Viking Lake

By Charlie Glasgow

Imagine slipping back into time. It's 1972 and Professor William Bates takes a sabattical to clear his head and his heart. The story he's hoping to write is sidetracked for something much more sinnister by the ghosts and demons that haunt this area of Iowa. The love he's hoped for is just acoss the lake, but twenty-seven years in the past. Babies are heard crying in the night at the house by the lake. Odd things and unexplainable tales follow the Professor through this novella and the love that follows him is even more bizarre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charlie Glasgow
• Release date: Aug 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393921943

Charlie Glasgow

  Charlie grew up on the banks of the Mississippi River in a spooky old house surrounded by old mansions throughout the city of Quincy, Illinois. This is book number five and several are still coming. Phoeniz, Arizona is now home to this well traveled musician and writing is a love that was reignited after a thirty-five year pause. 

Book preview

Forward

Iwish to thank my Grandma B for my spooky side and all the great moments in her house. Thanks to my mother Virginia Glasgow for the encouragement to read and the ancient Underwood typewriter that she brought home. Music has been my first love, but it’s patient and allows me the time to write and create on a different kind of keyboard. I also love all the old spooky houses in my hometown of Quincy, Illinois and of the course the old Quincy Public Library that sat huddled on the corner of fourth and Maine Street. It still sits today as the Gardner Museum and looks like a crouching lion waiting to gobble up school children from years gone by. My library card was a gift from my grandmother and kept me entertained for so many years. I can still remember the bookcases and smell of the books. The dust would settle in your nose and create a sneeze underneath the metal ceiling fans. Truly, it was the best of times.

Chapter One

A Twist of the Wrist

Sitting in my office chair in Morro Bay, California, I picked up a dart and closed my eyes. Throwing it across the office, the dart landed on a map of the United States somewhere towards the middle of Iowa. Narrowly missing my assistant who entered the room during the blind throw, I apologized and tried to avoid his accusing eyes. I walked across the room and thankful that I hadn’t hurt anyone; I looked closer to find my sabbatical location for my spring and summer. 

The dart landed in a location on highway 71 in Southwest, Iowa by a nondescript piece of land named Viking Lake. Being raised in the Midwest, I envisioned a small cabin with a pump handle in the backyard just off the kitchen. The only noises to bely this quiet burg would be an occasional jet flying over the farmland and the occasional cow mooing from the pasture next door. Where the origins of Viking Lake might lie interested me greatly!

Where are you headed to professor? asked my assistant Dave.

Somewhere they can’t find me and I can write in solitude! I replied with razor sharp focus honed in on Viking Lake. I think I found a quiet little area that should be perfect for undisturbed days and nights with my trusty typewriter and rations of ale to keep me through the season.

I pulled out the Yellow pages and located a travel agent. She got back to me after some serious searching and said she had found a rental right on the lake! It seems an old convent owned the property and there were two lake houses available on one side of the lake and the convent was on the other. Woods were heavy enough to keep the seldom-used highway buffered and Des Moines or Omaha could be reached within an hour if I desired anything for supplies or a night out on the town. The small burgs of Clarinda and Villisca were both just twenty minutes or less to the South.  The agent asked if I wanted her to book a flight and I declined, as I required some serious road time to sort out a plot for my manuscript. After a painful divorce, I did what every middle aged man in America would do. I bought a 1971 Purple Dodge Challenger with white rally stripes and wore my badge of valor upon the employee parking lot. This was my reward for twenty years of marriage tragically ended as well as a few drunken nights in my tiny apartment off campus.

By the end of the week I had shuttered the apartment and said my goodbyes to the other teachers and my assistant. Nobody would miss me for the summer and I needed this road trip and stay at the lake to clear the clutter of twenty years. Similar to a garage full of boxes and cobwebs, I needed to give my brain a cleansing that would make the neighbors envious! Wait till Good Will sees me coming with a truck full of mental garbage and damaged memories.

I spent the last night with a six-pack watching the waves roll in over the sandy beaches. Gulls screamed their approval and lovers strolled down the beach almost seeking my scorn.  The next morning I left the key with my neighbor and rolled out of town for a highway that awaits no man unless he’s scooping asphalt over the wounds of time. I drove with the windows down and listened to the roar of a massive engine to drown out the beating of my heart as I left the coast behind. I had a box full of my favorite 8-tracks, but I enjoyed the solitude of the road to help filter out the poison that seeped like an infection from the heart. The trip was roughly twenty-six hours, but I broke it up over a week to take in some of the sights and enjoy the local food.

I stayed in Las Vegas for the hell of it and booked a room at the Bellagio so I could watch the fountains from my window. Several hookers on the strip called out to me like harpies on the rocks. I still hated women at this point and scorned their attempts. Looking back, I could of had a great time, but my soul was not ready for a side trip to the clinic. The second night I stopped at Grand Junction, Colorado and took in the beauty of the road traveled through the higher elevations. I pulled into Denver on day three for lunch after the journey through the Rockies. I then gritted my teeth through miles of sagebrush and arrived in York, Nebraska as the four days of driving were wearing thin on me. I think that much of the poison had been cleansed over the many miles and rock music that pushed to break on through to the other side. I left Jim Morrison and the Doors in the car 8-track player through several states for some Zen therapy. On the fifth day, I went out of my way to drive through Omaha, Nebraska and stopped for a steak at lunchtime. The coast might be known for it’s seafood, but the beef in Nebraska was beyond comparison.  

Driving across the bridge to Iowa, I felt like I had slipped into the land that time forgot. I moved the car along the I-80 and down the I-29 ramp. I felt the spooky vibe of the Missouri River before driving onto the narrow two lane roads and last chance for gas signs that taunted my purple gas eater.  I stopped at an exit for Nebraska City leading to the west, which bragged of apple cider for all the apple festival fans and checked my map. To the east lay the road towards Iowa and a trip through the city of Shenandoah where the Everly Brothers had started the early days of rock and roll. Beyond Shenandoah was the town of Clarinda, which boasted it was the hometown of Glen Miller and big band music. I would stop along the way for some groceries to stock the lake house. Within the hour, I was lucky to find the charming little town that boasted road signs at the entrance for several churches, the Lions Club and Kiwanis. I stopped at a grocery store with two checkout lines staffed by twin girls chomping a mouthful of bubble gum with reports of explosions throughout the narrow isles. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone as they both greeted me at the same time with their welcome to Winslow’s Grocery. I found the food I’d needed and stocked up on whiskey and beer for the summer. If I had been a young boy, I might have fantasized about an evening with the twins, but the smell of grape bubblegum and Jean Nate nearly turned my steak to revolt.

I left town and headed up highway