Bloody Mary

Content Warning:
This episode contains descriptions of self-harm, blood, graphic injury, violence, and strong language. Check the Chapters for details.

Listener discretion is advised. 

The porchlight flickers, the storm gathers, and a small town decides what it believes. We return to Watseka, Illinois, where Mary’s brief calm gives way to a terrifying rupture: a blade in the kitchen, a sprint into the fields, a rescue met with fury, and a town’s certainty hardening into rumor. It’s raw, human, and painfully close to the bone—and it’s the kind of story that outlives the facts and settles into the voice of a community.

From there we follow the echo. You know the ritual: lights off, three turns, a name spoken to a mirror. We unpack why kids dare each other with Bloody Mary, how structure turns chaos into a game, and why certain stories choose us rather than the other way around. Along the way, we share a cherished memory of a teacher who calmly led a whole line of girls into a dark bathroom and said the words for us, proving that curiosity and courage can coexist with folklore. The tension isn’t between belief and skepticism—it’s between fear that isolates and stories that give us a safe way to look at fear together.

This is a story about possession, panic, and the mechanics of myth-making. It’s about how a 19th-century girl named Mary might sit just beneath a chant kids still whisper at sleepovers, and how whispers move faster than facts in any era. We listen to lived voices, sift the gossip, and notice the patterns: summoning rituals, moral panics, and the way a town protects itself by telling and retelling a tale until it feels like a law of nature.

If you’ve ever stood in a dark bathroom with a racing heart, or grown up in a place where everyone knows your name and your business, this one’s for you. Press play, then tell us your own Bloody Mary story—send a note to Porchlight Whispers at gmail.com or message the Small Town Whispers Facebook page. If the episode resonates, follow the show, share it with a friend who loves folklore, and leave a quick review so more curious minds can find our porchlight.

Voice Credits to:

"Mary"- Emily Thompson (Watseka 1988-2000) 

Gossipers from Watseka:

Jamie (Kilgore) Elson

Melissa (Sherman) Heckman

Amy Yucuis

Karlie Peters

Justin Lareau

Jenn (Thompson) Jayasingha

Gossipers Living In Watseka:

Justin Bryant

Stacy Beam

Nick Dillon

Scarlett & Elliott

Abby Laird

Friends & Family

Scott Carney

Samantha Borden

Caroline Withers

Laura Beth Payne

Chris Borden

Amanda Sadanaga

Sally Timaeus

Chapters

• 0:00 Welcome And Content Warning
• 2:02 Mary’s Calm Return And Rising Dread
• 4:06 The Knife, The Chairs, And The Field
• 8:40 Blood, Rescue, And Fury
• 9:05 Graphic Description (Blood/Self-injury)
• 10:22 End of Graphic Description
• 12:22 Mary is Found and Confrontation Follows (Graphic Language)
• 18:45 Under The Porchlight: Lived Voices
• 19:26 Bloody Mary: Sleepover Rituals
• 21:25 A Teacher Tests The Legend
• 23:18 How Rumors Become Folklore
• 24:46 Share Your Bloody Mary Stories

