Haunted Wisconsin

by Michael Norman

  The reporter continued to try to solve the mystery lights puzzle. He interviewed William Courtney, who claimed the lights were the work of a prankster who had gained access to the house through an unlocked cellar door. Courtney also said he had found the kitchen door kicked in. He thought the culprit was someone who wanted to rent the place and was trying to scare off the man to whom Courtney had promised it.

  The hundreds of nightly witnesses did not agree. Many told the reporter that no one in their right mind would brave the wild winds and deep snows to break into a vacant house night after night. Observers noted that the lights did not reflect off anything around them, often flashed like lightning, and sometimes changed shape or created halos. It seemed unlikely that kerosene or oil lamps could have produced such effects.

  The puzzle was never really solved. The Oshkosh newsman did not think the witnesses were fantasizing, although the possibility of pranksters at work could never be ruled out completely. Apparently no one in the crowd was brave enough or foolhardy enough to break into the Courtney home at the moment when the lights made an appearance.

  Voice on the Bridge

  The village of Omro, Wisconsin, was a center of Spiritualist activity in the nineteenth century. In this little settlement near Oshkosh, the First Spiritualist Society hosted eminent Spiritualists and mediums from all over the United States—the Davenport brothers, Moses Hull of Boston, Benjamin Todd of Michigan, Susan Johnson of California, and many others. Séances were performed, spirits materialized, but the combined efforts of local and visiting mediums failed to solve the murder of a local man.

  Sometime between nine and ten o’clock one night, farmer John Sullivan left Omro, where he had spent the day trading. His thoughts must have been on home and a good night’s sleep after a long day in town.

  His movements were later reconstructed, as there were no eyewitnesses to what happened. Several people who lived near the Fox River said they heard a sharp cry followed by a gunshot. A short time later, Sullivan’s body, with a single, fatal gunshot wound, was found next to a footbridge across the river. Law enforcement officials were baffled because Sullivan had no known enemies nor was he carrying a large amount of money after having spent most of it on supplies.

  Séances buzzed with questions directed toward the nether world asking for the identity of the killer; there was never an answer.

  Then some weeks later, a Mr. Wilson happened to be crossing the same bridge at the same time of night when out of the darkness he noticed what appeared to be a man just ahead of him shouldering a rifle. A voice from out of nowhere whispered, “That is the gun that killed John Sullivan!” Wilson heard a terrified scream, a loud gunshot, and then the man and rifle vanished.

  Wilson ran back to the village to relate his experience. He swore that he would recognize the murder weapon—and the murderer—if he ever saw them again. He later claimed that he had indeed seen both but then refused to identify them. The spirits remained silent as well. Sullivan’s murder remained unsolved.

  He Comes by Night

  The winter nights were long and lonely for the families of nineteenth-century Wisconsin lumberjacks. While husbands and fathers lived in lumber camps as they cleared the great northern pine forests, wives and children stayed behind in scores of small settlements, sometimes hardly more than clusters of log shanties, scattered across the state. From Brule in the northwest through Minocqua, Hazelhurst, Conover, and Split Rock toward the east, the villages, especially during the harsh winter months, were as isolated as any place on earth.

  One such village was West Algoma, near Lake Winnebago and since incorporated into the city of Oshkosh.

  The legend has persisted that in one particular year over a century ago, West Algoma’s isolation was disrupted each winter night by the terrifying appearance of a towering figure swathed in a black cape.

  The stranger’s routine never varied. At the stroke of midnight he would emerge from the shadows at the edge of town, walk slowly with the aid of a crooked cane down the wooden sidewalk, and then vanish into the night. He never spoke aloud to anyone nor did he alter his gait. Villagers claimed the timing of his arrival varied by less than a minute.

  Townsfolk hid behind barred doors and curtained windows, afraid to interfere with or question the mysterious visitor. Few could sleep until he was gone.

