane woke up from this terrible dream about his brother. Sweating and panting, he said to himself, “It was only a dream.” Dane walked down the stairs of his mother’s apartment in his pajamas. He saw Ashton sitting at the table eating pancakes.“You look awful,”Ashton said. Dane didn’t say a word. He just stared at his breakfast, still horrified about the nightmare. His mother said, “Your Uncle Theo called. He wants you two to visit him this fall in Sleepy Hollow.” Ashton was excited not having seen Uncle Theo in a long time. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go, but only because Ashton wants to go,” replied Dane, recalling his dream. After an eight hour drive from New York, the boys arrived in quiet Sleepy Hollow. A sign with a scary-looking scarecrow said Welcome to Sleepy Hollow. Creepy! The town, covered in gray clouds and thick fog, had old musty buildings with weird-looking barricaded doors and windows. Were they scared of someone getting in? “Dane! Ashton! Over here! So good to see you again! Come on in.” It was Uncle Theo standing in the doorway of his two-story house at the end of the street. Dane asked Theo why the buildings were blocked. Theo stopped pouring tea and stared out the kitchen window. He said, “This town has some spooky history. It all started centuries ago when a war between the British and the Americans broke loose, right here, in Sleepy Hollow. The British had a secret weapon. A horseman named Victor, the greatest assassin of all time, was hired to kill the American soldiers in battle. He murdered these men, decapitating them with a sword. The Americans were angry and hunted him down, severing his head with his own sword. Every Halloween night he seeks out his revenge by riding through the woods of Sleepy Hollow, looking for heads to take to Hell!” The story Uncle Theo told them reminded Dane of his dream. “Is the legend really true?” wondered Dane, “Halloween is only two days away. What will they do when he comes?” Dane is getting more anxious, Halloween and the Horseman come out tonight. It will be a full moon in two hours. The town is quiet; not a single soul on the street. The fog was getting thicker, the lanterns were blown out by the vicious wind, and a herd of deer jumped out of the trees like there was something chasing them. Dane, Ashton, and Uncle Theo watched out the window. Everything was dark. Shivers ran down Dane’s spine when, out of nowhere, the Horseman appeared on a jet-black horse with flaming red eyes! His clothes were all black and torn like they went through a shredder. The duo galloped down the street terrorizing the locals, looking for a victim. The Horseman turned his horse around, trotted toward Uncle Theo’s house, and looked through the window. All three were terrified. “Take your brother and get out of here. I’ll hold him off for as long as I can. Go!” The brothers dashed to the back door just before the Horseman stormed inside. As Uncle Theo struggled, the boys were struck with horror when he was beheaded. Dane and Ashton ran as fast as they could through the door into the woods in opposite directions, hoping the Horseman would lose their trail–wrong! He followed Ashton. This day ended the same way as his dream: the Horseman, the chase, and the tree portal. Could he save his brother before it was too late? Dane found his brother at the evil tree, however, unconscious. The Horseman dismounted his horse to claim Ashton’s head, but Dane picked up the Horseman’s sword and attacked him. They fought until the death, however, the Horseman was already dead. “Take me! Leave my brother alone and take me,” Dane said. Ashton woke up and said, “Dane, what are you doing?” It was too late. The Horseman had severed Dane’s head and rode into the portal. A year has passed, Ashton still resides in Sleepy Hollow. He vowed one day he will get revenge for his brother’s death. THE HORSEMAN SHALL PERISH FOREVER!

Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

Me, Myself, and Die By Ryan Whitehead, Mayer, MN Adult Fiction

That wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. These were phrases Sarah would repeat for the first twenty years of her life. Her mother always blamed her for malicious acts she never did. She grew weary of her mother’s false accusations and finally moved into a quiet place of her own. The deteriorated house was a blemish to the picturesque neighborhood. Elegant drapes lay tattered; antique furniture smothered by decades of dust. Yet, the master bath was untouched by time. The crown mold and granite vanity still held their brilliance. A large, ornate mirror hung above the sink. A jade-colored candle sat on each side. With daylight pouring in, she briefly admired her appearance before turning away. As the sun melted into the horizon, she moved the last box inside. “Unpacking will have to wait until tomorrow,” she admitted. She made the bed and walked into the bathroom. She flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. After a few more flicks she sighed in defeat. She found an old matchbox in one of the cabinets. She lit the two candles and returned the matches. When she looked up, she let out a piercing shriek and fell backward. Her reflection was distorted and bloody. She rushed to the sink to splash water on her face, hoping to clean the unexpected mess. Sarah snatched the hand towel and quickly dried her face. When she was finished, she looked down at the towel. It was clean. Slowly, her eyes lifted to the mirror again. What she saw was even more unsettling than before. Nothing. Not even her reflection. “This is insane, I need some sleep,” she whispered shakily. She blew out both candles and burrowed under the covers. There was a noise outside, repetitive thumping growing louder each time. Sarah carefully turned to the window behind her. Two bloodshot eyes stared back as it continued banging its head against the glass. It wore a face she had seen countless times before. Her face. The window shattered, sending glass everywhere. Sarah screamed and raced to the opposite wall. The doppelganger crawled through the opening, unbothered by the remaining shards slicing through layers of flesh. “Who are you? What do you want?” Sarah cried. The doppelganger stood up and hissed, “SSSSarahhhh. I am Sarah.” “You are nothing like me!” Sarah yelled. But she soon realized how wrong she had been. Each movement she made was mirrored by the doppelganger. She stared at her twisted reflection, convinced that it escaped from the elegant mirror. The doppelganger lunged at her. It tackled Sarah onto the cold bathroom floor, knocking the wind out of her. She struggled to fill her lungs as the creature clawed at her throat. Sarah reached her arm out into the darkness, desperate for any weapon. Her fingertips brushed against the handle of the cabinet door. With every ounce of strength, she whipped open the door, slamming it into the doppelganger’s side. It rolled off Sarah and let out a screech, like nails on a chalkboard. Sarah reached into the cabinet for the matchbox. A match was lit with a swift strike, and she ignited both candles. She whipped around to face the creature, but it was gone. She nervously inspected the faint outlines of the bathroom, adrenaline coursing through her veins. “Did it work? Did the candles send it back?” Sarah thought. She looked in the mirror. It was still empty. A hand grabbed Sarah’s hair and slammed her face into the mirror. Her nose was broken, and she was gasping again. Sarah countered the doppelganger’s attack by striking its twisted grin with her elbow. Soon they were both relentlessly smashing each other into the shattering glass. Sarah felt a deep cut in her forehead. Her blood crept into her teary eyes and filled her mouth with a salty, metallic taste. “THERE CAN ONLY BE ONEEEE,” it sneered as they fought. Sarah was light-headed from the lack of blood and oxygen. Slowly, she drifted into black nothingness. Sarah woke up confused and lying on the bathroom floor. The ringing in her ears was nothing compared to her splitting headache. “How long was I out?” she wondered. She rose from the floor and gazed into the mirror. Her reflection was back where it belonged. “Finally, it’s over,” she muttered full of relief. “Yessss. Finallyyyy.” It flashed an evil grin as it walked away from the mirror and into her bedroom. Sarah’s heart dropped. She looked around the bathroom anxiously, the walls were replaced by a black abyss. She brought her right hand to the mirror, only to be confused when her left hand touched it instead. She was imprisoned in the mirror, forever a spectator to an imposter living out her life. Each insufferable scream suffocated by the unyielding glass.

Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

Eleven Minutes to Midnight By James Krivachek, Fort Atkinson, IA Adult Fiction

It was 11:49 pm on Halloween when Steve’s car jerked to the left with a loud bang. He stepped on the brakes and guided his 1974 Plymouth to the shoulder of the road. He came to rest next to a steel fence. Steve got out of his car to find the front tire had blown out. He walked back to the trunk for the spare. Surveying the area he noticed multiple headstones rising from the ground inside the fence. “Just my luck”, he thought, “Hanging out at a cemetery on Halloween night”. Steve shrugged off the chill that ran down his spine. This made him anxious to get the spare on and be on his way. Steve wheeled the spare over to the front of the vehicle. He made a second trip for the jack and tire iron. Once he had broken the lug nuts free, he jacked the car up and spun the lug nuts off. He removed the wheel and laid it on the road next to the old Plymouth. He placed the spare tire on the hub and started to thread on the lug nuts. Steve looked across the hood and noticed movement in the cemetery. A figure was moving towards him. Steve’s heart was pounding out of his chest as he rose with the tire iron tightly gripped in his hand. There, looking back at him from inside the fence was a boy about 12 years old. Steve noticed there was something sticking out of the boy’s head. The boy got closer to the closed South cemetery gate. The light from the car made it possible for Steve to identify that it was a large, bright yellow dart. To his amazement, he could see through the boy. With his mind racing, Steve recalled the story his father had told him. Back in the eighties when his father was a teenager he and a few neighborhood boys were playing lawn darts after school. Steve’s dad explained the game was like horseshoes. Instead of using horseshoes and rods, the game was played with two hoops and four oversized darts. You took turns throwing the darts, trying to land them in the hoops in order to score points. These darts had a heavy three inch metal tip. Steve’s father had told him how he and a couple boys had been teasing a boy named Jasper Jennings. The boys had taken turns stealing Jasper’s baseball cap and throwing it some distance, causing Jasper to run over and grab it before another boy could get it. After a bit of teasing the boys continued their game of lawn darts when it happened. While Steve’s dad was throwing a dart, one of the boys had taken Jasper’s hat and had thrown it next to the hoop. Jasper had just grabbed his hat when the dart came down and hit him on top of the head, killing him instantly. Steve’s dad told him there was a closed casket funeral held because they were unable to remove the dart. Steve looked across the South gate, thinking this has to be the ghost of Jasper Jennings! The boy screamed and swung his hand upward, throwing a lawn dart directly at Steve. Steve watched in terror as the dart came towards him with a loud swish sound. To Steve’s surprise, the dart fell to the ground as it appeared to hit an invisible wall directly above the steel fence. Steve watched as the boy threw the dart over and over with increased force each time, accompanied by a loud swish. The dart was still unable to penetrate the invisible wall. While this and the screams from the boy continued, Steve rushed to tighten the lug nuts on his car. His mind was trying to process what was happening. Steve recalled his history teacher had told the class that in the eighteen hundreds, people believed that ghosts couldn’t pass through steel. This was why the old cemeteries had steel fences around them and why she said, “You should always close the gate”. Steve thought, “This must be what the lawn dart is hitting, some sort of force field.” All he could think about now was getting the hell out of there. He dropped the car jack down as he listened. The screams had stopped. Steve turned to see that the boy was gone. He looked across the cemetery to find Jasper running to the open North gate. Now panicked, Steve kicked the jack out and headed for the door of the Plymouth. In the dark Steve tripped over the blown out tire. Landing with an odd thud and a painful moan. Steve hurried to push himself up off the road. That’s when he heard the boy scream and a loud swish sound.

Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

Untitled By Alexander Rosenow, Decorah, IA Adult Fiction

In the twilight’s somber embrace, Duncan Moore embarked on a journey fraught with dread, bound for his late uncle’s desolate homestead. The pale moon cast its ashen light upon the overgrown thicket that clung to the mansion, a sentinel of malevolence guarding secrets that should never be unearthed. Uncle Emory Moore, once a scholar of erudite brilliance, had plunged into the abyss of insanity during his final years. Whispers of unholy experiments and esoteric inquiries echoed in the wind. As the executor of Emory’s forsaken estate, Duncan was compelled to confront the enigmas that dwelt within its timeworn walls. The mansion rose before him, its spires and façade adorned with grotesque, nightmarish carvings. Cobwebs draped like funeral shrouds over the entrance, and a fetid odor of decay lingered in the air. With trepidation, Duncan pushed open the massive oak door, its hinges protesting with a mournful, rusty lament. Inside, the mansion was a harrowing tableau of neglect. Draped in shrouds of white, the furniture collected dust, while portraits of forgotten ancestors gazed down with vacant, hollow eyes. The corridors unfurled like a labyrinth, each shadowed passageway more ominous than the last. Duncan’s search led him to a musty cellar, a place where darkness coalesced like a malevolent presence. He descended the rickety stairs, a lantern casting a flickering, feeble glow. At the base of the stairs, he encountered a door secured by an intricate lock, an enigma beyond earthly comprehension. In Emory’s journal, a cursed tome, Duncan had found hints of unspeakable truths. It spoke of an being by the esoteric name of “Alnair”, a terror slumbering within the bowels of the earth, bound by eldritch incantations and heinous rituals. The yellowed pages bore unfortunate witness to Emory’s descent into madness, a descent mirrored in the cryptic scrawl that graced its pages. Summoning his courage, Duncan forced the door open. The chamber beyond was an abyssal pit, its walls adorned with cryptic symbols and nightmarish paintings depicting alien realms. At its center, a chasm in the earth beckoned him, its abyssal depths emitting

a noxious, otherworldly luminescence. Then, the grim revelation descended upon him like a vengeful specter. Emory it seemed, had not in fact succumbed to madness; he had unearthed a truth that transcended human comprehension. He had become the sentinel, the guardian, feeding an abomination that lay below in an attempt to satiate its unending hunger and forestall its emergence into the world. A ghastly, distant wailing filled the chamber, and Duncan’s heart threatened to burst from his chest. From the shadows emerged a cadre of gaunt, hollow-eyed figures—the remnants of Emory’s loyal house staff. Their eyes bore witness to the void, their emaciated forms moving with a perverse grace. In eerie unison, they chanted, voices brimming with unholy reverence. “For the Sleeper must not awaken,” they intoned, their words a chilling chorus of madness. Frozen in dread, Duncan watched as they approached the pit, their frail bodies trembling with an unfathomable terror. In their trembling hands, they held a sacrificial offering—a young woman, her eyes aflame in nigh ecstatic frenzy. Their gazes locked for a fleeting moment before she was cast headfirst into the abyss. The earth convulsed, and a malevolent presence surged forth—a writhing, abhorrent mass of tentacles and eyes that defied all reason and form. It hungered, and the house staff, willingly and with vacant eyes, offered themselves, one by one as its next unholy feast. Terrified, Duncan fled the cellar, his lantern casting elongated shadows upon the walls. The mansion itself seemed to groan in agony, a sentient entity shackled to this cosmic malevolence. Duncan knew he could not seal the pit again, and he dared not linger in this accursed abode. As he stumbled into the moonlit night, the anguished cries of his uncle’s servants followed him, melding with the eldritch howls of the unleashed entity. He understood that the horrors concealed within that estate were not meant for mortal eyes, and the weight of that knowledge would haunt him until his final breath. With trembling hands, Duncan vanished into the abyss of darkness, leaving behind a mansion steeped in madness and a nameless cosmic horror destined to haunt him…until it caught up with him; at least he had gotten a decent head start. Would you?

Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

A Blooderscotch SlashyWhip, Please By Andy Hageman, Decorah, IA Adult Fiction

“This feels horrible and wonderful at the same time.” “I know, kind of a paradox. I can’t wait to shed some of this grief. But at the same time, it feels like my relief’s gonna come at the expense of Sheri’s memory.” “Same. I’m worried that the only way to keep Camille’s face, laugh, and who she was intact is to never let my sadness go. Still, this has got to do us so much good, and I think it’s important to let Decorah move on too.” “I guess. Whether or not the town’s moved on, it’s gotta be positive for Elizabeth. I confess, I haven’t spent much time thinking about her in the years afterwards. The fact that she stayed in Decorah made it seem like she was managing. Right?” “Sure, I think so. Her buying the Whippy Dip in order to shutter its windows forever, and inviting us for the official closing, seems like an emotional closure to match the business one. Though I can’t help wondering if this is an amazingly rational, healed thing to do, or a last desperate act in her attempt to recover from witnessing all that blood.” Trisha and Leni’s conversation trails off at this point, and the rest of the drive south on Highway 52 rolls along in silence. The two of them savoring the golden hues of autumn soybean fields as their Midwest mode of suppressing strong emotions by convincing themselves there’s something sublime about these landscapes takes the edge off of unease. They each lost a dear one in the slasher massacre at the Whippy Dip back in 1985. Trisha, her older sister, Camille. Leni, her teenage crush and erstwhile babysitter, Sheri. In line to order post-drive espressos at Impact, Trisha and Leni are noticed by a group of former classmates’ folks. “Gosh, long time, no see!” “Oh, hi, umhh, hi. Good to see you too.” “Ms. Gasperton, right?! Yes, we’re back in town because Elizabeth invited us for the last hurrah before she closes the Whippy Dip forever. Can’t hardly think of Decorah without it, but, well, you know, uhhh.” “Of course we remember that, and we’re still so sorry for your loss, both of you.” As Trisha and Leni sit with their double shot demitasses, the Gasperton’s move towards their parked Buick. “What do you think they meant by that? The Whippy Dip closing?”

“Geez, it’s such a shame. You don’t think they’re still so traumatized that they’re imagining things, do you?” “Oh, geez, I think you’re right. I mean, I know Elizabeth bought it months ago, but all I’ve heard is she’s planning to make it organic.” Elizabeth notices headlights swinging in from College Drive and closes up a couple cabinets quickly so she doesn’t keep them waiting. With a soft mortician’s smile she steps outside to welcome them. “Thank you for coming, you guys. I’m so relieved that you came to help yourselves, me, and this town take the next step of recovery. There’s no sense beating around the bush: there were a lot of questions, bad feelings, and even some wild accusations against me that came from that darkness of brutality and loss. I hurt for a long time, but I understand now. And tonight is about making sure we all understand.” “What do you mean by that?” “I mean, Trisha, that one last time I need to relive that slasher nightmare to finally tie up loose ends, forever. I have to share with you what happened. That night. Come inside. I’ll fix you the last Whippy Dip treats.” Elizabeth holds the door for them. The loud thud that follows is not from the door closing but from her sapping Trisha and Leni on the backs of their necks with a bag of Twizzler Nib, stale as stone from a summer in the window unbought. Trisha wakes first. “What is this? What are you doing?” “Oh, this? It’s a cream horn mold for the new treats, starting tomorrow.” “Wait. You invited us here to close the Whippy Dip.” Elizabeth’s fingers methodically wrap bands of waffle batter around the tapered kitchen tool. “You always thought it was me, Leni, didn’t you? Guess what? You were right. Now it’s time for you to, as the sign used to say, ‘Plant your two lips on a cone!’” Then Elizabeth put the cream horn mold in Leni’s mouth [content deemed too horrific for a newspaper]. “Ah, Trisha, you’re awake. Remember what June is? That’s right: die-ry month!” Then Elizabeth dragged Trish over to the milkshake mixer and [redacted, too gory]. Watching Trish’s lifeblood drain into a pail, an idea: “Yum, Blooderscotch SlushyWhip.” Next morning, folks passing saw Elizabeth up the ladder, finishing the new sign slogan: Eat Fresh Eat Local No added flavors or dies

Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

The Eternal Holiday By Hannah Riley, Decorah, IA Adult Fiction

The town clock chimed once again. It seemed to have done so an inordinate amount of times today, making it almost impossible to orient herself. The town must have been performing some kind of maintenance on the old clock tower that overlooked the tangle of streets. It was an odd day for maintenance as today was Halloween, but she would have the help of the flickering tealights glowing ever brighter in each carefully-carved Jack-O’-Lantern to tell time as dusk cast its shadow over town. She was in her twenty-seventh year, newly-wed and living in her childhood home which she had adopted from her parents. Her parents had passed almost three years ago, with only months separating each sorrowful death. She loved them deeply and thought about them everyday, but she had always felt a lingering sadness for them having had her several years after her siblings and at such late ages themselves. She was spoiled as most of the youngest in the family are, but it is not often recognized that the youngest child carries the burden of seeing everyone who came before her die. She planned to have children before her thirtieth birthday, but for now, she would strive to make Halloween as magical of a night for the neighborhood children as it had been for her and her siblings growing up. The autumn air was saturated with the smell of burning leaves, a fragrance that she welcomed into her house by leaving the front door open. She sat on her couch, eagerly awaiting trick-or-treaters with a bowl filled with assorted candies in her lap, watching John Carpenter’s Halloween. It was her brother’s favorite scary movie, and they had watched it every Halloween when they were younger. Both her brother and sister lived hours away, and they had, to her dismay, drifted apart as commonly happens when each person leads their own life. She missed them, which made her feel childish, but she could not help it. Just as the clock chimed again, her front door slammed shut with a loud bang. It must have been

a gust of wind that forced it closed, but it had startled her so that the candy bowl in her lap was now upside-down beside her with its contents strewn about on the floor. She gathered the candy and replaced it in the bowl and hurried to re-open the front door. Upon opening the door, she saw a little girl dressed in a red, yellow, and white cheerleading costume with yellow pom-pom hair ties holding back her blonde pigtails. It was her first trick-or-treater of the night, but she was taken aback by the girl standing in front of her. As a girl around her age, she had worn the exact same costume! She soon realized that she was accompanied by another girl and boy, each a bit older than her, silently standing in the driveway. The girl was dressed as a surgeon in mint green scrubs and a surgical mask and cap, while the boy was dressed as Michael Myers from Halloween in a dusty, dark- blue jumpsuit, his costume completed with a plastic knife that gave the illusion of dripping blood. The young girl tugged her arm rather abruptly, but she did not think much of it because it seemed that the girl just wanted her to bring some candy to her older siblings. She went along with the young girl, and upon closer observation of the girl’s siblings, she noticed that the girl in the surgeon’s costume had familiar eyes nested in wrinkled flesh uncharacteristic of an individual that had to be just ten or so based on size alone. The boy then peeled his mask off and revealed a disturbing sight that made her shudder out of disbelief and fear. Underneath the mask was the face of an elderly man that did not belong on the body of a child. His eyes were closed, and his skin was pale and wrinkled, but she knew this face; it was her brother’s face, only it was his face as it had been the day she had last seen him lying in the casket at his funeral. Before she could make another move, the clock chimed once more, only this time it was louder and seemed to be right next to her ear. She awoke in her bed, realizing that it had been a dream, and her alarm clock had been sounding louder and louder the longer she remained asleep. She was now in her seventy-third year, the last remaining member of her family as her siblings had passed away years ago. She was alone. Her life had passed by in what had felt like a day, and her siblings were calling on her to join them in their eternal holiday.

Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

The Day That Time Stopped By Isaac Knaack, Decorah, IA Adult Fiction

I lay still in my bed, stiff as a board. My room is dimly lit. I hear it…a voice in my dreams, calling my name. I also hear the loosely fitted floorboards creaking as something inches closer. I look over at my hand, unable to move it. I hear a whisper in my ear. “Time to wake up, Mike!, we’re going to be late!” I respond, “Sara, I already have my bags packed. Leave me alone!” Sara annoyedly responds, “Fine but grab the rest of your stuff and bring it to the car!” I quickly get dressed and go outside. I can’t believe we are moving from our beautiful town in Indiana to nowheresville Wyoming. My dad wants to check out a new job, but we aren’t sure if this is a permanent move. This still doesn’t make it any easier. At least my grandparents are letting us stay at their place. Dad says, “Time to hit the open road!” I lay my head back and my eyes start to close. Before I know it, my mom is shaking me and telling me we are only a few minutes away from my grandparent’s house. I haven’t visited my grandparents since I was a toddler. We pull up to the old house and the eeriness of the evening has already settled in around it. My grandparents rush outside to say hello and we eat a quick dinner and play a game of 500. I excuse myself to use the bathroom and hear an odd ticking sound in the basement. I try to ignore it. Once we finish playing cards, it is time to hit the sack. Sara and I are starting school tomorrow. I toss and turn all night, nervous for the first day at my new high school. Before I know it, I am being dropped off by my dad. As I walk through the front doors, I am bumped from behind and my backpack goes flying. Chemistry class does not go well and I accidentally start a fire. Then, the custodian spills paint on my brand new jeans. By the time we are dismissed at the end of the day, I am furious and I walk quickly to get to my grandparents old house. When I arrive at my grandparent’s, I quickly

realize I am the only one home. In the distance, I again hear the ticking sound from the basement. This time, I decide to investigate. I walk down the steps and can feel the chill in the air. I follow the ticking sound and peek in to see a ginormous old grandfather clock. I study the clock for a minute and decide to see if both the hands are in working order. I turn each of them back 24 hours, only to find them locked into place after the turn. “Mike!,” my grandma yells and I rush upstairs. I tell her about the clock and she dismisses me. I want to show her the clock hands but she is unable to go downstairs. I go to bed early again because I am exhausted and want this day to be over! The next morning, my dad takes me to school again. Right as I walk into school, I drop my backpack again. I start another fire in chemistry and I really try to avoid the custodian, though he still manages to spill paint on me! I walk home frightened and puzzled by what is happening. I start to compare the last two days and realize that all of the specific events were exactly the same. I go home and tell my story of the past two days to Sara. I believe I am stuck in an endless time loop. Sara decides to tell the whole family. My grandparents are perplexed and decide to lock the basement door. I need some time alone with the clock so I can reverse the curse! I stay up late and sneak the basement key out of the kitchen drawer. In the dead of night, I unlock the door and sneak down the stairs. I see a man dressed up in all white. He greets me by name and I realize it is my grandpa! I stare hard at him and realize he’s the man from my dreams and is the reason I have this problem. I run towards the clock but my grandpa stops me and I fall down. He then grabs the hands of the clock and turns them backwards to be sure my family remains at his house forever. I cry for help but my screams are drowned out by the ticking. For the rest of our lives, my family will remain in a continuous time loop, ruled by my grandfather, the Timekeeper.

Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

Fingernails By Katie Plozel, Postville, IA Adult Fiction

Evan went stiff as fingernails brushed against his neck. The corn rustled, laughing at him, with the moon glinting overhead and offering no help. The fingers carried no warmth, long nails nicking his skin as he panted for breath. “You can’t keep running from me.” A hot exhale in his ear, purring spine-tingling words. A cold hand on his arm, sinewy and strong and squeezing. “I’ll always find you.” Evan inhaled through his mouth, icy fingers of fear roping up his spine and hugging his heart. The hand inched to his chin, fingernails scraping his skin and etching marks into his cheek— He elbowed back as hard as he could and ran. It didn’t matter that he had tried this before. It didn’t matter that it was the first thing he tried when the fingernails scratched over his tent’s canvas hours earlier and he had left to figure out what was making the sound. It was all he could do. The dew-damp corn slapped him in the face and arms as he ran, bare feet getting muddy and shirt clinging damply to his skin. Laughter followed him, high-pitched and lingering, echoing in his ears no matter how far he ran. Blood roared in his ears and rammed in his chest in time with his the pounding of his feet. The corn kept going, rows after rows and rows no matter which way he picked or how many times he changed directions. He couldn’t stop to catch his breath, he didn’t dare—not with the little scratches from her nails stinging. She was real this is all real she’s going to kill me if she catches me— He stumbled on a broken corn stalk, he tripped, he fell—he twisted onto his back, elbows bracing himself, breath heaving, and he waited. Waited. And waited. The night offered nothing, the wind whispering through the corn. The moon smiled safely from her sky, watching him. He panted, still waiting, his neck getting stiff from holding his head up. He could hear frogs, somewhere, the silence that originally freaked him out when he left the tent slowly melting away as the night returned to normal. When nothing happened after several moments, Evan fell back into the mud and let himself relax. He was safe. Fingers touched his jaw. He jerked violently, hand coming up to punch whatever it was in the face— He hit nothing. He blinked, heart pounding in his throat, breath coming too hard too fast and making him dizzy. He was in his sleeping bag, sitting up, in the tent he and his friends set up earlier that day in Evan’s backyard before telling each other scary stories over s’mores and laughing as they gave each other the willies. Brian rolled over at Evan’s noise, and Tyler didn’t even move, snores rumbling quietly. None the wiser. It was just a nightmare, Evan thought gratefully, settling back into his sleeping bag and pulling it tight to his chin. Just a nightmare. … “Hey, Evan?” Evan didn’t look up from packing up his sleeping bag. Waking up early continued to be the bane of his existence, and after last night’s adventure, a dream or not, he was in no mood for Brian’s teasing. “What scratched your face up?” Evan froze, feeling a familiar cold fear in his stomach, and brushed his jaw with two fingers. Angry red skin burned as he touched it. He swallowed hard. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

Spooky Stories to Tell in the Driftless 2023 | Driftless Journal | Driftless Multimedia