Transcript

Speaker 2: 0:11

Welcome to Small Town Whispers, where history, folklore, and the paranormal collide. I'm Bethany Yucuis 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. Every week this little community grows a bit more, and it truly means the world that you keep coming back to sit under the porch light with me. Before we begin, a quick note for anyone listening with little ears nearby. Today's excerpt from the Watseka story contains some graphic language and unsettling descriptions. So if you've got young listeners around, or if you're sensitive to strong or disturbing content, you may want to press pause and come back when the time feels right. Alright, let's step back into the story. Mary came home for Christmas in 1861 and again in 1862. She was calmer then, heavier, quieter. The community welcomed her back, even though her youngest brothers barely remembered her face. By May of 1863, nothing unusual had happened. Not since that first strange spell back in October of 61. The doctors said she was cured. They sent her home, and for a while, life felt ordinary again. Mary slipped easily back into her routine. Lucy stopped by to check on her to ask about the small wooden figure she'd given her before she left for Peoria. Mary smiled and showed her the charm's hiding place. Lucy reminded her, keep it close. Winter came and went, then June brought heat and thunder, and something darker. Another attack. The one we talked about back in episode one. The one involving Tessie the cat. The one where Mary's voice changed into something not her own, and she broke free from her restraints. After that day, Mary grew distant. She ate sparingly and sat alone for hours on the porch. The family removed the lock from her bedroom door. Asa thought that was best. The other children, though, they began locking their doors at night for obvious reasons. Dr. Fowler came twice a week bringing his leeches. Mary seemed to like them, said they were attractive. Fowler warned Asa she had, quote, an unusual fascination with blood. Then came Saturday morning, July 16th. Asa left early for his office in town and took Nervy and Lucy shopping. She was pregnant again. That left Mary home alone with the boys. The older two, Joe and Fenn, had already gone to see a friend. The youngest were in the yard, playing Union and Rebel under the heavy summer sky. And that's where we find Mary sitting in the kitchen on page 48 of Watseka, America's Most Extraordinary Case of Possession and Exorcism. Mary sat down at the kitchen table and stared at the small white flowers on the oil cloth. The boys' dirty dishes, their spilled sugar and their toast crumbs were scattered across the design. She added some sugar, then some cream from the icebox to her oatmeal, stirred it listlessly, not hungry, but feeling she should eat something. Dr. Fowler had told her to eat, even when her stomach told her differently. The room was dim, with the sunlight hidden behind the enormous watery clouds. Maybe if she lit the lantern, some of the gloom around her and inside her could be chased away. The kerosene lamp hung from the ceiling, on a long chain directly over the table. She tugged on the counterbalance chain, and the lamp came down to her level. Now she needed a match. Lucy kept a box of them on the stove shelf. As she reached for the matches, something sparkled and caught her eye. It was a butcher knife. A brand new butcher knife that had replaced the one she used to kill Tessie. Lucy had been given strict orders to lock up all the knives. In her haste to get to the market, she must have forgotten to lock up this one. Mary smiled and picked up the knife. It felt good in her hand. She turned the knife over and over, running her finger slowly down the cutting edge, being careful not to cut herself, yet enjoying the sensation. She examined the knife, pleased with its newness, pleased that she had discovered it, pleased that she was all alone in the house. Her body trembled and she thought she was going to fall. Reaching out, she steadied herself against the back of a kitchen chair. She looked down at the chair, its rush woven seat taut, in perfectly aligned valleys and ridges. She stared at its pattern, at its man made perfection, at its smugness at being whole and united. Its completeness annoyed her. The flawless pattern made fun of her. It was in order. She was confused. It was serving a purpose. She was worthless. It had a reason. She had none. She had none and the chair had to go. It couldn't sit there and make a fool of her. With one loud cry and a sharp thrust, she drove the knife into the seat. She laughed and plunged the knife again and again into the seat until it was no more than a mass of loose ends hanging limply from the wooden rim. Then she went from chair to chair, slashing, tearing, and laughing as their mocking perfection was destroyed. She stepped back and