Dr. E. W. Stevens, At Your Service

The room goes quiet when a child is called “possessed,” but the real noise lives in the spaces between fear, faith, and the need to explain what we can’t understand. We open on Watseka’s social stage, where Lavinia Durst’s parlor hums with status and suspicion, and a town’s story takes shape through whispers. As tales of a frightened horse, a threatened minister, and a locked bedroom accumulate, a petition begins to circulate—proof that gossip can harden into action before truth gets a hearing.

Enter Dr. E. Winchester Stevens, a towering spiritualist with a voice built for crowded halls and a résumé stitched from lectures, “magnetic passes,” and belief in spirit obsession. Over brandy and cut crystal, he hears about Lurancy Vennum, the boarded windows, and the plans to send her to Springfield. By the time his boots hit Walnut Street, the town’s January thaw reveals a colder kind of frost: the kind that forms when a community decides what is safe to say out loud. His arrival at the Vennum house sparks the episode’s most charged moment—a sharp command, a father’s refusal, and a shotgun promise that draws a hard line between “entities” and medical help.

Then we step under the porch light. Bethany brings the story home with her own memories of Watseka: fishtails on ice, sunlit streets that blind at the worst time, a TV that clicks on to static in an empty room, and a closet door that creeps open toward a child frozen in fear. Sleep paralysis is the likely name; the feeling is still uncanny. That tension—between rational labels and lived experience—threads the entire episode, asking what makes a haunting and what makes a community turn toward or away from compassion.

If folklore, true crime, and the psychology of belief pull you in, this chapter of the Watseka case will stick with you. Hear how social power shapes a narrative, how a healer meets his match at a farmhouse door, and how personal hauntings teach us to listen. Subscribe, share with a friend who loves small-town mysteries, and leave a review to help more curious minds find their way to the porch. Then tell us your story—what memory keeps tapping on your window?