Halloween Pranks By Sue Olinger, Harmony, MN Adult Fiction

One autumn four daring teens challenged each other to see who could endure the scariest prank. They meet the weekend before Halloween and drive out to the old abandoned motel on route 313 about 6.6 miles south of town. Milo has a car, Twyla, works part time at the local restaurant she brings her forever friend Dot, and Bern the classroom prankster meet at Twyla’s workplace around 9pm. Bern, has a half pint of vodka and an orange pop to share. Twyla clocks out and they piled into Milos car and off they went. Carfree, wild, and full adventure. They made one stop so they could each take a few gulps of vodka and pop. The guys were too tough for the chaser. They arrived after 10pm and when the car lights were turned off realized how they were surrounded by the darkness and a funeral quietness. They had no real idea what awaited them. Milo hands each of them a flashlight and he also picks up his crowbar. They head toward the front door. The door was ajar but there were boards in a X across the door frame. Milo wacks it with the crowbar and ripes the boards and nails from the doorway resulting in an eerie creaking sound. They all jump then laugh when the boards fall away to allow them to step in. Feeling inflated Milo leads the way and flashes his flashlight around the room. Curiously, there were four chairs in a small circle around a short table. There were openings in the walls where parts of plywood had been peeled away exposing the wood frame of the walls. There’s a scurry across the floor and the sound of a kitten. The girls run after it while the guys head towards two different openings in the walls. The structure seemed to shudder and sigh. Milo squeezes into the wall space while leaving the crowbar behind. It is wide enough for him to walk without his shoulders touching either wall. When he turns to see how far he has come the space seems narrower than it just was. Then, his flashlight is grabbed from his hand and he is in pitch darkness. He tries to feel his way but only feels wall, in all directions. He tries kicking the old boards to get out but his ankle is grabbed and held in midair. Oh no, full panic! He tries to scream and a hand

clamps over his mouth. The grip on his mouth and ankle tighten. He can’t move or scream, he is captured by something. His friends are unaware. Meanwhile, Twyla leaves Dot still looking for the kitten and finds a small stairway that leads to a small deck that has every other floor board missing. She is intrigued by the wind rustling the trees in the moonlight, a hooting owl and fireflies in the open space. She shines her flashlight toward the railing calculating her steps to get across it. First step, second step no big deal, third step and the other end of the board flips up and she feels a sting on her earlobe. She steadies herself to turn around and go back and again she feels that same sting on the outside of her left pinkie finger. She leaps to the landing at the top of the stairs and shines her flashlight on her finger to see she is bleeding. At the bottom of the stairs lies Dot, in a heap halfway in the cabinet under the sink, motionless but breathing. Bern has entered a small room from another wall opening with a chair, a table and a footrest. A small inviting space to have another drink. He walks in, sets his flashlight up on the table, sits down, wishes he had a glass and poof one with sparkling ice and a straw glints in the darkness. He mixes his drink, puts his feet on the footrest, picks up his drink using both hands, raises the straw to his mouth and takes a really big gulp. He tries to spit and spew but realizes the straw is stuck to his lips, his hands to the glass and his heels to the footrest. Vodka shoots out his nose with a burn while trying to get loose from the straw, glass and footrest. He’s stuck. Four teenage friends out to show off their courage are all helpless and scared into silence. The silence is eerie and controlling. Each of them were held in their own position until the sun rose. They each wake up sitting in a chair around the table. On the table is a bandaid, a vodka bottle, a kitten statue and a crowbar. Noone spoke, they all got into the car and just drove away. What happened?

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The Bump in the Night By Blaine Niemeyer, Preston, MN Adult Nonfiction

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I am roused from my sleep by the voice of my mother on the other side of my door. She knocks loudly and repeats herself. “Blaine, go close the door to the shed, someone left it open,” I reply with a grunt and turn to face my alarm clock. It read 11:15 P.M. I had fallen asleep early. With another grunt, I removed myself from the warmth and comfort of my blankets. I hobbled from my bedroom, down to the main floor, and out to the back porch. Upon reaching the porch, I fell into my habit of whistling whatever tune popped into my half-awake brain. I took a few hesitant steps onto the now cold and moist grass, breathing in the fresh night air, noting the sound of rustling in the woods 30 yards to my left. A few paces before I reach the shed. I paused my whistling to take a deep breath. This is when I heard it, A lower off-key mimicry of the tune I was whistling, which was followed by the horrid sound of grinding bone. I was instantly unsettled and jogged the remaining distance to quickly close the shed and latch the door. Out of curiosity, I paused to whistle my tune once more. To my horror, it was repeated to me, followed by that horrendous grinding sound. The worst part was, I could hear it coming from the opposite direction across the road. That rattled me, nothing, should be able to move that quickly through the woods, all the way across the road into a field without making a sound. Thoroughly spooked, I cautiously meandered my way back inside to grab my flashlight from the living room and tried to explain to my father about the phenomena occurring outside. With father in tow, I snagged my three-thousand-lumen flashlight from the fireplace mantle and stepped onto the porch as quietly as possible. We crept from the porch to the back corner of the shed. Once I felt we had reached an area protected from line of sight to the field, I whistled the tune that I no longer liked. Echoing from the field of beans to the left of our house it was repeated back to us. This is where the flashlight I grabbed should have come into play. With a click, a beam illuminating two-hundred yards in front of me erupts from my hand. Finally, we would find which creature had been making such an ominous sound. Only to my father’s and my dismay, there was nothing. Only soybean plants that gleamed with dew, and a slight fog that rolled over the field. I joked that it was a skin-walker and decided that I had had enough of this rather unsettling phenomenon; and started to walk away, however, my father decided that he was going to get to the bottom of this because he was greatly intrigued and unsettled. After convincing me to stay a little longer, he whistles a few hollow notes, much different than the tune that I was whistling earlier. To our surprise, the creature mimicked it perfectly. It came from what sounded to be 25 yards in front of us, much closer than the last. My father swiftly picked up the flashlight and aimed it in the general direction of the sound only to find nothing, again. Thoroughly confused, my father and I began to discuss the bizarreness of this in a hushed whisper. Amid our conversation, we heard a crack about 10 yards into the field. We instantly stopped talking and both turned our attention to the steadily approaching creature. My heart began beating faster, all the whilst my mind was racing with the possibilities of what this creature could have been. Finally, we heard a rustle on the edge of the beans, to which my Father responded with a click of the flashlight, illuminating the immediate area. Once my eyes adjusted, I was met with two little beady eyes and a black mask staring back at me! It had been a raccoon this entire time, or more precisely a gaze of raccoons communicating with what they thought to be another raccoon. Knowing the cause of our distress, my father and I shared a chuckle as the stunned raccoon we blinded, hobbled back into the beans that had been the cover for so much mystery. After returning inside, I shuffled quietly to my room, flopped onto my bed, pulled out my phone, and did some research. Sure enough, Racoons will make hooting noises that sound like low-pitched whistles, and grind their teeth together to make clicking noises for communication. With newfound knowledge and a good laugh, I settled into bed now knowing that I have my very own story of things going bump in the night.

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Invisible Killer By David Kamm, Decorah, IA Adult Nonfiction

An invisible killer is at large, sweeping the country for victims. Forget about your evil clowns, knife-wielding dolls, creeps with hockey masks and the walking dead; this killer is real, and because it is real it is more terrifying than any ghost-story spook. The killer preys on humans, leaping indiscriminately from person to person, and it is so ruthless and efficient in its work that it has become one of the nation’s leading causes of death. Like all predators, it first attacked the most vulnerable members of society, including the sick and elderly. It also targeted disbelievers, deniers, and those who simply chose to ignore its existence, but ignoring it didn’t make it go away, and now no one is safe. The hills and valleys of our little world won’t protect us or hide us from this evil. We are all potential victims. The attacks, which at first seemed to be random, soon felt inevitable, and created such fear that society threatened to collapse. Life as we knew it disappeared. Schools closed, factories shut down, and main streets were shuttered. Hospitals couldn’t keep up with the number of victims. Cultural divides deepened and intolerance burst to the surface, forcing neighbor to turn against neighbor and families to fall apart, as fear and ignorance drove people to find scapegoats for the terror. The killer can change its shape and inhabit any person, so there is no way to know who might unwittingly be assisting it. Is it him? What about her? It is impossible to tell, which makes everyone a potential accomplice. I took precautions that I hoped would keep me safe, heeding the authorities who said the killer can’t hurt you if it can’t find you. So I stopped leaving my house unless absolutely necessary, but locked doors and darkened rooms offered little protection against such a relentless attacker, and I couldn’t stay isolated forever. So I slowly emerged from my cocoon, transformed into something I don’t yet recognize. I have been lucky to escape the killer’s grasp, although I once felt it trying to suck the bones from my body, but sometimes I feel as if my luck is running out. I stay alert for any sign of intrusion, any hint of an unwanted presence, but I can’t see what can’t be seen. Everyone, take care. An invisible killer has invaded our space and it stalks us. It stalks me. Tonight my tongue feels fat and sticks to the roof of my mouth. My saliva tastes like metal. There’s a centipede in my throat and my lungs are filled with ash. Is this it? Am I to be the next victim? I squeeze my eyes so tightly shut that they threaten to bleed, and all I can do is whisper, “Please, God, no. Nonononono.”

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Ghost Hero? By Don Hilleshiem, Waterville, IA Adult Nonfiction

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We had owned our house in Lawler a couple of years when the ghost made his presence known. It started one night when the wife and cat were napping on the couch and I was in my chair watching TV. Suddenly there was the sound of a ceramic lamp smashing on the floor. The wife jumped up, the cat raced out of the room, and I turned to the lamp, thinking I had knocked it off the table, but it stood there unbroken. That night after we’d gone to bed, we heard the sound of the front door slamming over and over and the kitchen table and chairs sliding around. This went on every night until we met a woman who had lived in the house and told us the ghost’s story and name. The next time the sound of the door and the furniture started downstairs I shouted, “George, can you hold it down please? We’re trying to sleep.” After that we never heard the door or furniture again. But then when we were in bed we’d hear footsteps come up the stairs and down the hall to our room, the sound of the door opening, a pause long enough for someone to look in to make sure everything was alright, then the sound of the door closing. Then the footsteps moved to the youngest daughter’s room and her door was opened. Then down to the oldest daughter’s room, the sound of the door, and footsteps down the hall and back down the stairs. This went on until one morning when I was working a swing shift at Beatrice Cheese in Fredericksburg. The wife wanted to take the oldest daughter to Decorah to see her parents but wanted to leave the youngest home because she’d been up all night and had just gone to sleep. I told them to go ahead. I didn’t have to be back to work for four days, so I’d sleep until she woke up. I’d been asleep a couple hours when I woke to a child yelling, “Daddy, Daddy!” Thinking the wife was home and the oldest daughter was calling, I checked the driveway, but the wife’s car wasn’t there. I walked into the youngest daughter’s room to find her in her crib with the sheet around her neck and turning blue. I got the sheet off and got her breathing again. Our daughter was only 6-8 months old and wasn’t talking yet, so who yelled loud enough and clear enough to wake me up? It could only be George. We never heard from George again after that; it was like he finished his job and moved on. That was 40 years ago, and I think of George often. Did he move on or is he still in that house protecting the new owners?