admired her work. The cluttered table still stood there, solid and observing and whole. The knife tore into the oil cloth, shredding it and separating the flowers and the design. The knife hit the dirty porridge bowls, breaking some, knocking others onto the floor. The cream pitcher sloshed its contents across the ravaged surface of the table. Then she ran out the door, slamming it with satisfaction at a job well done. Frank and Charlie, loudly killing one another on the front lawn, didn't hear her laughter as she ran down the back steps and out into the field behind the house. As she ran, she waved the knife at the low hanging clouds, trying to slash them as she had slashed the chair seats. As she ran, she swiped at the tops of tomatoes, slashed at beans tied to poles, and delighted in the sweet, sticky smell on the knife blade when she cut through a young stalk of corn. The woods began at the edge of the clearing. She slowed down to a fast walk now, brushing against the rough trunks of the trees and lifting her feet so as not to trip over the exposed roots. Birds, resting uneasily in the branches because of the impending storm, rose in startled flight as she passed under them. She fell and rolled down an incline into the midst of a large clump of elderberry bushes. Still laughing, she crawled into the bushes, going deeper and deeper until their tall stems and thick green leaves hid her from the world. She held the knife in front of her. She could barely see it in the semi darkness, but she could feel it. She could feel its edge and remember its avenging point. It could do in one second what her adored leeches took several minutes to do. It would release her pent up blood. It would take away the lump of pain in her head. It was a simple and quick action. Raise the knife, position its point in the center of the left arm right where those red and blue veins were, and then push. Push in and then pull. Pull down and feel the pressure, followed by the pleasure of the skin parting and the muscles being severed. Feel the warm air inside her arm. Warm almost down to her wrist. Feel the blood run out. Hot and thick against her skin. Feel the blood falling onto her closed eyelids as she lifted her arm above her face. Taste the warm blood as it trickled down her cheeks and into her open mouth. Drink the blood directly from her veins as she sucked and licked the wound. The lump of pain on her head was gone. The delight in the warm fresh blood had chased away every other sensation. The pressure was leaving. Drowsiness was setting in. She could hear the first large drops of rain falling on the elderberry leaves, trying to enter her secret place and soak the ground that was slowly being soaked with blood. The search started as soon as the women returned and discovered the havoc in the kitchen. The three searched every room and closet of the house, calling Mary's name. Anne sent Lucy to fetch Asa, and she stopped everyone she met on the five block stretch to ask if they had seen Mary. Lucy held her skirts high as she ran and she prayed, as she cried and blamed herself for not locking up that knife. There was no doubt about the knife, the damage in the kitchen, the missing girl, the missing knife. It was all her fault, she told herself. She had let harm come to that girl because of her own stupidity. If anything happened to that child, she would die. She found Asa in the post office and told him what happened. She kept apologizing as Asa shouted to his staff of three to close the front door and round up others for the search. The first few large drops turned into a million smaller ones as the clouds broke open over the town. The warm dust of Walnut Street turned quickly into mud. The postal workers ran from store to store along the street, telling the proprietors and their customers what had happened and what was expected of them. In many shops, clerks were dismissed, doors were closed, and buggies were harnessed to search for the missing girl. The sawmill stopped cutting, the feed store stopped sacking, the farmers in the open market stopped selling. The important thing was to find Mary. Five hours after she had crawled into the elderberry bushes, Mary was found. Her dress was soaked in blood. Her hair and face were coated with it, some congealed, some still wet and sticky where it had mixed with the rain. Her heart was beating faintly, and blood still oozed from the gaping wound in her arm. One of the men who found her took out a handkerchief and tied it tightly above the slash. Another picked her up in his arms and carried her out the woods towards home. In an instant, she was wide awake. Her eyes looked into the face of her rescuer, and she wrenched her body from his grasp and fell onto the ground. She landed on her knees and like a dog on all fours, she screamed at him. Don't you touch me? Don't you touch me? I'll kill you if you do.