Transcript

Host Introduction And 13 Lore

Speaker 1 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. In many Western cultures, including ours, 13 is considered unlucky, which is why some buildings actually skip the 13th floor. Why would they do this? Well, roughly 10% of the US population experiences fear or anxiety related to the number 13. This superstition is known as Triskaidekophobia. Triskaidekophobia. Hold on. Triskaidekophobia. Triskaidekophobia. Triskaidekophobia. Got it? Okay, that's the fear of the number 13. Now we all know. On the flip side, in parts of Italy and China, 13 can actually be considered lucky. We will discuss the number 13 in more detail on episode 15, which will be released on February 13th. Friday, February 13th. Make sure you've subscribed to the show so you don't miss it. That will be the end of part two, and you are not going to believe how it ends. Just to recap, we're on episode 13. When we get to episode 15, which is going to be released Friday, the 13th of February, we will discuss the number 13 more. Okay, let's get back to the story. After the school incident, life kept moving in Watseeka. Weeks after it happened, Lavinia Durst hosted one of her usual society gatherings, the kind that would later earn a mention in the Iroquois Times Republic. The most prominent families in town filled her parlor, which didn't leave many people to gossip about. Lavinia always found a way, though. Among the guests were the Methodist minister, Reverend Baker, and his wife. Lavinia herself had only recently switched from the Baptist Church to the Methodist congregation, for personal reasons. As she praised Reverend Baker's dedication to the community, Mrs. Baker gently reminded her that not everyone shared that admiration. She brought up the time Tom Venom had ordered her husband off his property with a gun in hand. That was all it took. Soon the room buzzed with talk of the Vennum family. They whispered about Laurancy's expulsion, about the fire she'd set in the parlor, nearly destroying the house, about the knife she'd raised toward her own mother, and how only a stumble and a sudden loss of consciousness had stopped her. By then, Tom and Lurinda had resorted to locking their daughter in her bedroom. She didn't come out to eat, she didn't come out to use the restroom. Food, supplies, and even a chamber pot were passed through a small hole cut into the door. One guest, Mrs. Fitzsimmons from Decatur, bristled at the idea. Locking a child away, she said, felt cruel. Lavinia disagreed. She described the girl as hardly a human being. Someone mentioned Mr. Palacek, the iceman whose horse would gently take sugar from children's hands. When Lurancy approached the animal one day after the school incident, the horse panicked, reared back, and bolted toward the river with wagon and driver still attached. Mr. Palachek survived with a broken arm. The horse did not. Mrs. Fitzsimmons suggested perhaps there had been a snake. Mrs. Baker replied that horses can sense evil. Reverend Baker, who had studied Laurancy's case, finally spoke. He believed the girl should be locked away. Somewhere she could no longer harm innocent people. When Mrs. Fitzsimmons suggested that locking her up for good might be extreme, Mrs. Baker revealed something new. Lurancy, she said, claimed to speak with the dead. Sometimes they even spoke through her. The room fell silent. Even Lavinia was stunned. And then she did what Lavinia Durst always does. She announced that she would soon be organizing a petition for the townspeople to sign. Another one. And that is where we return to the book Watseka, America's Most Extraordinary Case of Possession and Exorcism, on page 139. A little more coffee, Dr. Stevens? Mrs. Fitzsimmons raised the china pot. Oh my no. I've had sufficient, thank you. The doctor pushed his chair back from the dinner table and carefully wiped his mouth and brushed his beard with a napkin before placing it on his plate. That was a delicious meal. I want to thank you both for it. Nothing beats good home cooking. The hotel food is beginning to taste the same to me, no matter where I go. How long have you been away this time? Robert Fitzsimmons asked. It will be six weeks Tuesday next. My wife did manage to join me in Chicago for Christmas, however. Sometimes I wonder if the day won't come when I shall return to Janesville and my dear family won't remember me. He laughed. It was a deep and low-pitched laugh from that voice that had charmed thousands and supposedly cured hundreds. Dr. Edward Winchester Stevens was a man of some renown, but not just in Decatur, where he had dined with the Fitzsimmonses, but all across the Union. He was a spiritualist and a healer. He gave lectures, he used his famous magnetic passes to cure various diseases, and he was a specialist in spirit obsession. His name appeared in all the spiritualist publications, and he was often quoted or mentioned in articles that appeared about the new religion in the public press. He was a large man, six feet two inches tall, and broad across his chest and shoulders. He wore his beard long, covering his tie and most of his shirt front, as was the fashion before the war. Dr. Stevens was not a medical doctor in the sense that Dr. Pittwood and Fowler were. He had become a self ordained minister in the spiritualist movement back in