Ain't no town ever meant to be remembered for something like this.
But Velisca, Iowa?
It ain't just remembered.
It's haunted.
By whispers, by shadows, by the kind of darkness that seeps into a place and never lets go.
Folks around here don't like to talk about that night back in 1912, when eight souls
got cut down in their sleep, their heads bashed in so bad the coroner wouldn't let their
own kinfolk see them.
But the house remembers.
Oh, it sure does.
And if you listen close, when the wind howls through them old walls, you might hear the
echoes of what happened that June night, and maybe, just maybe, the ones who still linger.
Welcome to Kentucky Melody's America's Scariest Stories, where we bring you ghostly legends,
spooky haunts, and bone-chilling tales from all over this great land.
These stories will have you looking over your shoulder all night.
So pull up a chair, dim them lights, and let's dive into the eerie and unexplained.
Beliska, Iowa, nestled amidst the rolling plains, was once the epitome of small-town
serenity, a place where folks knew each other's names, where a man's word was his bond, and
where the worst crime in recent memory might have been a cow wandering off from its pasture.
The air smelled of fresh-cut hay in the summer, of wood smoke in the winter, and at night
the only sound was the distant whistle of the train, rolling through the countryside like
a lullaby for the town.
Children played freely in the dusty streets, their laughter ringing through the air as they
chased each other past storefronts, past the old post office, past the rows of tidy, whitewashed
houses where mothers swept porches and fathers mended fences.
It was the kind of place where doors weren't locked at night, because there weren't no
reason to.
The town's name, Beliska, is believed to come from a Native American word meaning pleasant
view.
Some say it was named for the way the sun dipped low over the cornfields, setting the
sky on fire with reds and golds, a sight so peaceful it could make a man forget his troubles.
A place where the land stretched wide under an endless sky, where neighbors looked out
for each other, where the biggest excitement was the county fair or a new shipment coming
in on the railroad.
But after the night of June 9th, 1912, that name, Beliska, became something else.
It weren't no longer a place of peace, but a place of whispers.
The train still passed through, but now, it carried stories of death, of horror, of a
crime so savage folks could hardly speak of it.
Strangers started coming, not to settle, but to stare, their eyes full of something between
fear and morbid curiosity.
Doors that had never known a lock were bolted shut at night, the streets, once filled with
play, grew silent after dark.
The land still stretched wide, the sky still endless, but now there was a shadow over Beliska,
one that time couldn't shake, one that settled heavy in the bones of the town like a sickness.
The name Beliska had been carved into the annals of American horror, and no matter how
many years passed, that darkness never did fade.
At the heart of Beliska stood a modest white frame house at 508 East Second Street, home
to Josiah Jo Moore, his wife Sarah, and their four children, Herman, Catherine, Boyd, and
Paul.
The Moors were well regarded in the community.
Josiah was a successful businessman, and Sarah was active in their church.
Their home, filled with love and laughter, became the unsuspecting stage for an unfathomable
tragedy.
June 9, 1912 was a Sunday, a day of rest, of church bells ringing through the streets,
of neighbors exchanging warm smiles under the Iowa sun.
In Beliska, it was also Children's Day, a special service at the Presbyterian Church,
where youngins recited Bible verses and sang hymns, their voices rising up toward heaven
like a prayer for the town's bright future.
Sarah Moore, ever active in the church, had spent weeks helping organize the event, and
that night she and her husband Josiah sat proudly in the pews, watching their four children,
Herman, Catherine, Boyd, and little Paul, being with excitement as they took part in
the service.
Among the congregation were two sisters, Lena and Anna Stillinger, friends of the Moor children.
They'd come to town to visit, and at the last minute got invited to spend the night at the
Moor House, rather than making the trip back home in the dark.
It seemed like a simple, innocent decision, one that shouldn't have meant a thing.
But instead, it sealed their fate.
When the service ended, the families exchanged good-nots.
The Moors and the Stillinger girls headed off down the dimly-lit streets toward home.
