A Hail Mary Possession

A father hears his daughter’s voice twelve years after her death. A basement lamp clicks itself on. We open the door to Watseka’s haunted past and present, weaving the famed Mary Roff and Lurancy Vennum possession with fresh, first-hand accounts from Watseka native Matt Lillig. The result is part living-room confessional, part town archive, and part field guide to the strange, where belief is costly and curiosity keeps the porchlight burning.

We start with the oil-lamp glow of the 1870s, tracing how spiritualism promised answers to grieving families while inviting scorn from neighbors and churches. Asa and Ann Roff pay for their convictions with lost standing and shuttered friendships, yet hold to a love that refuses silence. From there, we jump to modern Watseka, where Matt’s basement apartment turns into a quiet theater of the uncanny: ceiling tiles shift, objects migrate, and a stubborn lamp insists on being heard. After a devastating 2008 flood, the next tenant reports nothing at all—leaving us to ask whether hauntings bind to people, places, or moments in time.

Matt’s family stories widen the circle. 

What ties it all together is the “Hail Mary” idea: when reason runs out, we sometimes throw a long pass into the unknown. Maybe that’s Mary stepping into Lurancy to heal her mind, body, and soul. Maybe it’s a family recognizing a warning in the crash of oak on kitchen floorboards. Either way, the stories endure because they help people make meaning, protect each other, and navigate grief without pretending the world is simple.