Speaker 1: 13:05

Her voice, high pitched and cracking, stung the five men in the group. You will all be killed. She snarled at them. I'll kill you all. Her hands dug into the ploughed earth, and she started pelting them with dirt and rocks.

Speaker 2: 13:20

I'll kill you all! Don't you dare touch me!

Speaker 1: 13:24

The biggest of the group, a muscular farmer named Simpson, lunged at her, almost falling on her as he grabbed her around the waist. Mary struck out at him, hitting him squarely on the side of his face, knocking him down.

Speaker 2: 13:38

I told you not to touch me, you bastard.

Speaker 1: 13:41

The others looked at each other and began to close in on her. It was an instinctive move on their part, as if they had surrounded a wild animal and were going to capture it with their bare hands. Get back or I'll kill you. Mary's eyes went from face to face. She was on her feet now, turning slowly toward each man as he advanced on her.

Speaker 2: 14:04

I'll cut your goddamn hearts out if you touch me, you bastards! I'm warning you.

Speaker 1: 14:10

The men were murmuring, Now Mary Now Mary, as Simpson reached out from his position on the ground and grabbed her ankles. Mary doubled over like a marionette whose string had been cut and began to bite his hands. He yelled and pulled away, swearing at her.

Speaker 2: 14:28

I warned you.

Speaker 1: 14:29

The others backed off slowly, still circling her. Come on back to the house now, Mary, one of them said in a low voice. Come on. Just relax now, and let's go home.

Speaker 2: 14:43

Shit on you. Don't touch me!

Speaker 1: 14:47

Mary, let's go, Mary. Your paw is up at the house, he coaxed.

Speaker 2: 14:53

I said shit on you!

Speaker 1: 14:56

She screamed and jumped about four feet across the row of tomato plants, landing on the man and bringing him down with her. Her hands clawed his face, drawing blood.

Speaker 2: 15:08

I told you to leave me alone!

Speaker 1: 15:11

The others fell on her, pushing her to one side to free their fallen friend. Two men grabbed her arms and held them behind her back. She cursed and struggled and kicked, but two more managed to grab each of her legs. They held her upright off the ground and started to carry her toward the house, keeping clear of her teeth as if they were carrying a dangerous animal. They sloshed through the rain, soaked to their skins. Mary's full-length dress, stained with blood and mud and water, dragged along the ground. The entire family ran into the fields to meet the five men. When Anne saw Mary's condition, she stopped short and gasped. Asa tried to put his hand on Mary to let her know he was there. They carried her past the spot where Anne was standing. Oh my god, Mary, she moaned, reaching out one ineffectual hand toward her daughter. Mary glared at her. Fuck you! Anne crumpled into Nervy's arms. But Asa, dumbfounded by what he was seeing, and not being able to believe what he had just heard, grabbed his daughter by her matted hair and slapped her across the face. The men stopped, looking first at him, then back at Mary. The girl, with blood running from the corners of her mouth, looked at Asa and said quietly, and fell unconscious. Dr. Fowler came quickly with his leeches. Asa called Dr. Seacrest. Dr. Pitwood came on his own accord. The news raced through Watsika faster than a summer storm.

Speaker 3: 16:56

Did you hear the Roff girl tried to kill herself? They said she took a knife and cut her arms.

Speaker 4: 17:03

I heard she completely ruined the kitchen. Well, I heard the sofa and chairs in the parlor was covered with blood.

Speaker 5: 17:11

I can't repeat the things she said to her mother.

Speaker 6: 17:14

I don't know how dear Anne can put up with that child.

7: 17:17

Took five grown men to hold her down, and she, a little body of not even a hundred pounds.

8: 17:23

She lost almost all of her blood and still has the strength of ten men. I can't understand it. Well, if you ask me, that girl is dangerous. Well, if she can grab a knife any time she pleases, a soul isn't safe walking down the street.

9: 17:37

I'm not going to let my children go over there anymore. She must be plum crazy, that girl.

10: 17:42

Did you see the bruise on the side of Ed Simpson's face? Why, that girl has the strength of a maniac.

11: 17:49

Asa is such a fine man. What a shame this is happening to him.

12: 17:53

It sounds to me like the devil possessed her.

13: 17:56

Why'd they even bring her back from Peoria?

14: 17:59

Crazy people running loose on the streets. I don't care who the rocks are. That girl of theirs ought to be locked up. My Sandy read in the paper about a case like Mary's. The girl died a horrible death, and when she did, snakes crawled out of her eyes.