the fifties, and had graduated from the Vitapathic School in Cincinnati in eighteen seventy. It was there that he perfected his magnetic healing passes and got the piece of paper that permitted him to be called Doctor. While his voice and his height and his beard were notable, almost everyone remembered his eyes. They were large and deeply set under jutting bushy brows, bright blue eyes that seemed to penetrate you as they looked at you, that seemed to demand the truth and seemed to know when it wasn't being told. His wife and children lived in Janesville, Wisconsin, and three daughters were spirit mediums. One, when she went into trance, received poetry from the other side. The poems had been published, but under a gnome deplume, at her husband's request. At fifty five years of age, doctor Stevens thought he had accomplished a great deal. He had no way of knowing that the post dinner conversation that very evening would change his life. They moved into the parlor, where Robert Fitsimmons handed him a cut crystal brandy glass and then filled it halfway from a cut crystal decanter. The Fitsimmonses lived well in Decatur. She had inherited her father's dry goods store, and he had managed it so well that the business had become what would later be called a department store. Another store was being planned for Bloomington, and, if all went well, a third store would open next year in Springfield. The couple was admired because they were young, lived well, and had money. But they were not admired for their religious convictions. Both believed in spirits, and both were pillars of the spiritualist church in Decatur. They were the ones who had sponsored Dr. Stevens' lecture to be held the next night. He would remain there for another week, seeing private clients who needed his physical and spiritual powers. Have you ever been to Watsika before? Robert asked. No, I don't believe so. Where is it? Here in Illinois, not too far from us actually. Helen's married sister lives there. What seeka? The doctor rolled the name on his tongue. Strange name for a town, isn't it? Is there a church there? Spiritualist church? Helen asked. Yes. She laughed. Good heavens, no. They've got Baptists and Methodists and Catholics, but they don't want us. The doctor sighed. He was all too familiar with that kind of thinking. The reason I asked you here, Doctor, Robert sipped from his brandy glass, is that when Helen was there before Thanksgiving, she heard a story and we wondered if you had heard about it. About a little girl who is possessed, his wife added. Possessed? In what what did you say the name was? Whatseek. Yes, Watzika. No, I haven't heard about this little girl. He shook his head. What sort of possession do they say it is? The Methodist minister and the town gossip mill say this little girl frightens horses, that she tried to kill her mother, and that she goes into trance and demons speak through her. They have her locked in one room of the house and won't let her out even to do her private necessities. Good heavens, what kind of parents are they? From what I understand they are farmers, or at least he is. She is a nervous woman, and since her daughter has been having those fits, as they call them, her health has gotten worse. She's a young woman, just turned forty, and her husband can't be too much older. Any other children? One, a boy. He seems to be alright, not quite twenty, I understand. They aren't poor people. By that I mean they own their own home, and manage to dress modestly and eat well. They aren't rich, but they aren't suffering either. I drove by the house, and it's an average house, except for the wood that's nailed over the front parlor windows. Over the windows? The doctor's voice rose. What for? To keep that poor child from escaping. The whole town thinks she's dangerous and needs to stay locked up. I hear her father mistreats her at times too, whips her when she begs to be let out, and when she gets her fits he refuses to let her have any food. Helen shuddered. They've reduced her to little more than an animal. They are most probably ignorant people, her husband said. They are afraid of what's happening and they can't explain it. And it shames them. Dr. Stevens pressed the rim of his glass against his lip. Maybe if I went there and saw the child, I could drive out whatever it is that's holding her and restore her health. Helen clapped her hands. Oh could you, Dr. Stevens? I didn't want to ask you because I know how busy you are, but if you could do something for that girl, she's been on my mind ever since I heard about her. We would make sure you were financially rewarded, wouldn't we, Robert? Let's not get involved in money talk right now. That can always come afterward. The important thing is that I go to this Watsika place and see the child for myself. I could be there in a week's time, after I finish with my clients here. What did you say her name was? Vennum, Helen said. Lurancey Vennum. He took out a small black notebook and a silver pencil. Let me write that down. Vennum. And you say the family are Methodists? Well, they were, she replied. Until the girl's father took a shotgun to the Methodist minister and ordered him off his property. None of the family goes to church anymore. Took a gun to him? Why? Because the preacher said the girl was crazy and evil. Too bad the gun didn't go