A Craft Beer Brewed Exclusively for Lake House– You won't find it anywhere else!
We are thrilled to bring you a Lake House exclusive craft beer– brewed in small batches exclusively for Lake House, you won't find Ghost Story anywhere else! Inspired by the haunted history of The Iona Lake Hotel (now Lake House Restaurant), Ghost Story will be brewed in four chapters, each accompanied by a story of the spirits who still purportedly haunt the old Inn.
Stop in and try Ghost Story Chapter 3 today!
Stop in and try Ghost Story Chapter 3 today!
Ghost Story
Chapter Three: Vincent
Long before the Lake House was a restaurant, bringing you great food, service, and drinks, it was a popular inn and summer vacation spot for all manner of guests and families. The pipe dream of the owner and his wife, they poured their savings into building a fine hotel. The day before they opened to the public, they hired a quiet, local boy to run the front desk. His name was Vincent.
Vincent knew there was something strange– almost unsettling– about the Iona Lake Inn from the moment he started working there. It started out small. Strange noises when he worked the overnight shift. Objects not being where he was sure he had left them. A chair, slightly out of position even when no one else was there. Broken dishes in the kitchen long after the summer-season chef had left for the year.
One night during the off season, Vincent was the unfortunate soul to find the freshly dead body of one of their long-time guests, the black funeral veil from her husband's untimely services dripping with blood as she lay in the third flood bathtub. From that point forward, the Inn terrified him. He was sure it would take more lives.
Vincent's fear of the Inn grew to irrational levels, and he became obsessive, determined to prove his theories to the owner and his wife, who were concerned about Vincent's mental health, but not about their Inn being haunted. Vincent kept the basement door locked at all times, made pencil marks on the floor around all of the furniture to document any unexplained movement, stayed entire nights in the kitchen watching for spontaneously breaking dishes, and stopped booking guests in Room 302. He knew the Lady in Black was still there.
One night, in the dead of winter, the Inn was empty– as it usually was in the colder months– save for Vincent, the loyal and paranoid front desk boy. The lights glowed warm, but outside, the snow fell heavy and wet. Suddenly, the ringing phone ripped through the silence, the light next to 302 glowing red in the dim light. Vincent stared at the number, hands shaking, knowing the Inn had no guests on a night like this, and that he hadn't booked a guest in that terrible room in months.
He picked up the phone and slammed it back down. The ringing started again, almost immediately. Swallowing hard, Vincent crept up the stairs, light shaking in his hand, and peered around the third floor landing. The door to room 302 was ominously ajar, and a black-gloved hand slowly appeared in the light, as if to summon Vincent into the room's depths. He turned, running down the steps, through the foyer, and out into the frigid night air. He was running from the Lady in Black. He was running from the Inn. He was running for his life.
His breath came out in foggy puffs as he stumbled along the lake shore and toward his home. The ground was snow-covered and slippery, roots and shore plants tangling his legs as he ran. Just as the road came into sight, just before reaching the boundary of the Inn's property, Vincent fell. His head smacked the ground with a thud, and he lay there, breathing heavily, teetering on the edge of consciousness. His blood soaked into the white snow around him, and as the edges of his vision began to go black, he heard the whisper of her funeral clothes, the veil dripping blood into the snow as she floated toward him, and saw that black gloved hand, reaching down to finish him.
Vincent knew there was something strange– almost unsettling– about the Iona Lake Inn from the moment he started working there. It started out small. Strange noises when he worked the overnight shift. Objects not being where he was sure he had left them. A chair, slightly out of position even when no one else was there. Broken dishes in the kitchen long after the summer-season chef had left for the year.
One night during the off season, Vincent was the unfortunate soul to find the freshly dead body of one of their long-time guests, the black funeral veil from her husband's untimely services dripping with blood as she lay in the third flood bathtub. From that point forward, the Inn terrified him. He was sure it would take more lives.
Vincent's fear of the Inn grew to irrational levels, and he became obsessive, determined to prove his theories to the owner and his wife, who were concerned about Vincent's mental health, but not about their Inn being haunted. Vincent kept the basement door locked at all times, made pencil marks on the floor around all of the furniture to document any unexplained movement, stayed entire nights in the kitchen watching for spontaneously breaking dishes, and stopped booking guests in Room 302. He knew the Lady in Black was still there.
One night, in the dead of winter, the Inn was empty– as it usually was in the colder months– save for Vincent, the loyal and paranoid front desk boy. The lights glowed warm, but outside, the snow fell heavy and wet. Suddenly, the ringing phone ripped through the silence, the light next to 302 glowing red in the dim light. Vincent stared at the number, hands shaking, knowing the Inn had no guests on a night like this, and that he hadn't booked a guest in that terrible room in months.
He picked up the phone and slammed it back down. The ringing started again, almost immediately. Swallowing hard, Vincent crept up the stairs, light shaking in his hand, and peered around the third floor landing. The door to room 302 was ominously ajar, and a black-gloved hand slowly appeared in the light, as if to summon Vincent into the room's depths. He turned, running down the steps, through the foyer, and out into the frigid night air. He was running from the Lady in Black. He was running from the Inn. He was running for his life.
His breath came out in foggy puffs as he stumbled along the lake shore and toward his home. The ground was snow-covered and slippery, roots and shore plants tangling his legs as he ran. Just as the road came into sight, just before reaching the boundary of the Inn's property, Vincent fell. His head smacked the ground with a thud, and he lay there, breathing heavily, teetering on the edge of consciousness. His blood soaked into the white snow around him, and as the edges of his vision began to go black, he heard the whisper of her funeral clothes, the veil dripping blood into the snow as she floated toward him, and saw that black gloved hand, reaching down to finish him.