15: 18:15

That girl ought to be locked up. Isn't there something we can do? A petition or something? That girl ought to be locked up. That girl oughta be locked up.

Speaker 1: 18:29

Well, if you're from a small town, enough said, right? And that was before the internet. We all know how it spreads. The whispers, the rumors. I'd like to shout out all the people who lended their voices for that last bit of gossip. Some live close to me, some live far away, and some recorded right there in Watseka.

Speaker 3: 18:54

Now, join me under the Porchlight, the place where memories meet the present and voices from the past still linger in the dark. 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.

Speaker 1: 19:25

This week, I've been thinking about those old sleepover rituals from when I was growing up in the late 80s. Using Ouija boards, playing light as a feather, stiff as a board, watching scary movies like Nightmare on Elm Street, and of course, for those who dared, Bloody Mary. Back then, the Bloody Mary Dare felt like a rite of passage. The older kids always claimed she'd appear in the mirror. Bloody, ghostly, furious, ready to scratch your face, scream at you, or pull you straight through the glass. Sleepovers, birthday parties, long family gatherings. At some point, someone would whisper, hey, let's go do Bloody Mary. And suddenly everyone was an expert, and no one wanted to go first. I don't even remember if any of us knew who Bloody Mary actually was supposed to be. All we knew was the ritual. As I recall, go in a bathroom, shut the door, turn off the light, spin around three times, and with each turn whisper, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary. By the third one, your heart was pounding so hard you were half convinced she'd already reached out to grab you. If you were brave enough to do it, I wouldn't know. I moved to Watsika in 1988. I was a second grader attending Wanda Kendall, which only held the second and third graders in town. One of the third grade girls started a rumor that she'd seen Bloody Mary in the school bathroom and that Mary had scratched her face. That was all it took. Most of the girls in my class were afraid to use the bathroom between 8 a.m. and 3 p.m. My teacher, a kind older woman who handed out apple juice every afternoon if you brought in your quarter, heard about the panic. She had taught us about the prairie kindness and how not to terrorize our classmates. So one day, in true prairie teacher fashion, she lined all of us girls up, marched us into the bathroom, turned off the light, and in the dark, without even clearing her throat, she said, Bloody Mary, bloody Mary, bloody Mary. We held our breath, waited. Some, like my friend Melissa, closed their eyes and refused to open them. And nothing happened. She flipped the lights back on and led us calmly to class like it was just another lesson, which honestly it was. I was never brave enough to try it alone, but the whole frenzy lasted maybe a year before we all moved on to new fears. Disclaimer. One of my wittier friends said this. Then I walk into the kitchen and I make a Bloody Mary. It's scary good. That cracked me up. I wasn't even thinking about the drink. Most people confirmed that it takes place in a bathroom, you need a mirror, it needs to be in the dark, and you say the name three times. Interesting how it correlates with Candyman and even Beetlejuice. I was starting to doubt my own memory, and then some of my childhood friends chimed in to confirm, in fact, that Mrs. Venbo did take all us girls in the bathroom and proved to us nothing happened. Can you imagine if something did happen? What a headline. So here's the thing: legends like this don't just appear out of nowhere, they grow from older fears, older stories, older names whispered long before our grandparents were born. It makes you wonder. In a world where rumors twist and transform over decades, where children repeat stories they barely understand, what if Bloody Mary didn't start with a queen or a witch, but with a girl? A girl named Mary, whose story shook a small town so deeply that echoes of it survived long after the details were forgotten. Just something to think about. If you have your own Bloody Mary memories, from school, sleepovers, or cousins that took things way too far, I'd love to hear them. Send your stories to Porchlight Whispers at gmail.com or message the Small Town Whispers Facebook page. Because every legend begins with a name. And every whisper can be traced to the moment it first stirred. Until next time. And with that, the porchlight dims, but the whispers stay with us. Join us again next time when another voice steps into the light.