off, her husband said. Richard, I'm shocked at you. She laughed. So that's two things the minister listens to. God and guns. And you'll need both when you get to Watsika. Just wait and see, Helen said. Dr. Stevens was not impressed when he got off the train in Watseka. He had been in many small towns, and after a while they all began to look alike. The depot was large and very busy, and by standing on the platform he could see the main street. He could read the sign First National Bank with IOOF of the Oddfellows Lodge Rooms on the second floor. The Williams House, the hotel Helen had recommended, was just beyond it. He only had one bag, and it contained more books and clothes, so it was an easy walk down Walnut Street to the hotel. The snows of Christmas had melted and a January thaw had begun. The boardwalk on the business side of the street had been swept clean for pedestrians. Some snow still remained on the opposite side of the street, along the tracks, where it had been piled to allow the horses space to pull their wagons and buggies. There was a great deal of frozen horse manure mixed with the frozen snow. He read the signs as he passed them. Dr. Roberts, Dentist, McCurdy's Harness Shop, Culver's Store, with lawyers Stearns and Amos on the second floor, Held Brothers Meets, Edinger's Boots and Shoes, Office of the Iroquois County Times, J. G. Wagner's Dry Goods, Watseka Bank, and finally the Williams House. Farther down he could have read, had he wanted to, Orin's Drugstore, Kys's Blacksmith Shop, the Opera Hall, Weaver's Picture Gallery, Burlew and Smith's Wagons, and the famous clothing house. Miss Alice Williams had him sign the guest register and told him the times that meals were served. She gave him a key and pointed to the stairs that led to the second floor. There were two bathrooms, she said, one at each end of the hall. Hot water for morning shaving must be ordered the night before, but with that beard, I doubt you'll need it. The room was large, with a window opening on the main street, and a view clear across the tracks to the southern part of town. He hung his extra suit in the wardrobe closet and put his six clean shirts on a ledge beside it. After he had combed his hair and brushed his beard, he put on his great coat and his warm fur cap. He walked down to the lobby and asked Miss Williams if she knew where the Vennum family lived. They have a place over on sixth, alright. Their house sits in the middle of some vacant lots between Mulberry and Mechanics. You've got to go down fifth and then over one. Six don't run up into walnut. You can't miss it. They boarded up their parlor windows. She looked at the imposing stranger. What do you want with those people? I understand they have a daughter. Who is mad as a hoot owl? The lady said. I've come to see if I can help her. Did Tom Vennum call you? Nobody called me. I came on my own. You'd better keep out of it. That girl will be locked up in another week, and we can all breathe easier. Locked up? In another week? Locked up where? He was becoming concerned about the little time he had left. They are taking her away to a crazy house in Springfield. Next week. The papers came through yesterday and Mayor Peters signed them. I know that for a fact, because the mayor was here for lunch yesterday and told me so personally. She centered the guest register on the counter and wiped away a non existent bit of dust from its cover. Good riddance, too. Watsika's too small to have crazy people running loose in the streets. He nodded to her. Between mulberry and mechanics on six, you said, thank you very much. A good morning to you, madame. He pulled his coat tighter and adjusted his cap. It is doubtful if I will be back in time for lunch. You did say supper was between six and seven? She nodded. He walked back down Walnut Street, in the direction he had come from the depot. At fourth street, he looked across at the corner building. It was one of the few structures on that side of the street, with its rear entrance facing the tracks. A window on the second floor was opened to let in fresh air. Dr. Stevens saw a white haired man look at him, then close the window and move out of sight. He read the gold lettering on the window. Asa B. Roth, attorney at law. He continued down Walnut to the next block, which was Fifth Street, and turned right, crossed the tracks, crossed Cherry and Locust Streets, and when he came to Mulberry, he walked one block, turning right again on sixth. It had been easy going until he turned on sixth. Most of the walkways had been cleared of snow, but sixth had its own brand of desolation. There were no wooden walks, just a foot trail through ice and drifted snow. He sensed the venom home before he saw it. There was a tingling down his spine and he shuddered under his warm great coat. The house sat in silence, back from the street, protected from the outside by two tall trees that, black and leafless, did nothing more than stand like ink drawings against the snow on the ground and the paint on the walls. And there were the slats, nailed in large X's across two front windows and two side windows. As he made his way slowly through the snow up the path to the low front porch, he tried to see what was behind those windows, but the blinds were drawn. The summerscreen door was still hanging, and he had to open it to use