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What Was That? By Jeff Hendricks, Ridgeway, IA Adult Nonfiction

I have the privilege, and pleasure, to live close to one of the many great running/ cycling trails here in northeast Iowa. The nearest trail to my home, which I make regular use of, has long sections that are encased with trees that create a natural cathedral of arching branches that come together at the top and enclose the trail with a solid wonderful green color in the summer and a colorful varied palette in the fall. Typically, I either run or cycle earlier in the day, but on this day interruptions delayed my access to the trail until late in the day. The late start gave me pause and I considered skipping my run for today, because I knew that I would be flirting with the possible loss of daylight before I was done. The weather conditions were just too nice to skip the chance, so I decided to go. I planned to do my typical 4 mile run (2 miles out and 2 miles back). The first mile out and the last mile back is a prime example of the summer cathedral effect. It’s not uncommon to be the only person on the trail, no matter what the time of day and especially this time of day; early evening. No cars are in the lot and no one I can see is on the trail and I’m happily on my way running an easy, quiet, relaxing run. I have made the turnaround point and am nearing the last mile of my run and see that I am losing a lot of daylight. No matter, still a great run so far. But I start to notice that I am hearing, what I think are my footsteps echoing off the heavily foliaged canopy. This is the first time I have heard the echo effect thought it was just a pleasurable atmospheric phenomenon. Odd, I’m noticing the echoes aren’t matching my feet striking the ground. I decide to change my cadence several times to see if the echo will re-sync to my steps. To my surprise, the echo I hear remains the same no matter what cadence I lay down. Is someone following me? I didn’t see anybody on the trail. No big deal. In my many miles, and years, of running and cycling, I’ve had a few folks pace me; for whatever reason. Since I only have about a mile left, I figure I’ll turn on the gas a little and drop this guy. No good, I still hear the steps behind me. Okay buddy, I put it in a higher gear and dare him to keep the pace. He’s still behind me with what seems to be with little effort. I give it all I got to a near full sprint. No way, I can still hear him behind me! With this crazy pace I’m nearly back to the parking lot and I decide to turn my head, while still at a near full sprint. I can’t see anything in my peripheral vision, so with nothing to lose, and nearly back to my car, I make an immediate stop and quickly turn around to look at the path behind me. There’s nobody there! I scan the trail and open woods on the sides for movement with just enough light to be able to easily see any person or shadows that might be moving about. There is absolutely nothing – no person, no shadows, no echoing footsteps, nothing! What was that? Something or someone seems to have joined me on a run, but from where? Disappeared to where? I’m a nonbeliever in ghost and the supernatural, but I have a hard time explaining this peculiar early evening run.

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A November Night By Hannah Adney, Monona, IA Adult Nonfiction

It was a dark, overcast night in November. I was new to the Driftless area, having recently taken a job three hours from my hometown and I was looking to meet people and make new friends. When I was asked by someone I barely knew if I would be interested in going coon hunting I barely hesitated. I had never coon hunted before and it seemed like a great opportunity for a new experience and to get to know new people. Anthony was the man who invited me on this adventure. He had a quick smile and a sense of humor and I was immediately interested in getting to know him better. I showed up on his farm around 6 pm, bundled up and ready to be outside for several hours. “Do you have a headlamp?” he asked, and when I said no he searched until he located a mag light for me to use instead. I could tell Anthony loved the sport of coon hunting; he was positively brimming with excitement and anticipation as he bundled himself up, outfitting his dog Annie with a GPS collar to track her every movement and selecting his gun and shells. We piled into an old F150 and headed to a nearby farm that Anthony had permission to hunt on. The abandoned farmstead was at the end of a dead end road. Weeds had grown up around the house but the barn appeared to be in decent shape. We set Annie loose and started wandering, checking the GPS every so often. The night was cold and despite my layers the wind cut through me, especially if we stopped for any amount of time. We were several yards from the house when Anthony told me the history of that farm. Many years ago, the farmer who owned it was killed in a farming accident, apparently near the spot that we stood. His wife continued to run the farm and took great pride in her house with the immaculate gardens and pond. Unfortunately when she passed away their children argued among themselves regarding the will and the farm was left to decay. It was hard to imagine that farm in its glory days, as I thought back to the dark house surrounded by weeds and overgrown trees. Perhaps it was an attempt to spook me as we stood in the dark, cold night but Anthony told me how once in a while, a light could be seen from within the abandoned house. He speculated that it was the old farmer who died on that farm, still making his presence known. I shivered as I looked back at the house, standing dark and grim. I was beginning to question my life choices that led me to standing in the pitch black night listening to ghost stories from someone I barely knew. Annie hit on the scent of a raccoon and began howling. Anthony ran towards the sound with a surprising pace, leaving me to trip over corn stalks and the uneven fields in his wake. I barely managed to keep up and was breathless by the time we reached a culvert where the dog was barking. Anthony was on his stomach, peering into the culvert with his headlamp. He could see a raccoon huddled deep in the culvert. The raccoon was angry and hissing and clearly not pleased at being cornered. Anthony aimed his gun and shot but did not kill the raccoon; rather, the raccoon ran out of the culvert and towards him. Anthony leapt to his feet, swearing as not just one but four raccoons spilled out of the culvert. I ran to a safe distance, holding Annie back as Anthony unloaded his gun unsuccessfully at the mess of raccoons at his feet. The raccoons dove back into the relative safety of the culvert and after much swearing and deliberation, Anthony decided we better move on and we left the hollow laughing at our fruitless yet exciting experience. The rest of our night was uneventful as Annie didn’t hit on any smells. We headed back towards the farmstead and as we pulled out the driveway, I thought in the rearview mirror to have seen a glimpse of a light in the house. Was the farmer there watching our escapades the entire time? I will never know. But if his spirit was in there I don’t think he felt malicious. I wondered if we are meant to haunt the places that meant the most to us during our lifetimes and if we ever truly leave this earth. I think he would have been amused watching two young people with a dog enjoying a November night in the Driftless region.

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Monster of the Corn By Debbie Kimball, Waterville, IA Adult Nonfiction

It was a fall evening and I had just returned home from work. Driving into our garage, I realized that I’d forgotten to check the mailbox. Oh well, I need the exercise; I’ll just walk back out there. The lane to our house is long, about a 5-minute walk, but if I hurried there was still enough daylight to get to the mailbox and back before darkness fell. The weather was perfectly warm and calm. The long lane to our home, like most years, was lined on both sides with fields of tall corn. The stalks were starting to turn brown but were not yet ready for harvest. I enjoy having the rows of corn along the driveway and I started thinking how I always miss the cornstalks when they are gone. Before I got to the lane, I stopped to check on one of my plants growing at the edge of the yard. Dawdling over the plant I realized the sun was getting lower and I’d spent more time than I should have. Oops, I’d better hurry, so I headed on my way to the mailbox. Admiring the cornstalks and lost in my thoughts, I didn’t at first notice the slight swooshing sound coming from the corn. Eventually I noticed it and thought “It’s just the wind.” Now a rustling sound just behind me. “Wait, what? There’s no wind tonight.” I still kept walking. Almost halfway between the yard and the mailbox, I heard it again, this time louder and closer. No big deal, maybe just a bird. Now I’m much further from the house and I hear it again. Whatever it is seems to be keeping up with me, staying alongside but hidden in the corn. I started to get creeped out as I realize my husband would not be home for another hour and I had left my phone in the car. It rustled again and it seemed even closer. I knew that whomever or WHAT ever was following me, I probably could not outrun it this far from the house. All of a sudden scenes and villains from scary movies began to run through my head… Jason in Friday the 13th…Freddie Kruger in Nightmare on Elm Street…Chainsaw Massacre…CHILDREN OF THE CORN!!...Ugghhh! Why had I watched any of those creepy shows? I walked faster and continued to the mailbox and the road. If worse came to worse, I could flag down a passing car, maybe one of my neighbors would drive by, maybe my husband would come home early. Anything! Then I heard it, the sound was so, so close. I cringed to think that at any minute, I might be at the mercy of WHO. KNOWS. WHAT! All of a sudden there it was, and it said… Meeee-owwwww??? Oh geez, it was just Bonzo, my cat. He had been stalking me the whole time! How he was able to make so much noise I’ll never know. I picked him up, scratched his ears and said “Ah, Bonzie, I’m so glad you are the only monster of the corn tonight.” And just then, the coyotes howled…

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Ain’t Afraid of No Ghost! By Rita McKee, Lansing, IA Adult Nonfiction

This story is not a scary story. Unless you are afraid of ghosts. Really, GHOSTS ARE ALL AROUND YOU! When I was a kid, on my Uncle Cyril Knopf’s farm at night, Cyril would say in a squeaky voice, “I’m Casper, the Friendly Ghost,” because my brothers and I were afraid of ghosts. He would say friendly, calm things to our scared little selves. Now, I know that real ghosts are ever present. They tell me things. They tell me to do things. I’M NOT MAKING THIS STUFF UP! When I was on my way to work one day, enjoying the sunny Mississippi River, my late brother Tom McKee’s face flashed by quickly, telling me “I’m OK sis.” That was all. No one else ever called me “sis” but Tom. Later, as I was peering into the refrigerator looking for a snack, I thought of Tom again, with an immediate urge to buy supplemental health insurance. Shortly after that, my husband, Bruce Clark, needed more medical attention than he ever needed in his life, so we really used that insurance. Thanks, Tom! I seem to be in the right place at the right time. Like the time my ghost led me to find a friend at the hospital with her ailing husband, and she needed a break, so we went out to lunch. The time I called a friend, and found out that he needed help getting to the hospital. The time I took the right turn to find a place of employment for a young person. A place I didn’t know existed until that moment. I don’t pick up hitchhikers. But then I did. There was a young girl on Highway 21 between Tomah and Sparta, with a blanket around her shoulder instead of a jacket. She wasn’t hitchhiking. She was just walking, but I stopped the car, without really knowing that I stopped the car. She was stranded, and needed to get back home to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I helped her to get to the bus station. She didn’t ask for anything, but I gave her twenty dollars. Later I checked on her, she had eaten, and as she was