  On one particular night, however, a teenage boy approached the stranger. He claimed that beneath the figure’s dark cap he had seen a pallid, expressionless face devoid of life. Terrified, the boy fled.

  Night after night, week after week, and month after month of that long winter this thing walked the streets of West Algoma. But on the day in spring when the men returned from the woods the visitor vanished, never to return.

  Some claimed he was a ghostly town crier keeping watch over the lonely families until their menfolk returned from the forest. Then again, the night walker may just have been one villager’s imaginative and ultimately successful effort to keep wives and children close to home on those cold and desolate nights.

  The Phantom Rider of Pumpkin Hollow

  As dusk settles on quiet autumn nights over the south line road near the crossroads settlement of Oak Hill, a few miles south of Sullivan, in Jefferson County, old-timers say an Indian brave still gallops through the gathering darkness, a garland of sliced pumpkin around his neck. High above his head he holds his ancient rifle, a pumpkin speared around its barrel. His fast pony is festooned with even more pumpkin chunks. The legend of the phantom rider begins in Wisconsin’s early pioneer days and bears more than a casual resemblance to Washington Irving’s “Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”

  Harry Osgood operated a tavern on that road frequented by ox drivers and travelers on their way to Milwaukee. The structure was little more than a log shelter along the rutted trail. Nevertheless, it was a favorite stop.

  Early one fall evening, an Indian arrived at the tavern astride a lively pinto pony. He was already tipsy when he stumbled into the establishment but demanded more whiskey. Osgood refused. Instead, he gave the brave a number of ripe, bright orange pumpkins. The Indian was delighted, impaling the largest one on the barrel of his rifle. He cut the others into chunks and with some twine draped them around the pony’s neck. Pleased with his work, he set off down the trail.

  A short way off, pioneer physician Doc Powers was riding toward the tavern after making calls at several homesteads. As he gazed down the trail, he saw the pumpkin-bedecked Indian galloping toward him. The trail was narrow near the spot where the two met. Powers demanded to pass first but the Indian refused. Instead, he bashed Doc over the head with his rifle.

  Powers fell from his horse, but what happened next is unclear. One rendering of the legend holds that the physician recovered his senses and grabbed the rifle from the Indian, smashing the weapon against a tree trunk. The young Indian fled across the marsh, and both horses bolted into the forest. Powers knew that men from the tavern would help find his horse.

  Another version of the story claims the doctor lay unconscious for some time. When he awoke, pieces of the pumpkin littered the road, but the Indian was nowhere to be seen. The doctor’s horse was found a short way off.

  Whichever version is correct, Doc Powers swore vengeance on the Indian who attacked him. The doctor made his way to the tavern, where Osgood agreed to help him search for his horse. When the pair reached the spot where the attack had occurred, Powers shook his head over the chunks of pumpkin scattered about. He declared that the name of the area really ought to be changed from Pleasant Valley to Pumpkin Hollow. And so it was.

  The Indian was never again seen at the tavern or anywhere else in the region. Wayfarers, however, frequently reported the ghost of an Indian bedecked with pumpkins galloping up and down the south line road for many years. And, some say, when the chill autumn wind scatters brittle leaves down Pumpkin Hollow, the Indian brave is still seen in his garish costume.

  The Possession of Carl Seige

  Can an evil spirit
take over an individual’s mind, body, and soul? People have always thought so. In every culture, in every period of history, demonic possession has been recognized. Loud, obscene curses and bile issue from the victim’s mouth, body contorting and eyes gleaming with hatred. Often, it’s all accompanied by paranormal manifestations—pounding in the walls, the levitation of furniture, and the presence of fireballs.

  The causes of demonic possession are little understood. Since possession closely resembles some forms of mental illness, medical treatment is usually tried first. For intractable cases that do not respond to medication, the religious rite of exorcism may be performed to cast out the “demons.” No one knows how many exorcisms are performed in this country in any given year because the possessed usually insist upon anonymity and church records are closely held by church authorities.