the door knocker. It was a dainty bronze female hand, and it held a bronze ball. It was the only bit of ornamentation he could see. He knocked and waited. There was a large window a few feet from the door, but it was draped and heavy curtains. There were no slats nailed to its frame, however. He was about to knock again when the door opened. A woman looked at him through the narrow space between the door and the frame. Yes, she said. Mrs. Vennum? Yes. My name is Dr. E. Winchester Stevens, and I have come to visit you. He removed his cap, but she didn't open the door any wider. To visit with me? she asked. He could see her hand trembling on the door. To visit with you and Mr. Venom, in hopes that I can be of some assistance to your daughter. Who are you? Did you say? Her voice rose slightly. A doctor? Yes, ma'am. Dr. E. W. Stevens. She slammed the door shut and he heard her call Tom, come quick. There's a doctor here and he's come to take a ranty. There was a muffled shout, a masculine voice, and Dr. Stevens waited to see if he would see a shotgun pointed at him. Heavy footsteps across the inner room, and then the door was yanked open. Tom Venom stood there in an undershirt and trousers. From the way his face was shining, he had been in the midst of shaving. You get out of here. Ain't nobody supposed to come for Rancy till next week. No, just a moment. I don't have no moments, and neither do you. He glared at Dr. Stevens. You have no right. Shut up. What? Tom looked stunned. I said, Dr. Stevens repeated, shut up. No one had ever told Tom Venom to shut up before. He stared at the stranger in the door as Lurinda began to whimper behind him. Now, I'm sorry if I used that kind of language, but you wouldn't listen to any other. Tom was getting the color back in his face. No, just be silent, the doctor cautioned. I am speaking to you. Lurinda was crying softly now, fearing for the violent scene that she knew would take place. Nobody talked to her husband like that and got away with it. Good, the doctor said in his deepest speaking voice. Now, perhaps you'll listen to me and to why I am here. He had a way of charming audiences and of dealing with his critics. The doctor had a great deal of experience in getting what he wanted. Tom Vennum was no match for him. My name is Dr. E. Winchester Stevens. I have not come, I repeat, sir, not come to take your daughter away from you. I have come to try and help her to cure her of her affliction so that she may return to normal health. Nobody ever told me to shut up before, Tom growled, but didn't make any move toward the man in the great coat. More's the pity, replied the doctor. Perhaps if they had, you wouldn't be in the situation you are at the present. He was sure of himself now. The man was willing to listen. Your daughter is under severe pressure from outside influences. Pressure that makes her appear as if she is not sane. Tom looked at him. Pressure? What kind of pressure? I am a man of God, the doctor said. My calling has been, for the past twenty years, to drive entities from the bodies of innocent victims. I believe your daughter is such a victim. To drive what? Entities. What's that? Entities are spirits that have no physical form. They can enter into physical bodies, as is the probable happening in your daughter's case, and they can make that human body do things that it would not otherwise do. Spirits? Are you talking about spirits? I am indeed, sir. I am talking about spirit entities that take over physical beings and perform dastardly deeds upon them. At last, he thought, I am making myself understood to this rude farmer. Tom was looking into his eyes now, looking hard and breathing hard. You get out of here with your spirits and your ghosts. My Rancy don't have no ghost inside her. She ain't working with the devil. I don't care what you and the others say. She's a sick girl and she needs medical help. Medical help. She don't need no talk about evil spirits and damnation. Dr. Stevens was taken aback by this sudden twist in the conversation. My good man, I did not use the word evil. I merely said that there are you use the word spirits and ghosts and all that stuff. That's what you said. I don't need you. I don't even know who you are. Now get out of here. He walked out on the porch. Dr. Stevens took a couple steps backward. I assure you that I came in friendship and in God's service, he said quickly. And I assure you, mister, whoever you are, that if you don't get off my property, I'll blow your head clean off your shoulders. Just let me see the girl. You ain't seeing nobody. You're gonna get the hell out of here. He took a few steps forward. Dr. Stevens found himself walking backward onto the steps of the porch. If you'd let me just see the child for a few minutes, I could help. If you are not out of here in two seconds, I'm going after my gun. And I'll blow your ass into the next county, mister. You can be sure of that. He stood watching until Dr. Stevens had moved down the street and out of sight. I forgot about all this. We have so many perspectives of what's going on. We see from the doctor's point of view, we've seen into the Vennum household. We know how Lavinia Durst and the Bakers feel. It's all starting to come together. Wasn't it amazing to hear that he saw Asa Roff? I still don't think you have any idea what's coming, though.