getting ready to step onto the bus, she said “I feel much better now.” I have no idea why she was stranded, and never questioned her. But somebody made me stop the car for her, somebody without a body. Back to my Uncle Cyril. He died and we were planning an auction. Before the auction, I was trying to give away some sentimental things to relatives. The items were spread on the floor, and I was puzzled. I had no idea what anyone would want. Uncle Cyril and his sister Aunt Rosemary Knopf were very religious and had quite a few religious items, and I was thinking, who is going to want this stuff? I heard, “Let me decide.” So I threw names into a hat, and they got whatever came out. There were some specific things for my brothers: an aerial picture of the farm for my brother Jim, an arrow collection for my brother Roy, a Last Supper picture for my brother Bob, a painting by Rosy for my brother Donnie. A religious photo went to a niece. Other things were distributed to other relatives. These things all seemed to make sense. My ghost was right. I felt an urgent need to get these things to my relatives immediately. I knew I was not supposed to procrastinate. I had to do it NOW! There were no goosebumps. No hair standing on end. No doom and gloom. But my mom always said, when Uncle Cyril tells you to do something, DO IT, and I did. I am optimistic and believe that the many ghosts that surround me want to help me. Sometimes they are bossy and tell me things I don’t want to do, but are for my own good or for others. Sometimes my ghosts come to me in dreams, but the message is usually garbled nonsense. I ask the ghosts to be more clear and detailed, if they want me to carry out their demands. No, I don’t think I have ESP. No, I don’t think it is my conscience. I think it is my ghosts. For one thing, I often know their names. I won’t use Ouija boards. I won’t use seances. I won’t use mediums. I fear that these might open portals to unfriendly ghosts. My friendly ghosts will come to me on their own. I don’t want to force them to come. I am awaiting instructions from my next ghost.

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The Old Armory Haunting By JoAnn Stevenson, Decorah, IA Adult Nonfiction

When my friend and I opened the door and entered, the large ceiling lamp was wildly swaying backand-forth. My friend, Sue, and I had been out that night at an event and it was quite late. We looked at each other and didn’t know what to think…this was one of several other strange incidents that would happen in our newly renovated living space. The first thing that happened was about a week before this. My husband and I had just moved into our new apartment on the second floor of the old Armory building. I had come home from work (Decorah Newspapers) and I was sitting on the couch, lamenting to my husband that it was very hot in the apartment. The air conditioning had not been hooked up yet. Just as soon as I told him that, I felt a blast of cold air on my face. Other peculiar, unexplainable things continued to happen. In the middle of the night, a lamp on my bedside table fell to the ground, without breaking - waking us both up. A few nights later, the lamp on the other side of the bed fell to the ground but didn’t break. The lampshade was damaged. The ghost was definitely trying to get my attention! One day I came home from work and found a shop-vac wheel in the oven. Again, no explanation of how it got there. Then, there was the night I stayed up late to watch a show about celebrities that had been haunted. This episode was about a Victorian house, where several times in the night the water in the upstairs bathtub would turn on, waking the woman, and she would have to get up out of bed, and shut it off. She had a plumber come and check out the tub and faucet, but he found nothing wrong with either of them. In the middle of the same night, I woke up to a strange noise coming from the front bathroom. I couldn’t identify the noise, so I got up to investigate. The bathtub water faucet was turned on, the drain was closed, the large tub was full of water, and the sound I had been hearing was the overflow working so that our home wouldn’t be flooded. By this time I was very spooked! Literally!! My son and his girlfriend were visiting and she was telling us that her mother had seen a ghost in her house in Calmar. They were standing in the doorway of our front bedroom. I had a bolt of fabric on a table with about a yard of it draped over the top of the table. As soon as she said that, the fabric slid off the table onto the floor... I was in my friend’s shop downtown Decorah and the two of us were discussing my aberrant situation. A woman that I had never met before was sitting there and overheard our conversation. She said “you need to have my friend come - she’s a psychic.” I contacted her and she was willing to come. Several women came for their own readings. She was spot on with everyone! When it was my turn, she said that I had a ghost or spirit that might have been a soldier. She talked about my dad. My dad as a young man had served in the US Navy in World War II. Could it be him? He had died when I was 12. I became quite emotional and realized that I had tears in my eyes. That night I had two of my young grandchildren spend the night and we slept in the front bedroom. That room lets in a lot of light in the morning from the three large windows and my youngest grandson woke up very early. After a few minutes of laying there quietly he said, “your dad is in the closet!” I looked at him bewildered and asked him why he had said that. Instead of an explanation, he let out an eerie laugh... Other strange, unexplainable things continued to happen. I ultimately decided that I needed to research how to get rid of the spirit or ghost. I told the ghost that I wanted him to leave because he was frightening me. I then lit sage, walked around the apartment, and said the Lord’s Prayer. It worked and the ghost stopped haunting our living space. It is an experience that I will never forget! I definitely believe that there is a spirit world and an afterlife…

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The “Excorsis”-ing Ghost By Rhonda Cahoon, Waukon, IA Adult Nonfiction

I can honestly say that I have always been somewhat of a believer in the spirit world. After the incidents depicted below in my story, my belief only strengthened. Our daughter, when she was young and who’s bedroom was upstairs, (ours was downstairs), had always insisted that we had a ghost of some sorts. She swore that she would hear footsteps creaking on the stairs or in the hallway. We marked it down to old house creaks and groans, until I started to notice some sounds that gave me pause…… The most notable of these sounds was the night we lay in bed drifting off to sleep and I noticed the sound of someone walking up the basement steps, faintly, and then a pail that was on the steps went tumbling down the steps. Okay, I thought, just my imagination and the pail was on the edge of the steps. The next most notable example: we had our treadmill set up in the basement where we would exercise. One evening while I was preparing supper the treadmill started running at top speed. I assumed my husband was running on it and opened the door and yelled to him to not run it at such a high speed. He answered back from the living room that he was watching TV. We looked at each other and then down the basement stairs, where the treadmill suddenly stopped. Cautiously we went down the stairs only to find that the treadmill wasn’t even plugged in!! Call me a believer! That was atleast 30 years ago and while there has been nothing as notable as the treadmill incident, I have occasionally been startled awake by some noise that I am not sure where it came from or what it was!

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Apparition By Logan Hahn, Decorah, IA Adult Nonfiction

With its glowing reflection on a sheet of clouds the only promise that it would return, the sun leaves the man to his mind. From the safety of a wooden chair by a fireplace, this transforming space is a soft thought. From where he has hidden himself in the branch of a colossal oak, it is a reminder of nature’s indifference. Steadily dropping behind the bluff and disappearing below a jagged horizon of pines, the sinking sun casts a spell. The rapidly cooling air whispers a faint breeze on its plunge to the frozen December earth while the hidden nuthatches twitter the last sleepy notes of their twilight song. This side of the planet is renewed in night. In the distance, the man detects a sliver of the snow-sealed forest contorting to life. The pinhole-sized hallucination swirls in the ever-growing range of his dilating pupils. This distinct spot in the forest is changing at a rate too independent of the whims of wind to be leaves. Too unencumbered from the deep, committed earth-grasp that the forest’s giants endure to be the trees. Almost imperceptibly, this part of the forest is moving of its own accord. The man’s eyes widen as his focus narrows on the pale patch of color, flickering among the tangled winter understory, unstoppable, until it dominates every rounded corner of his fixed gaze. As the jaws of his mind close on his sanity to a gritting clench, the shape begins to take form, bringing with it a faint sound of motion. This sound is surely too small to be attributed to the formidable specter in question, but alas, it is the only available sound in the dead winter woods to be attributable to it. Soon to be swallowed by night, the man squints, straining to shake the vision. As the poison of acceptance takes hold, it is heaved from the earth. It is undeniably among him. An Apparition. Just as much a piece of this unforgiving place as the twisted oak in which the man hides, just as much a hard-earned resident of this place as the man is a soft stranger, the apparition compounds the quaking in the mans cold body with the humbling power of its stubborn existence. A coat of hair as dense as the forest that it haunts fails to conceal the apparition’s

network of sinew and lean flesh. Splints of obsidian-tipped ironwood grow from its core, floating its mass through the trees with the silent ease of a leaf around the jutting rocks of a spring. From its head, raw bone towers in a branching sprawl. Indifferent to its significance to the racing mind of the hidden infiltrator, the apparition continues its forward campaign. Impossibly, the apparition now stands unobstructed before the man in stark defiance of the woodland that had so easily concealed it moments ago. Through his new eyes, from which he witnessed the disarming arrival of this thing, the man fails to fully recognize that the hulking form before him is the same quarry he seeks. Not a hallucination, but this thing is indeed the forest. Fresh clarity withers to an absurdity the confident intentions the man had seconds ago. Acting on the notions of his old plans, he draws the string. The weight of his intent manifests through his arms in a weakening shudder, rattling the carbon shaft on its rest. The form halts to the state of a stone likeness, transforming the subtlest of movements into careless revelations to the petrified still of its black, glistening eye. Unconvinced, the apparition fails to recognize that two of the many limbs in the tangled canopy above are harboring a massive store of potential energy, energy that can be made kinetic through a guided knife in an instant. With barely enough conviction to steer the drifting silk of a milkweed, a breeze curls around the mans neck in a swirl, licking from a cold drop of sweat the most telling sign of his presence. Drawing a deep, inquisitive breath, the apparition asks the wind to reveal the sinister secrets that belie the tranquility of the forest. A dreadful urgency, sent from the accrued wisdom of an unbroken chain of successful ancestry, hard-earned through generational eons of surplus death, lights up every synapse in the primal mind of the apparition. The crisp break of a branch in the canopy acts as an explosive catalyst to action. In a furious bolt, the apparition floats through a thicket dense enough to surely overcome the seething intent of a predator. Slowing to a trot, it stops to take a victorious glance at a landscape free of pursuit. Unaware of its fate, its stirring mind fades to black as this towering product of the forest buckles to the same soil that fostered its rise.