Transcript

Reviews, Thanks, And Support

Spirits Speak Through Lurancy

Asa And Ann Confront Belief

The Rise Of Spiritualism

Community Backlash And Ruin

How Long Will Mary Stay

Doctor’s Letter And Fears

Speaker 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. I missed you. I've enjoyed spending the last three weeks getting ahead on part three of the book. I forgot how good it is. In the ending, you won't need special effects to visualize the finale of this story. It unfolds so vividly, it practically plays like a film. If you've been enjoying the journey so far, would you consider leaving a rating and review? Hopefully, five stars. It truly helps other people discover the podcast. The more listeners we reach, the more porchlight stories we get to tell. I also want to say thank you to Heather from the podcast Change Happened, then what? For her kind review. She wrote, I love what you are doing, Bethany. Great storytelling. So glad to have come across it. Keep up the good work. Heather, that meant more than you know. I pour so much time and heart into this podcast, and encouragement like that keeps me going. Speaking of encouragement and inspiration, check out Heather's podcast for more real stories from everyday people. Now, let's rewind to where we left off in February. Lurancy's body had become a battleground, or perhaps a doorway for spirits. Right in front of Dr. Stevens, Asa Roff, Colonel Peters, the Vennums, and others, we watched as Willie Canning, Katrina Hogan, and finally Mary Roff came forward. Dr. Stevens gently helped Willie Canning realize he was no longer among the living and guided him toward the next realm. He had just begun interacting with Katrina Hogan when Lurancy slipped back into trance. And then, at last, Mary Roff emerged. Mary, reunited with her pa, Asa Roff. What an emotional moment that must have been. A father hearing his daughter's voice again after 12 long years. And here's what makes it even more intriguing. Before Mary took possession of Lurancy's body, Katrina Hogan had been speaking through it. Years earlier, Katrina had reportedly taken possession of Mary's body in the same way. Same sharp tone, same vowel language, history repeating itself in the most unsettling way. I loved that our last episode, A Voice from the Past, originally seemed to point to Mary's return, but it echoed Katrina's as well. Now we step back into the pages of Watseka, America's most extraordinary case of possession and exorcism on page 183. The light from three large double globed oil lamps illuminated the back parlor. Ann Roff sat on the velvet sofa, a white wool shawl around her thin shoulders, a handkerchief in her hands, listening intently to Asa. It was Mary's voice, he said. I knew it as soon as she turned to me and called me pa. I knew it was Mary. He hadn't been able to sit down since he'd arrived home. He hadn't even taken time to remove his great coat. He wore it still, as he paced in front of his wife. It was incredible, he said. One minute she was this old hag, and the next minute she was our beloved Mary. Incredible. How did she look? Anne asked. I mean, when Mary took her over, did she change physically? Or was she still the Venom girl but with Mary's mind? Yes, she is still the Vennum girl, but it is Mary inside her. She has Mary's voice, but it's still the other body. Well, what did she say? What does she plan to do? Who? The Vennum girl? No. Mary. What does Mary plan to do now? How long is she going to be here? I don't really know. Then he stopped, looking at his wife. A perplexed frown crossed his face. You know, he said softly. You are reacting awfully different to this story than I thought you would. You've accepted it completely. I expected tears and doubts and even denial. You amaze me. Anne looked up at him. I've always known someday we would make contact with Mary again. I've believed that with all my heart and soul. Mary was a very special child with a very special gift. Her death was not a natural death. Her life was not a natural life. There was much to our daughter that we never understood. I've prayed a great deal, Asa. I've prayed, and I've studied, and I've waited, especially the latter. I've waited, Asa, and I'm ready to accept my daughter back again. Ever since Mary Roff had screamed in the night and been found dead, Anne and Asa Roff had searched, searched for the answers to questions that had never been clearly formulated. They read the Bible, tried to talk with doctors and ministers, and finally ended up reading spiritualist booklets, the same type of literature the Reverend Dille had read and hidden in his parsonage. It hadn't been easy finding the material, and once found, hadn't been easy understanding and believing a great deal of it. It was also strange and far fetched from anything they had ever experienced in their lives. They began by reading about the Fox sisters and the mysterious rappings at their house in New York State, and how those wrapped turned into a question and response system between the girls and the spirit of a murdered pedlar, a man whose body had been buried in their cellar. When the pedlar's body was discovered, right where the wrappings said it would be, and the news got around town, an entirely new movement had begun. The Fox sisters were investigated, tested, adored, and ridiculed. Out of their experiences came others trying the same things, and with much the same results. Supposed contacts were made all over the nation between the living and the dead. Spirits stopped rapping after a while and began to speak directly through the living. It became a common occurrence for someone to fall into an unconscious physical condition called a trance, and have a strange voice issue from their lips. Messages from the other side were given. Loved ones were reunited, secret hiding places of money and wills were revealed, and physical bodies were miraculously healed. The world called it spiritualism, but the churches and the skeptics called it hogwash. It was dangerous, they said. God had never meant for spirits to be dragged back to earth. It was the working of the devil. It was evil. It was crazy. It was charlatanism brought to its highest degree, where people willingly paid to be deluded. It was a national disgrace. So its practitioners were forced to form themselves into a religion, with bylaws and hymnals and dogma, and as a religion in a nation where the church and state are separate, they were protected by law. Just because they were protected didn't mean they were respected. Good, God fearing Baptists and Methodists and Episcopalians had nothing to do with people that professed to talk to the dead. Spiritualist churches, when they got built at all, were often mysteriously burned to the ground. Known spiritualists had their windows broken, their horses poisoned, and their children stoned. Some social organizations passed rules to bar spiritualists, while others simply ignored the existence of anyone stupid enough to believe that one could make contact with the dead. Asa's business suffered after Mary died. As he searched for the answers to her death, he drew farther away from the Lavinia Dursts of Watsika and into his own self-contained world, where the only ones with whom he could discuss his beliefs were his family and a few friends in other towns. He had first made the mistake of telling people of his ideas. They made sure he suffered for it. He was never again elected postmaster. They made him resign from the two fraternal organizations