Porchlight Whispers: Personal Hauntings

Speaker 24:42

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.

Listener Stories Invitation And CTA

Speaker 1 25:07

I don't know if I've mentioned it yet, but that's my husband Chris doing the voice for the Porchlight Whispers intro. I just listened to it before I started recording, and I'm really glad he said the thing about courage. Because I'm a little nervous about this one. I'm gonna be pretty open and honest in this week's Porchlight Whispers. Reading this excerpt gave me a flood of memories. As it listed the street names, I thought of how many times I had walked or driven up and down Walnut Street. How many times did I get stuck by a train trying to get to school or home from school or anywhere? Twine years ago this month, I was doing my behind-the-wheel driving in January in Watseka, and I was so embarrassed that I fishtailed somewhere downtown as I was trying to turn left. Luckily, Coach Odgers understood and found the humor in it. My senior year of high school? I was running late as usual, and I scraped just enough of the windshield of the driver's side of my windshield so I could see, and I headed to school. Little did I know that when I turned right onto Walnut Street and started going directly into the sun, I would be blinded. Luckily I knew Walnut Street so well that I was somehow able to turn into the Vips parking lot safely and scrape the rest of my windshield before I kept going. Only in a small town. When I heard Cherry Street, I thought of the two years my sister, cousins, and I spent going to my grandma and grandpa's after school. Most days we were just trying to get away with watching as much MTV as we could. Sometimes my grandma would give us a quarter and we'd walk down to Variety and News on Walnut Street, where they still sold penny candy. We were rich those days, even if we usually had to pick up sticks before Grandpa mowed to earn it. I thought of living in that house on Cherry Street the first three months we lived in Watsika after my parents got divorced. There were times where I swore I could hear footsteps on the very back staircase at night, and occasionally I thought I heard things upstairs when I was downstairs. And I never liked to go in the basement. We lived on 5th Street next when we moved out. I've hardly told anyone this, but when I was eight years old, I woke up one night to my closet door slowly opening. It sounds so cliche, but a darker than dark figure came out and stood by my bed. I remember being so scared and laying there shaking and not knowing what to do and not really being able to move. I guess I eventually just fell asleep. I tried to tell my mom the next day, but she said it was probably just a dream. I knew it wasn't. I made her get me a night light, and I pushed my bed all the way up against the wall, and I would face away from the closet to sleep at night. I did not sleep very well after that for a long time. I think now my experience would be called sleep paralysis. I never saw that figure again or had any kind of experience with my closet. One night, I was scared in my room, so I went into my sister's room. She had this room that had been converted from a side porch into a bedroom, so she had double French doors that opened out into the dining room, and they had glass panes. I was laying in there and she was asleep, and all of a sudden I heard the TV turn on and I heard static. I could see the reflection of the TV in the window pane of her door. Nobody was in the living room. The TV stayed on for I don't know how long, maybe five minutes, and then it just turned off. That really freaked me out. Poltergeist anybody? I guess I have had my share of experiences that make me curious and open to all possibilities. I haven't even touched using a Ouija board. I'll save that for another day. Thank you all for listening to my memories. I never thought I'd share this with an audience, but I am happy to have a place for my stories. I have a place for yours too. I'd personally love to know if anyone has any stories about the Watseka theater that used to be the opera house. We used to love going down there and seeing movies for $1.50, and the best part was you could sit in the balcony. It was so beautiful. I've gotta know. Is it haunted? Whether you live in Watseka, Wilmington, or anywhere in the world, I'd love to offer you the Porchlight to tell your story. Please email us at porchlightwispers at gmail.com or send us a message on the Small Town Whispers Facebook page. If you like what you hear, please help us spread the word by sharing episode one, reviewing or rating the show, preferably five stars, and better yet, telling us your story. Until next time.

Speaker 30:10

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 1 30:23

And with that, the porchlight dims, but the whispers stay with us. Join us again next time when another voice steps into the light.