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new ion of the for dedicat wn Decorah turned out downto ing cereHundreds Commons in ribbon-cutt ch starteim Vesterh Sept. 30. The whi of work ts | ay, ion urd Roo inat Sat ng the culm the Stro terheim. mony was April 2019 with Grow Ves in n ed back paign to is Johnso and Chr ure Cam celBold Fut ’s Ruth Schultz ” at the eim sen takk ing. “tus lt cutt Vesterh rtfe ribbond a hea Thursday, ication andOctober 12, 2023 extende of the ded ebration

Vol. 158, Issue 42

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2023 Election “Two Stories About the Gold Buckskin explored Whi ncher” perform Decorah Nov. ballot detailed by ward

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ances this weekend

Based on your city government knowledge and the status of our city currently, what are your top priorities for Decor ah and why? How do you plan to involve Decorah residents in your decision-making proces s? What qualification s possess that disting do you uish you and would contrib ute to the council a different point of view?

Jody Meyer

Brent Parker

“Two Stories About the Gold Buckskin Whinch er” is a musical about a mag-City ward Decorah ical object, the gold With the regular city buckand school board elecwhich depicts tions coming up and skin whincher,map, and absentee balloting underthe the most way, this election guide big changes that happenrecent uphas been compiled dates to each ward to ensure the voters of the in the lives of the people county are fully aware after the 2021 reof their choices on the ballot who find it because in Decorah. Voting is ofand 2020 districting a right that should be its magical powers. Andrew and Alli (Kephart) Tjossem returned for Luexercised regularly in The census. electing duly-sworn represen show will be perform ther Homecoming with their sons Henrik and Iver. Steve Zittergruen tatives. Election candied date information for Thursday-Saturday, Emily Neal They live in Eagan, Minn. the Decorah City Council, Oct. Park and Recreation 19, 20 and 21 at 7 p.m. and Decorah Commun ity listen to concerns School Board are listed and Sunday, Oct. 22 below. at 2 and, with an open mind, p.m. at the New Minowa study The regular election will be held Tuesday, the issues. Through discernment and prayer, Nov. 7, with polls opening Players Theatre at I will come up with a fair 906 and just decision. at 7 a.m., and closing at 8 p.m. South Mill Street in I feel well-qualified Decorah. Tickets can to be on the council be purchased at Oneota Absentee voting began with By Denise Lana nowand hopes to fiat ll www.ne the seat now open after online wminowaplayers.ludus.c Community Food Co-op Wednesday, Oct. 18, my background of working with and for by features om. mail Johnson’s departure. Randy Schissel was the public TOPand (l-r) Elizabeth Jirak, in-person at the Winnesh through my vocation A scene titled “musica and career as a soil iek County conserva l soup eater” Auditor’s Weber, Clara Garcia-P Charlott ion in The 2023 Decorah election for city coun- elected in 2021 to RIGHTrepresent Ward 1,Louis but afe Offi icat Yu. ce, tionist rats, in the ded Yannale with courthou All The Luther Norse the USDA. My job required smiles a scene from xi De La Garza and The the was hetta se, in Decorah. ing Flag cil, school board, and parks and recreation ter Abby the map redistricting, he fell into in Ward window for voting by the NMP children’s Rocksvo arks dur theeparade ld, Lorenzo firm Snø show (l-r): Louis Weber, mail is Oct. 18-23, and me to listen to farmers’ wants and then remthroughout flying Fernand The hitectur develop in person at the auditor’s is just around the corner! Wards in the city 5. photos BecausebyheRoz has Weis) two years remaininge,inCharlotte Yu and Campbell Tripp. a conservation plan that e opening tion al arc panies. office is Oct. 18-Nov. alongloca Water Street (Driftless Multimedia rna and met their needs and prol com Chair, gav ed interoute io. s 6. pat of Polling stee were redistricted just after the 2021 election, his term, Schissel will continue to serve on tected m locations own ped and conserve are established by ward n tea Drive during rd of Tru igned by ren and ctioCollege landscathe . and my life experien d the natural resources. I feel are as follows: eim Boa and the new ward map is depicted above. the council as Ward 5 representative. Ward des a constru surrounding a Comcelebration ces have given me many , Vesterh lity was the e homecoming weekend festiviIM, with Decorah of oppor- The faci ased BN • Ward 1: Winneshiek h Schultz rly an acr dworking during City Council will be seeking new ward rep- 2 has no candidate on the ballot, and no curtunities and hopefull land the the City Co. Courthouse Annex LEFT- Rut Decorah. MIDDLE ported by Iowa-b e levels and nea avianties woolast week. detail the 3 with this commun y much wisdom in dealing • Ward 2: Winneshiek resentatives for Wards 1 and 4 as well as fill- rent representative. Ward 3 representative sup thre chase from d in red ndin bmitted Co. Courthouse Annex ity.” downtown in Norway) and as marke trict plans to pur ary school. (su across the traditional Sca 4 • Ward 3: First Lutheran ing an At Large opening. Candidates for Kirsten Olson will serve two more years, as ts The are spreads Dis trated element (with roo Church, 604 W t facility is) School demons Broadway Street city council include Jody Meyer and Brent will Ross Hadley, the second At-Large repWARD 1: Brent Parker munity Roz We posed new -Martin square foo by pro 00a sum tos 7,6 Luther College President Jenifer K. for Fos edia pho By DeniseonLana • Ward 4 and 5: Good Parker for Ward 1 representative, Steve Zit- resentative the council. Darlene Decorah “One of my top priorities ss Multim Cline Shepherd RIGHTWard drove down Water Street with n iftle is accordin responsi Lutheran Joh (Dr g to) ble to Church, 701 Iowa Avenue Strand. City Manfiscal de. tergruen for Ward 4 representative, and EmThe 2023 Regular City and School Elecpho management. I believe r t of the have been expandin More insi Board of Regents member Willie in ensuring that our agerpolls area nea Travis Goedken will area wes Those with election The tax ily Neal for At Large. tion willDecorah be held Tuesday, Nov. 7, with another work events, informat g through City Council questions can call 563- dollars are spent wisely and that we Davismckennie (’84 alum) behind with ion booths, 382-5085 and School and and softball Strand and city staff maintain a Zittergruen, who was elected in 2021 to held openafrom 7 a.m. to 8 p.m. Absentee voting Weis balanced budget. We special baseball speak to a represen meeting ito outreach opportun Monday, By Roz live in a time when the wheel. tative from thing ities and oth- the Auditor’ the current north side of Cla everyrepresent Ward 5, now falls into Ward 4 due Oct by mail Wednesday, 18research throughState Revolving Fund er ways. 16, atbegins 5 p.m., is getting more expensiv s office. The online munity the to discuss Oct. the loan options for She shared how the County Winneshiek to e, and it is crucial orah Com Board fields on e. the project. to the map redistricting. Ward 4 representa- city’s Monday, Oct. 23. in the Auditor’s Office Wastewa maintain the financial lle ter Absentee The Dec committee planned to Treatmenvoting SD) t health of our city and Vanopen borne Driv John Hje Dyke presented a tentacontinue forms, polling locations page has voter maps, support the trict (DC Plant ber ed tive Steve Luse’s term is ending and he will Winneshiek County Auditor’s Offi ce, (WWTP Dis clos ). mem ool usservices a , and more visit winneSch and programs that our Board time frame for the project, connecting to the community in shiekcounty.iowa a good disc s met in y resinot be seeking re-election, but due to city 8 Steve a.m. to 4Van p.m.,Dyke, in the Courthouse,tive Decorah, dents rely on. .gov/departments/auditor/ 2024 by increasing its of Director ion early Monda project “We’ve had n going on elecpresence tion-information. - said, rules, when two or more council members manager begins Oct. throughing Nov. 6. with design starting December at Luther Our infrastructure is with18engineer it has bee reviewing special sess . 2, to discuss pos firm the backbone of our College and working sion and August 2024, then bidafter com, Oct reside in the same ward, that ward automat- Strand WatchAssociat for candidate profiles in through the Public munity. I am dedicate k es, detailed for a new for 16 years … in tandem with the morning d to improving our ding the project in sites, I thin city’s Sus- Each city candida acquisition local ically has to go on the next election’s ballot. weaknes Opinion’s election guide. infrastructure, which September tainabili ses upcoming multiple in the 40-yearte was asked the thing sible land school. old and October ty Commission. includes roads, utilities multiple, same ly the best the To questions: 2024 and com- read ry Hence, Zittergruen is on the ballot for Ward WWTP, underlining that and public facilities. elementa rly an hour of dis- this is absolute for the This most full not report pletion ard only visit, www. enhances the of the project by end plants usually last 1. Based on your city 4 representative. quality of life for our of decorahia.org. Members of the Luther College Black Alumni AssociaAfter nea ed session, board to do moving forw around 30 2026. No government knowled residents but also attracts ge businesses decisions were made, clos and the status of our Kirk Johnson, one of two current At Large years and stressing to the tion and Black Student Union made their way on the paand investments that and unancity currently, what are cussion in rict.” a school and the benefit our lomore information,counincluding voting project will be discusse your cal economy reconvened purchase dist top priorities for Decorah be just it was representatives, is completing his four-year cilFor beyond rade route. d Property sale . Small businesses are time over- further a members and why? , “it will “It won’t discussion the lifeblood locations, sample toballots and more, at future meetings. approved haul 2. How do you plan rsburg said term and is not seeking re-election. the city’s WWTP. properimously to involve Decorah resi- of our community. I will work to create The council held ven space,” Pete space.” scan this code to concity-owned a public dents in your decision a busiTau Delta Gamma sorority was represented Neal was elected in 2019 as Ward 2 rep Among ness-friendly environm g handwo at the his QR ns concerns were an ent John be a community -making process? avin hearing to receive commun plan for ent, support local entreDecDecorah Human Rights ,Parade. the curr conversatio ber/we fi nect to the Winneshiek of nue for aging ity said 3. t What Luther Homecoming but fell into Ward 1 after the map redistrictpreneurs aeration rg had Ave qualifi ool and promote initiative system that con- Commi cations do you possess oing ty wes input regarding the sale Rural Petersbu th Studio Brown s that stimulate entary Sch that diss are ong County ression report of city- tinguish you and would 26Roz linens on photos Weis) Melissa (Driftless ing. With her four-year term ending, Neal sists of partsAuditor’s le Multimedia sts’by no longerwebsite Cline Elem for a proposed new with city official owned property comprise contribute to the council economic growth. A thriving local economy and and tab Iowa Arti The council held its garding upcoming used elections. 