he had helped found. His law practice suffered, and people called upon him as judge only because they knew he was a fair man. The fact that they were not too fair to him never even crossed their minds. He had wisely invested some of his money in gold coins, and unwisely invested a great deal of it in Watsika's farmland. When the crash of eighteen seventy five hit, he held second mortgages on lands he was unable to pay, and he was almost wiped out. Fortunately, the family home was safe, as was his office building downtown. For all practical purposes, he was living on money from the past. Others prospered after that, but Asa never quite made it to the top again. Any gain he made was cut down by good citizens who abhorred his spiritual beliefs. Anne also suffered for their beliefs. The groups of women who used to come calling, or insisted she come calling on them, evaporated, like fog over the lowlands. More and more she stayed at home and took care of the boys and worried with Minerva over her marriage to Henry Alter. At times, she was glad that Nervi's marriage wasn't everything marriage was supposed to be, because it kept the girl closer to her. Henry was alright, but he was lazy. His experience in war, he said, taught him that it's not what you know in this world, but who. He had returned to wed the daughter of one of the wealthiest and most respected citizens in Watseka, and instead of milk and honey, it had turned to sticks and stones because of their strange religious leanings. Henry wasn't happy with the situation, but there was little he could do. Asa had given them a house when they married, and Henry had taken a job as assistant cashier in a bank. He plodded along and did his share of womanizing. Nervie always came crying back to Anne. Anne still had her daughter, and now, it seemed, she had her other daughter back as well. I want to see her. I want to see this venom girl and see if I can talk to Mary. Do you think it would be possible? I don't know, Asa answered truthfully. Dr. Stevens himself doesn't know how long Mary will be in her body. She said something about staying there until the Venom girl was cured. Cured of what? Whatever ails her. You know, those fits and things she gets. You mean Mary said she'd be in that body permanently? That was my understanding. Permanently until the Vennum girl is able to handle her body by herself. At least that's what the doctor gathered from it. I don't know. I was listening, but at the same time I was so overwhelmed by all of it. I couldn't really comprehend anything but the fact that Mary had come back. Ann looked at him. A sudden and unsettling thought had just crossed her mind. Asa, do you think this is all a trick? You know, maybe some sort of a joke that awful Hogan woman is playing on us? She tried to kill Mary before when she was in her body, and we drove her out. Now maybe this is her way of getting back at us. Oh Asa, what if that is all this is? Asa sighed. Then that's just what it will have to be. I don't know. I just don't know, Ann. That night in bed, for the first time in months, Asa reached out and held his wife in his arms. She slept that way until almost dawn, when she sighed and moved over onto her own pillow. He was awake when she changed positions. He was awake all that night. Dr. Stephen slept soundly, in spite of the fact that he had been tremendously excited about what had happened in the Vennum home. He wrote three pages to his wife before retiring, telling her of the girl and how he had found her and what had transpired right up to the point of Mary Roff coming into the girl's body. I'm not sure exactly what this means, he wrote, because it is too soon to tell. The entity, calling herself Mary Roff, said she would be there to help the Vennum girl regain her complete physical and mental health. She said it was the least she could do to repay some of the suffering she had caused her own parents those twelve years ago. She said there had been much consternation on the other side regarding Lurancy Vennum, and that volunteers had been requested to take over her body and keep it until her mind was normal once again. Apparently some of the spirits contacted Mary Roff and told her of the problem, and she came to investigate for herself. Once she saw her own father there, she willingly agreed to undertake the task. He paused to fill his pen and to remember the expression on Asa's face. It really was quite moving to see the united pair, father with tears down his cheeks, and the little girl, who had been almost dead just seconds before, now alive and laughing and crying at the same time, and hugging him, and telling him how happy she was to be with him again. Of course, the girl's actual father, the rude farmer I wrote you about, is at sixes and sevens over the entire thing. He cannot understand how his daughter could suddenly become someone else's daughter. And while he was pleased that his daughter is out of pain and conversing normally, he wasn't at all pleased over the fact that she was a brand new personality. His wife remained upstairs while all this was transpiring. I have no idea what opinion she has formed of it all by this time. She is a weak woman. I understand that the events of the past months have taken their toll on her nerves, so her emotional outbursts are to be expected from one with little formal education, and with absolutely no knowledge of spirit workings. I am to return to the Venom home tomorrow afternoon for another session with the girl. I don't know what I shall find or even if the father will permit me to enter the house again. I sincerely hope that I shall be able to continue my work without his interference, but one never knows. I shall close now, my dearest, and have this ready for the post in the morning. I miss you and the children, and hope to be able to return to Janesville in my happy home in just a few more days. He signed his name and started to fold the paper. Then he stopped, unfolded it, and dipped his pen into the ink bottle one last time. PS I suppose you think I am taking this all very calmly, and that I sound as if what I experienced is just an ordinary event. It is not ordinary, and I, quite frankly, am a bit frightened by what it may lead to. I have never had a case where one entity remained inside the body of a living person for a prolonged length of time. I am concerned about the mental health of the Venom girl, should this be the case, and I am frightened at what this entity who calls herself Mary may be able to do in this borrowed body. Please pray for me and for little Lurancy. He went back to the final notation and underlined the word Frightened. She's back. This episode is called A Hail Mary. In American football, a Hail Mary passes out long, desperate throw into the end zone in the final seconds of the game when everything is on the line and you've run out of safer options. I actually thought of this title while watching a clip of Ryan Gosling on Celebrity Jeopardy recently. In Final Jeopardy, the clue referenced an injury that had made headlines since 1967. The obvious answer? ACL. Gosling wrote IDK, as in, I don't know. But in a twist worthy of its own episode, that Hail Mary answer actually won him the game. Because IDK also stands for internal derangement of the knee. Sometimes the long shot lands. And in Lurancy's case, Mary stepping in, taking over her body, feels like a Hail Mary of an entirely different kind. A last second attempt. A desperate play. The question is, will it work?

