Possession or Performance?

We trace Mary’s missing days at the Peoria Water Cure and the split between diagnosis and belief, then widen the lens to Wilmington’s haunted landmarks and why certain places feel charged. The thread is care: how families endure the unexplainable and how cities hold memory.

• personal connection to Watseka and stakes
• recap of Mary’s case and early possession claims
• clinic interviews, memory gaps, and skepticism
• months of treatment, routine, and family strain
• empathy for caregivers behind closed doors
• shift to Wilmington’s ghost tours and lore
• Thalian Hall history and reported activity
• USS North Carolina sightings and soundscapes
• invitation for listener stories from Wilmington
• reflection on why places feel haunted

Do you have an experience of your own to tell? We want to hear your stories. Share your experience and let your small town whispers become part of ours.

Chapters

• 0:00 Personal Ties To Watseeka
• 1:39 Recap Of Mary’s Descent
• 3:57 Peoria Water Cure Confrontation
• 9:05 Is It Illness Or Possession
• 12:08 Months Of Treatment And Strain
• 13:50 Families Behind The Headlines
• 14:39 Porchlight Whispers Begins
• 15:20 From Illinois To Wilmington
• 16:44 Ghost Tours And A Sweaty Hill
• 18:16 Thalian Hall’s Living Past
• 19:33 Shadows Aboard The Battleship
• 20:13 Invitation To Share Your Stories