  But the possession of Watertown’s Carl Seige became something of a cause célèbre. He was harassed by demons for twenty years and the whole town knew it. His exorcism and the other lurid details of his sensational case were reported breathlessly by Wisconsin newspapers and reprinted by periodicals nationwide. The case remains one of the most often cited reports of “demonic possession.”

  According to the contemporary accounts, the diabolical manifestations first began when Carl was five years old and living with his family in their native Germany. One day one of Carl’s sisters found a duck egg under a tree just outside the door of their small cabin. With typical childlike curiosity, she picked it up and took it to her mother. Mrs. Seige noticed that the egg had a small pinhole in one end. She cautioned her daughter to put the egg back where she had found it. The girl did so. At that moment, the family dog appeared, seized the egg, and ate it. Immediately, he was struck blind and, raging with fright, ran in wide circles through the yard. The child fled, screaming. The dog was promptly shot.

  A short time later, the little girl was seized with blindness and spasms and soon was bedridden. She lingered in agony for a year before she died. Carl was attacked with blindness and severe pains that continued for a number of months, leaving him with a limp and a withered, twisted hand. His sight was partially restored, and he survived.

  But when Carl turned twelve years old, he endured more physical anguish. Uncontrollable seizures set in, his head was jerked like a puppet by unseen forces, his shoulders twisted, and he was often thrown violently to the ground where he struck out at all who tried to approach him. He frothed at the mouth, his eyes filled with malevolence. If a “fit” overtook him while he was eating, his hands struck his dinner plate, scattering food all over the floor. Sometimes one of these spells would last an entire day. Between attacks, he prayed for deliverance and made the sign of the cross. His prayers went unanswered. So did those of his pious Lutheran family. German doctors, using roots and herbs and all the medicines available at that time, were unable to cure, or even alleviate, the dreadful symptoms of Carl’s strange malady.

  Finally, in the spring of 1867, when Carl was twenty-four years old, the despairing family—father, mother, three sons, and five daughters—immigrated to Watertown, Wisconsin, a community with a sizeable German population. But their troubles followed them. The sixteen-year-old Seige daughter, a beautiful young woman, was sent to live in the home of the local Lutheran minister to help with the housework and to care for the family’s several children. Before long, she became pregnant by the minister and bore a son. In sorrow and shame, she returned to her own family.

  But her return precipitated a series of terrifying events. Her brother’s demonic symptoms greatly increased. Now the violence was focused upon the baby. Screaming that he intended to kill the infant, Carl would spring toward the child with eyes wild in his pale face, froth glistening on his lips. His terror-stricken sister sheltered the infant as best she could during these tantrums. She slept only fitfully at night, keeping the infant close by; during the day she never let him out of her sight. As fears and tensions mounted, the whole family suffered strange, recurring illnesses marked by dizziness and severe headaches.

  In the evenings, unearthly noises shook the house. Open doors slammed shut with no one near them, the windowpanes rattled loudly, even on windless nights, and weird, hollow-sounding noises emanated from one of the rooms.

  Late one evening, to the family’s horror, an enormous ball of fire appeared on the top of the cooking stove. As they watched, frozen with fear, Carl dashed forward and struck the fireball with his fist. It broke apart, scattering small, glowing globules into all corners of the room. Yet nothing burned, and the fire gradually went out.

  Shortly after this incident, the family cow, tied in the backyard, started behaving strangely. She began to rear on her hind legs, and lash out with her tail. Carl, watching her from the kitchen window, gave great shouts of joy. His father could not get near the beast to milk her, and he and his wife were convinced that somehow the demons had gotten into the cow.

  The simple family, who had sought sanctuary in the New World from the evil, supernatural forces that seemed to beleaguer them, were engulfed once again by fear and despair. At first they had tried to keep Carl’s illness a secret. But as his attacks increased with awesome intensity, Seige knew he needed outside help. In the winter of 1868, he called in a Dr. Quinney, son of a prominent Stockbridge Indian chief. His medical “specialty,” if any, isn’t known.