Speaker 1 17:57

Now, join me under the porch light. 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.

Why “A Hail Mary” Fits

Enter Porchlight Whispers

Meet Matt Lillig

The Basement Apartment Disturbances

Voices, Lights, And The Flood

Speaker 18:22

This week, my friend Matt Lillig steps into the Porchlight to tell his family stories from Watseeka's past, and some of his more modern head scratchers from his time living in Watseeka. I met Matt my senior year at Watseka Community High School. I was a trumpet player and he was a freshman tuba player in the band. He was quiet, and I was not. I respected his talent and quiet demeanor. But back then, after band practice, some of us would go explore supposedly haunted places on the outskirts of Watseka, like an abandoned house called The Hideout. I'm sure he was in my car on one of those occasions. Over the years, we've kept in touch online, and when I started this podcast, Matt expressed support and interest, which meant a lot. He even sent me some books that were collecting dust on his bookshelf, like Weird Illinois, Weird Indiana, and Into the Shadows, America's Unsolved Mysteries, and Tales of the Unexplained by Troy Taylor, which happens to include a chapter about the Watseka wonder. When I asked him if he had any stories of his own, he surprised me with some very interesting, detailed accounts of things that happened to him in his first apartment in Watseka and in an old house in Kentland, Indiana. The real Jackpot came when he shared stories from his family's history that go back to a house his great-great-grandfather, Ulysses Moore, owned in Watseka. But let's dive in. Here are Matt's personal accounts from his own words. I had a basement apartment at Kingdon's apartments my first three to four years after moving from home, but nothing really happened for about a year. My bathroom ceiling had those tiles that you can push up out of the way for what I assume was maintenance access. One day, I came home from work and a tile had been pushed up and over slightly. I just said that's odd and put it back. A little time went by and it happened again. This time I called Kingdons and asked if someone had been overworking on something. They said no, and that they wouldn't come in without my consent. I thought perhaps there was a slight updraft of air if I shut the door too fast that would cause this to happen. Half an hour of door slamming didn't do anything, except possibly piss off my upstairs neighbor. The tile thing happened probably half a dozen times. One night I was laying in bed and what I would swear was a black form of a person walked past the doorway. I chose to nope out of that one and turn the other direction, hoping it was just my imagination. Shortly afterwards, things I'd set down would randomly be moved or just disappear for no reason, only to reappear later after I'd looked for said item with no success. The apartment only had a small air conditioner in the living room, and when it was really hot in the summer, I'd sleep on the couch, as that was the coolest room. I had one of those stand-up lamps with the flexible arms next to the couch. It made a very distinct clicking sound when you turned it on or off. I'd be laying there at night, and I would hear the click, and the light would be on. This happened so many times that it got to the point where I'd just say, Damn it, I'm trying to sleep. One of the last times this happened, the click of the lamp was followed by a very clear and mean sounding GET UP right in my ear. After that, I was pretty much done sleeping on the couch. Then we had the flood of 2008, and my apartment was filled with about two feet of sewage backup and flood water. I was not interested in moving back in afterwards. Apparently, the ghost didn't like the poop water either, because after Was renovated. The next lady to move in said she never heard or saw anything weird and didn't believe what I had told her about living there. What a mystery, Matt. Who was the guy you heard? Why was he messing with you? Where did he go? I don't know what I would have done in that situation. My sister, my mom, and I lived in Kingdon's apartments my last two years of high school, and thankfully, we never experienced anything like that. I've gathered that areas of Watsika were most likely built on Native American burial mounds that were desecrated in the construction of the town and development of Iroquois County. It makes me wonder if the activity in the area is related. When I mentioned this to Matt, he said, I believe that about the Native American mounds. I remember my grandpa saying when he was a kid there was a big sand mound in a field north of town that they removed. I don't remember the reason why, but all sorts of skeletons and artifacts were found in the process. Matt said his house tends to be loud. He has a 15-year-old and 10-year-old daughter, so he opted for me to tell his stories. I mentioned to him that Sarah, who currently plays the voice of La Rancy, records her lines on her phone in the closet with her two dogs and cats in order to find quiet