Transcript

Speaker 2: 0:11

Welcome to Small Town Whispers, where history, folklore, and the paranormal collide. I'm Bethany Y ucuis Borden, and I lived in Watseka, Illinois from 1988 to 1999. For over a decade, I walked the same streets, saw the same houses, and even had friends connected to the story we're about to dive into. This isn't just history for me. It's personal. And now, here we are. I've always wanted to share this story and this strange little piece of history with others. So thank you. To everyone who's listened to episodes one through three, told a friend, left a rating, or hit subscribe. Every bit of it helps the show grow, and it truly means the world to me. I have a feeling there are more people out there who'd be drawn to this story too. Maybe even some who have a story of their own to share. But for now, let's get back to this one. Before we open the book again, let's remember where we've been. It began with a quiet farmhouse and a sick young girl named Mary. A child who'd fallen still for three long days until she woke, bound to her bed, whispering in a voice that wasn't quite her own. Before the sun had set, a cat lay dead, a knife glimmered with blood, and a voice too deep and demanding for a 17-year-old girl filled the room, followed by an innocent teen's voice saying, Now I'll have some of that broth. Then we stepped backward into Asa's story. A man shaped by hardship and perseverance, as well as savvy business skills. We met Anne, steadfast and weary, and we learned that Mary's darkness wasn't new. At just six years old, she'd cut her own skin and spoken as an old German woman named Katrina Hogan, 63 years old, and very much alive inside her small body. Josiah, Asa's business partner, had coaxed the spirit to leave. And for a while, Mary slept in peace. By episode three, that peace had faded. Mary was sent away to the Peoria Water Cure, a modern place for broken minds. But when a fit came on out of the blue, violent and sudden, the doctors wrote to Asa in anger. He traveled there, desperate, torn between faith and reason, while the doctors argued, possession or performance? Asa left Mary behind with a single demand. Find out what's wrong with her. And now we get back to the book, Watseka, America's Most Extraordinary Case of Possession and Exorcism, right where we left off on page 40. They moved Mary into a bedroom suite after that. She awoke in a new room and in a new bed, the restraining jacket removed. A nurse, a middle-aged lady whom Mary liked, sat in the corner of the room, rocking and doing her needlepoint. Mrs. Jacobs, Mary called, and the woman hurried to her bedside. Mrs. Jacobs, I'm so thirsty. Of course you are, my darling, the woman soothed. I'll get some water right away. She was gone several minutes. When she returned, she had Dr. Nevins and Kenyon with her. Mrs. Jacobs combed her hair after she had sponged off her face. Does that feel better, Mary dear? Yes. Thank you. You have been a sick little girl, Dr. Nevins said. We were quite worried about you. And so was your father, added Dr. Kenyon. Pa! Is Pa here? Mary tried to sit up, but Mrs. Jacobs pushed her gently back onto the pillow. He was here yesterday, but you were too sick to see him, replied Dr. Nevins. He's gone? Back to Watseka? She started to cry. Mrs. Jacobs hushed her in a sing song voice. But I wanted to see my pa. Was Ma with him? Or nerdy? Or the boys? No, he came alone. He came as soon as we called him. As soon as it happened and you were resting. Dr. Kenyon brushed back a hair on the girl's forehead. Mary just stared at her. As soon as what happened? That scene in the music room, came the reply. The music room? Her eyes were wider now. Did I do something in the music room? Dr. Nevins glanced at Dr. Kenyon and then at Mrs. Jacobs. You do remember being in the music room with Mrs. Green and Mrs. Whitfield? Yes. That was yesterday. That was ten days ago. You've been in a coma ever since. The girl put her hands up over her face. It was easier to cry in front of these people if her face was hidden. Oh no. It started again. Apparently it has, Dr. Nevin said sarcastically. Whatever it is, we have one opinion and your father has another. What we would like is to know what you think it is. What I think it is? How can I tell, Doctor? I never seem to remember nothing when it's over. Nothing. Have you ever tried to remember, child? This time, Mrs. Jacobs asked the question. I have. I really have. But it's like it didn't happen to me. Like it was happening to someone else. Somebody else? Dr. Kenyon's voice rose as she glanced at her colleague. How could it happen to somebody else when it happens to you? To Mary Roff? To you? I don't know. She flinched as Mrs. Jacobs wiped her cheeks with a handkerchief. It seems the one minute I'm me. And then something happens. And people say it's somebody else. And then when I wake up, I'm me again. Dr. Nevins was writing it down. Mary saw they didn't believe her. I'm sick, ain't I? I'm sick. And I'm never gonna get well. There was no answer. That's what you told Paul, isn't it? That I'm real sick. I have to stay here forever. The tears came faster now. You are sick, yes. Mary, you are, said Dr. Kenyon. But you are here because we want you to get well. We want you to get well just as much as you do, as much as your father does. If you don't know what ails me. We have a theory, Dr. Kenyon continued. And she coughed politely under her hand. Your father has another. What does Pa think? Pa is seeing me when these things happen. What does he think? He thinks, Dr. Kenyon said slowly, that you are possessed by spirits. Pa thinks I get taken over by a ghost? He said that. Mary shook her head, still not quite believing what she was hearing. Uh ghost? What? We don't believe in ghosts. Ma told me there ain't no such thing. I asked her once, and she said that there was no such thing as a ghost. That when a person dies, he stays dead a long time. And your father, what does he tell you? I can't remember my pa ever talking to me about ghosts. He talks about his business a lot and what's happening in town, and sometimes he tells us things that happened to him when he was a boy and growing up and all, but we never talk about ghosts. She shook her head, watching everything she said being written down. Well then, said Dr. Kenyon, who is it that tells you about ghosts and makes you imitate them? When she said that, Dr. Nevins glared at her quickly. He wasn't quite ready yet to get to that point