  Quinney listened to the young man’s history, and then administered an herbal remedy. He also applied poultices to Carl’s shoulders in an attempt to “draw out” the evil spirits. When the compresses were removed the next day, they were covered with bristles! Those bristles were of different colors and ranged in length from half an inch to three inches. The Indian doctor could not account for them. But the spirit of a long-deceased Mohawk Indian, speaking through a Milwaukee medium, later offered an explanation. This spirit claimed that the bristles were actually “long, hairy worms generated by microscopic animals” found in a spring in Germany, whose waters Carl had drunk as a child. The spirit said these worms were feeding upon Carl’s muscles and would eventually kill him. This was an extraordinary diagnosis, to be sure.

  Sometime after the bristles appeared, Carl had a violent seizure during which he gave the names of the devils possessing him. One was named Wilhelm Bührer. Seige recalled that Bührer was a desperate man who many years before had murdered a hog drover in Germany for his money. Was the soul of this murderer tormenting Carl? Some people thought so.

  When Dr. Quinney could offer no further help, the family turned to a Spiritualist medium. He arrived at the house to find Carl black in the face and gasping for breath. The medium claimed that a snake was inside the young man, pushing its head up into his throat. Some pointed to Carl’s chest, where they said they could feel the lashings of its tail. The medium pushed a goose quill down Carl’s throat then waved the quill over his head. Finally, Carl became quiet and was helped into bed. Relief, however, was short lived.

  When the demons returned, the Seiges decided to appeal to the local Catholic priest. He declined to intervene, however, because Carl was not Catholic. However, when the Milwaukee bishop visited Watertown and heard the story, he agreed to arrange for an exorcism.

  On an early November day, Carl was brought to the Catholic church in Watertown for the rites. The church pews were crammed with Catholics, Protestants, and others of no particular religious persuasion. A sudden hush spread over the congregation as Carl Seige was laid upon the altar. His face was wan, his slender, wasted body corpselike. Seven priests, in cassocks, white surplices, and purple stoles, took their places beside the stricken man. Their faces divulged no fear, yet each, in his heart, recognized the dangers inherent in the ritual—of conversing with the demons, of being attacked psychologically in such ways that they themselves might be overcome by the evil spirits they sought to cast out.

  “Almighty Father, Everlasting God …”

  They recited in unison, each priest tracing the sign of the cross over the young man’s head.

  �
��We beseech thee, this day, to help us cast out from thy beloved servant, Carl Seige …”

  Each priest sprinkled holy water upon the victim.

  “Those demons that torment and seek to destroy … and by thy infinite mercy …”

  Each priest laid hands upon the prostrate form before him.

  “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

  Then came the words of ancient prayers, powerful incantations used for centuries to drive evil from the earth. The clerics knelt in a circle around Carl. At the back of the altar a picture of the Holy Virgin glowed in the candlelight, and flanking her was burning incense giving off a heavy, pungent fragrance.

  The prayers, the sprinklings of holy water, the sign of the cross were repeated—over and over with soft yet urgent insistence.

  Suddenly Carl’s head jerked, and from his gaping mouth the evil spirit spewed invectives. It shouted obscenities in German, mocking the holy water, threatening to surround the church with its own water, which it would purify. The forces of God and Satan had met. The priests’ faces, shadowed by the flickering candlelight, were fixed as if carved of stone. The demon laughed raucously at the prayers, telling the priests they had not found the right one. Then it began speaking in tongues—snatches of Gaelic and Latin mingled with a strange vocalizing that resembled no spoken language. Undeterred, the priests continued their prayers, beads of sweat sparkling their brows. Yet they spoke with confidence, with a discipline born of long training. And the congregation watched, some moved to tears by the rite, others stoic and calm.

  When the last cold rays of the setting sun vanished below the windowsills of the church, the exorcism was halted. The exhausted priests were cautiously optimistic—they told the assembled congregants that four demons had been cast out. But there were more.