enough space. And that sparked a memory he had from when he lived in a house in Kentland, Indiana that was built in 1885. He said, We had a closet with one of those lights with a chain you pulled down to turn it on and off. When we first moved in, we had just laid down in bed and I heard the click and saw that the light was on. When I opened the door, the chain was swinging back and forth. It was creepy, but nothing ever happened again after that. If you've heard my story, you know I don't like closets. Thanks for that one, Matt. Matt's family has actually owned farmland in Watseca for generations. Here is some of their haunted history in Matt's own words. My grandpa, Stort Moore, grew up in an old two-story farmhouse outside of Watsika. His grandfather owned the farm, so it was in the family for a while, and still is today, even though said house is long gone. He had an aunt named Stella who died in her upstairs bedroom. From that point on, anyone that tried to sleep in that bed would be shaken out of the bed when they tried to sleep there. This happened to multiple guests and family members over the years, and they just figured maybe she hadn't moved on yet. Sometime afterwards, my grandpa's brother started dating a woman who turned out to be a nut. When he broke off the relationship, she made it known that she was going to kill the family. Major red flag, I'd say. One night, while everyone was sleeping, a heavy oak table that was in the kitchen was picked up and flipped over. It woke up everyone in the house and they heard footsteps running up the basement stairs. Turns out it was that lady who was there with the intention of burning the house down. They all assumed the table flipping was the spirit of Stella, watching over and warning the family. At some point in time, the family was playing with a Ouija board. I guess back then it was considered harmless entertainment. One day, they asked who was talking to them, and it spelled out the name of a dead relative from Colorado, which is where the family had originally moved from. After that, they were done with the Ouija board. The last story happened when my grandpa's father, Roland, died. His mom was laying in her bed after his father had passed and said she could feel someone firmly holding her hand. She said she wasn't scared because she knew it was just him saying goodbye. My grandpa had a similar experience soon after. He was walking through the woods on the farm, feeling upset. He sat down under a tree, and as he described it, there was absolutely no wind, but the top of a single tree in front of him started shaking furiously for a few moments, and then all was still again. He always assumed that was his dad's way of saying goodbye to him as well. Matt told me most of the people who originally shared these stories are gone now, but he says he believes them completely because the people who told them were not the type to exaggerate or make things up. His grandfather, especially, was a deeply religious man who often reminded him that belief matters. And that brings us back to something I've been thinking about a lot lately. Belief isn't something we're born with, it's something we develop, something we choose, shaped by the stories we hear and the experiences we can't quite explain. Places like Watseka are layered with those stories. Generations of families living on the same land, remembering the same strange events, passing them down, like heirlooms. Some of those stories may have simple explanations. Others might not. But either way, they keep us curious. And sometimes, curiosity is exactly what keeps the porchlight on. Matt, thank you for sharing your family's history and your own experiences. Stories like these remind us that the world may be stranger and perhaps more connected than we realize. And to everyone listening, keep your minds open. You never know what stories might be waiting in the dark, but just be on the porchlight. Until next time.

Mounds, Memories, And Speculation

Speaker 1 27:26

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.

Speaker 27:39

And with that, the porchlight dims, but the whispers stay with us. Join us again next time when another voice steps into the light. If this show resonates with you, hit follow, share it with a friend who loves true history and the paranormal, and leave a rating and review. It really helps us get discovered. If you'd like to support the show, feel free to send a little something the following ways: Venmo, Bethany-Borden-1, PayPal, Bethany Borden865, Cash App, Money Signs Small Town Whispers. Or you can go to buzzsprout.com slash 253 9508 slash support. These are all listed at the end of each episode description. This podcast does take a lot of time and energy, and any little bit would help. Please share your stories with us at Porchlight Whispers at gmail.com or send a message on the Small Town Whispers Facebook page. Did you know we're on YouTube? I dare you to put it on at bedtime. Don't forget to tell a friend or family member about the show. And mostly, thank you for simply listening. It means the world.