of the questioning. Imitate? You know, pretend. Play that you are somebody who has passed on and has come back to haunt somebody else, Mrs. Jacobs suggested. Mary shook her head. Then you get these ideas all by yourself? Dr. Nevins was writing. I don't get any ideas. Mary said, trying hard not to set the tears in motion again. These people never believed anything she said. She had been through their questioning before. Sometimes they put words in her mouth. Her pa had told her to tell the truth, but not to let people get the wrong idea. I don't pretend. I don't know what happens. One minute everything is fine, and the next thing I know, I've done something horrible. And it's several days afterward. I don't tell lies. My ma doesn't want me to tell lies. Then that means you are telling us the truth, as you see it. Yes. I am. Dr. Nevins closed his notebook. We shall see, he said. We shall see for ourselves. They watched Mary closely after that. But weeks went by and nothing out of the ordinary happened. She took her electrochemical baths and ate the special diet and studied her school books during the day and wrote letters or played the piano in the music room after supper. Her parents came to visit her several times over the next few months. Asa was all for taking her home and saving the expense, but Anne was still weak and nervous. The birth of their last son, their tenth child in 20 years, had weakened her more than anyone had suspected. Asa would hear her crying softly beside him during the night, and each time he asked her what was wrong, she said it was only her nerves. The four small boys, even with Nervy and Lucy to help her, were more than she could handle. She loved Mary. She loved all her children, but the strain of having her home, of never knowing when she would have another of her fits, was too much for Anne. She kept asking Asa to let Mary stay in Peoria just a little while longer. A mother stretched thin, raising a house full of children, holding everything together while one of them battles something no one can name. The exhaustion, the fear, the guilt. It all starts to show in the smallest ways. When we read stories like this, it's easy to forget that behind every case or headline, there's a family just trying to survive the day. And truth is, that part hasn't changed much. You never really know what's happening behind closed doors. And sometimes, even the people behind those doors can't understand. Tonight we listen not to the pages from a book, but to the people who have felt the unexplained and found the courage to share it. Welcome to Porchlight Whispers. For the past few episodes, we've heard versions of a legend that took place still takes place in Watseeka, Illinois. But I want to step away from the Midwest for a moment. Because since moving to Wilmington, North Carolina back in 2018, I've realized something. The history here along the southeastern coastline runs deeper and darker than I ever expected. You don't just hear it, you feel it. One of the first things my husband, my son, and I did when we moved here from Orlando was go on a ghost tour downtown with haunted Wilmington. It was a perfect mix of history and mystery, though to be honest, half the tour was uphill in the summer, so by the end, the ghosts weren't the only ones sweating. Pro tip for anyone visiting: wear strong deodorant. A few years later, when my sister came to visit, we all went on a ghost pub crawl downtown, also through Haunted Wilmington. Now, I can't remember which bar it was. Probably our third or fourth stop, so you know, that tells you everything. But I do remember this. After our host finished telling his stories, we talked to a few of the employees, and every single one of them claimed they'd seen, heard, or felt something. Honestly, none of us saw or felt anything on the tour that night, except a little tipsy. But the place in Wilmington that has struck me the most is Thallion Hall. One of my first years living here, I had the chance to play my trumpet in the orchestra pit for a show. Standing down there, looking out into the elegant tiered seats, I tried to get a sense of all the performers of the past. And when I learned how old Thalion Hall was, I remember turning to someone and asking, so is it haunted? They didn't even hesitate. Oh yes. Since then, I've heard so many people say that strange things happen in that theater, but I would definitely love to hear some firsthand accounts from one of you. Dallion Hall was actually built right in the time period of the book we're reading, between 1855 and 1858. And it sits right in the heart of downtown Wilmington. Back then, this city was a center of theatrical life. Actors, musicians, traveling shows, all passing through night after night. The building was designed by architect John Montague Trimble, and it's the only one of his theaters still standing today. Thallion Hall has survived fires, the Civil War, hurricanes, and decades of economic hardship. It's a survivor, a living piece of the past, and maybe a resting place for a few souls who never left. And if you think Wilmington's hauntings end there, just ask anyone who's toured the USS North Carolina. The battleship anchored across the river. Visitors and staff have reported footsteps in the lower decks, shadows slipping between the bunks, and doors that open themselves when no breeze is blowing. Some say the ship still carries the echoes of the men who served and sometimes died aboard her. She's a floating museum, but she's also something else. Something watching. Wilmington is full of places like that. Places where the past presses up close, breathing just behind your shoulder. So as we keep sharing Watsika's story, I'd love to hear yours. Especially if you've lived in Wilmington for a long time, or if you've ever experienced something strange at Thallion Hall, the battleship, or in any of the corners of this old coastal city. You can send your story by emailing porchlightwispers at gmail.com or send us a message on the Small Town Whispers Facebook page. Because every town has a whisper. Every porchlight has a story. And some of the best ones come from right next door. That was this week's edition of Porchlight Whispers. Do you have an experience of your own to tell? We want to hear your stories. Share your experience and let your small town whispers become part of ours. And with that, the porchlight dims, but the whispers stay with us. Join us again next time when another voice steps into the light.