00 d of a different point of view? proclothing is seeking reelection for city council, buthard vides jobs, enhances to replace, the NE regular property near old blowers, a semi-mo $1,975,0 school. the vibrancy of our commuing the the high school nthly meeting after ry flawed sludge heat orah dur 29-Oct. 1. nity and keeps our tax ol Peterselementa softball diamond and exchanger the special base strong. ber Brian enter Scho Sept. e8 r corner mem meeting WARD and of pag rd Tou antiquate adjourne 1: I to will Jody on Boa d control system. maintain an active online d. Claiborne and Meyer ion Melissa Koch, Heivly Streets. continued presence e the mot Strand also addresse “Some of the issues burg mad tract with the City d the idea the Decorah chairperson of The property is being I see facing the constitu- use social media and other digital platform and purchased ents of Decorah con of installing solar osed Human Rights by s to keep residents informed are growth of the city, into the power and Commis the prop Decorah Schools for and for engaged affordab . These sion, le $1.9 housing, public safety a battery storagethe platBy Roz Weis orah-North Winneshiek interim After the merger of North reciprocity agreement was a 30 students each year. case, with an average of 30 presented the million forms will also allow of Decorah system and taxes. The city at the commission’s for online discussions and includes both prop- have will WWTP,agreeand a hard time growing school board (which was orga- Winneshiek, some parents opt- major talking point in the mergWhen the reciprocity students continuing to travel to annual report, erties which would allow if affordable housing feedback. I will listen to what you as the as well as all the utilities the emphasizing cannot be provided. citizen plantthen-Mament was approved, Decorah Community School nized during the merger talks ed for their children to attend er negotiations. Minnesota for school at a cost the recent hate that run have to say and actively to store energy We also have to justify gathered through the propertie seek your opinion. I our listen to the from the arrays. of approximatelycrime will s. tax base in order to attract Board (DCSB) members were between Decorah and North Mabel-Canton, due to proximDCSD Superintendent Tim bel-Canton Superintendent $7,635andperthe community’s city employees as well. people/businesses to Working in in the aftermath. Koch our community. informed at the regular monthly Winn) approved a five-year ity to their homes, consistency Cronin informed board mem- Gary Kuphal stated The he believed student per year insupport state aid. municipal government, overall WWTP project City Council I have seen firsthand is expounded on If elected, I plan on local meeting Monday night that the reciprocity agreement with Ma- and community. The matter was bers Monday night that in 2018, the number of estimate studentsd who The million, financial impact of the how the conto cost $4.9 having an open dialog nections with all my constitue five-year reciprocity agreement bel-Canton School District, al- discussed at length in 2018. it was expected that 14-15 stu- wanted to attend Mabel-Can- reciprocity agreement was with then the community Candidates respond continued on page nts through face-to-f 7 contact, phone with the Mabel-Canton School lowing North Winneshiek area The interim board at that time dents would attend Mabel-Can- ton would decline. He believed discussed. Cronin said that with conversations and email. ace I will District is scheduled to expire students to attend Mabel-Can- was made up of representatives ton and utilize the reciprocity there would be a “natural School board continued on page 5 crete and soon. ton, about two miles from the from both Decorah and North plan. Instead, that number has break” from the move to Matrail be con crete. In fall 2018, the Dec- Iowa border in Minnesota. Winn Boards. The inter-state grown and has averaged about bel-Canton. ThatBy has not been part of the continued on page 5 alt or con Zach Jensen asph as ks Con in, as far as an engineer a the rest ies, Wic ise Lan . We where the By Den ee compan Companies, and cattle crossings need to get this on Middle Calmar Road interim county engineer the dock- are,” but ting Thr Shift may et for sometim ’s of- to handle the without a county onthly mee n, submitstruction, i-m ctio be e getting in sem fi the county’s ncil ce stru future, engineer in worse, but without a and HR is- accept and of At its City Cou g Skyline Con because this has gone place, her only conversa “keep having those sues, as well as file WinnMed’s anlowest bid county engineer, that Decorah the possibility nual on and other option, tions.” , with the regardin trend may on and Sky Monday, audited financial report. the superviof perhaps hiring a on, and I think you The St. Benedict eighth grade family (Rachel Weis, Carissa lic hearing the city’s ted bids 1.50 coming from likely only continue. “I will. That’s why I’m new HR all sors suggested, award held a pub for • Discussions on the here,” professional can attest to that. I’ve is to continue Schluter $113,11 class will present the musical Peel, Carlton Nordschow, Luvoted to and bids Resident Karen Schluter lease as a county embeen out talking with said. Recreation line. The council line. the plans of the old jail by the ad- there 20 years, officials, includployee. “The Enchantment of Beauty cas Weigle and their dog, Ray . Historical ler Park dressed the Winnesh and last I knew, ing to Sky iek Coun- it was on reaching out to Iowa 2023 Mil rovement Project Society, Freeport property contract • A public hearing and the Beast” (Pioneer Dra- Hayek) one last time. Beauty a five-year plan, and State Other busines ty Board of Supervis the the /IRP was request and hiring Senator Mike Klimesh ors with I’ve been s Trail Imp is historically scheduled for the vacation . ma Productions). Performances (Gracie Tangen), the widow’s waiting for that fivea county enher ongoing complain the • Supervisor Kelsay ues the of gineer were tabled. “One thing you can do ts on the year plan. Miller Park Decorah, and reported Happy Hollow eted Stu Street iss installation at will be held Wednesday, Oct. youngest daughter, goes in her I want action.” is talk that he and in condition of the road Road on Nov. 6 Fenn gre to our state senator, improving Supervisor Ver- at during the first park The supervisors’ new Stop sign Broadway Street “Our hands have been h and Dan farm north of Dec ses on 10:30 a.m. and see mace met 18, at 1 p.m. and 7 p.m., at Car- place to spare her mother’s ora supervis the focu sound of ors’ Deb Oct. ect tied ugh ir artwith County Attor16 meeting. what he can do to proj thro TOPsystem will be installed for years,” replied Supervis intersection ago Street was disn glass sts at the help out,” ney Andy • The supervisors rie Lee School auditorium in life. With the help of the casthat runs “As you know, I’m the s e Grass at nal blow her ors neb Tour gue unaniVan n Pin Supervis Blu the trail ctio Der the e Win dio sed week to ctio Maten girl or fun ts Steve of Vice-Chair Mark Vick, to mously approved Oct. 23. The superviand Kelsay said. discuss Marlen and Decorah. showca tle’s occupants (Aiden Whalen, that complains about connec ent constru d of a motion to sors “and “Talk to Mike.” the county’s human park and the Mid- the money Scheffert th of Decorah. Avenue. orah. Fun featured. ABOVE- enjoying the will meet for its regular re- offer county positions cussed. Rec consiste thisnor adapted classicthe fable, Maggie Gavle, Molly KeuhPleasant is going to be tough n dle Calmar Road, - Jeanine In ge sources (HR) issues; e would the intersection to Car- meeting at and I will to come Drive and “I think more people work was Foster have bee years. MIDDLE ers Excahan the bulk ston Baumler swalks to during Cop- ner, Anders Wicklund, Dawson 9:30 a.m. Monday, es (Bennett by.” ments mad selfish piec prince eneed of which are probably continue until 20 ly and Garrett Wise. d Sav out the cros e visible Improve currently handled to,” added Supervis and Hol r for more than someof old pav Oct. 23, and the annex wn pottery bumping Schluter asked the mor elry at See ors Chair by the • A public hearing was removal thing is done,” Schluter building board if Dan Langrec swheel-thro is)pola) refuses to provide rest and Irons, Dominic Christopher and aper jew with as- make pedestrians county attorney’s ofdio Tou sched- will be closed cros include his g g/p Stu said. of “I the acin akin k. there was any way they could repl uled for the Baumler the remainder of ing off one know the situation that /printm Roz We shelter for a disguised wizard Brock Bullerman), Beauty is fice. During the rezoning the week excavation as well as mak ment and Supervisor Shirley painting e shows edia photos by you’re help repair as the approximateVermace group discusse meeting, the request for Oct. 30 at 10 concrete, (Jay Jensen). He curses him for able to help the Beast learn how ir/ the “bad spots, Doug Col a.m. phalt or suggested Schluter contact walk repa d the possibility RIGHT- r. (Driftless Multim ly-$35,000 sound • The supervisors his selfish ways. The prince is to love and show compassion. cil system is ading, side er culverts, the of paying an unani- installed. and regr outside vendor mously Studio Tou ty Coun 6 then destined to be a “beast” The team behind the perfor, storm sew came forth Ci approved a motion repaving on page to (Bennett Coppola - Act I/Jalen mances includes: director/proing. No one ineer Jerecontinued and seed Eng City rst Klees Act II) until he learns ducer Paula Jewell; co-director fi k. ed the to spea recommend compassion and love for others. Indigo Fish; music director Sarah my Bril Years later, a poor widow (Eden Kowitz; art director Sherri HolNorthup) takes the beast’s for- land; dance director Jess Tangen; bidden rose. Though the beast videographer Judy Franzen; and Front row (l-r): Jay Jensen, Carissa Peel, Rachel Weis, Anders Wicklund-subbing in for Aiden Whalen, Bennett Coppola, sentences her to death, he al- tech crew Andy Carlon, Ari Al- Gracelynn Tangen, Maggie Gavle and Molly Kuehner. Back row: Dominic Christopher, Dawson Irons, Eden Northup, Brock Bullerman, Jalen Klees, Carlton Nordschow and Lucas Weigle. Not pictured: Ray Hayek and Aiden Whalen.(submitted photo) lows her to go back and see her bert and Becca Kane.

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