The gas lamps flickered as they passed, a summer breeze rustling the leaves, carrying
the scent of fresh-cut grass.
It was near 9.45 p.m., when they stepped inside their house at 508 East Second Street, and
somewhere in the darkness, someone was already waiting for them.
The Moor home was a simple place, two stories, white wood inside, a warm and welcoming sight
to any passerby.
But that night, there was something else inside them walls, something hiding.
Investigators later reckoned the killer had slipped in while the family was at church,
settling into a cramped attic space, crouching there in the blackness, breathing quiet as
a whisper while he waited for the house to sleep.
The thought of it alone is enough to turn a man cold.
Man coming home, locking the door, feeling safe, all while something evil is sitting
just above your head, listening to your every word, gripping an axe with a hand eager to
use it.
Sometime after midnight, when the last candle had been blown out and the house had settled
into deep silence, the killer made his move.
He slipped out of the attic, taking Josiah's own axe from where it rested outside, and climbed
the stairs to the master bedroom.
He started with Josiah.
The first blow crashed down with such force it caved in his skull.
The second was worse than another, and another.
Blood splattered the walls, soaked into the mattress.
His wife Sarah barely had time to wake before the same fate met her.
Then came the children.
One by one, the monster moved through the house, entering each room, lifting the axe
high above his head, bringing it down with brutal, merciless force.
He didn't just kill them, he obliterated them.
Some of their skulls were so damaged, their faces weren't even recognizable.
By the time he reached the guest room, where Lena and Ina still in der lae, the axe dripped
with the blood of the innocent.
The youngest, Ina, never knew what hit her.
A quick, brutal end.
But Lena?
Lena woke up.
Her body was found sideways on the bed, her arms raised defensively, as if she'd fought
back.
There was blood on her hands, a deep cut on her arm.
The coroner believed she'd been awake for at least a moment, long enough to see what
was happening, to know she was about to die.
Some reports suggested her nightgown was pulled up, her body positioned unnaturally.
Some say she was the only one the killer took his time with.
When it was all over, the killer weren't satisfied just leaving a house full of bodies.
He covered the mirrors and the windows, draping them in cloth and blankets, in whatever he
could find.
Some believe he did it out of shame, not wanting to see his own reflection staring back at
him.
Others say it was something older, something darker, an old belief that the dead souls
get trapped in mirrors.
He even covered the bodies, laying sheets over them like some twisted attempt at kindness.
Then just before leaving, he did something truly bizarre.
He left to plate a food on the table, an untouched meal, as if he'd sat down and tried to eat
in the house of the dead.
Next to it, he left a bowl of bloody water used to wash his hands.
And the axe?
He left it in the guest room, still soaked in blood, its handles smeared with the remnants
of the souls it had stolen.
By the time the town woke up, the Moore family and the Stillinger girls were gone, and the
house?
It would never be the same again.
The heinous nature of the crime led to numerous theories and suspects, but none were definitively
proven guilty.
Among them was Reverend George Kelly, a traveling minister with a history of mental instability
and sexual deviance.
He had attended the Children's Day program and left town abruptly the next morning.
Kelly confessed to the murders, but later recanted, and two trials resulted in acquittal.
Another suspect was Frank F. Jones, a local businessman and the state senator who had
a fallen out with Josiah over business matters and rumored personal grievances.
However, no concrete evidence linked Jones to the crime.
William Mansfield, suspected of similar axe murders and Henry Lee Moore, no relation,
who had killed his own family with an axe, were also considered but never charged.
The lack of forensic technology at the time and the compromised crime scene hindered the
investigation, leaving the case unsolved.
In the years following the murders, the Moore house rotted in silence, its walls holding
onto secrets the dead couldn't speak.
Folks walked a little faster past it, kept their eyes straight ahead, didn't dare look
at them upstairs windows after dark.
The house itself seemed wrong, like it knew something the rest of the town didn't.
Then the whispers started.
First, it was just small things.
Neighbors swore they saw flickers of movement behind the curtains, even when the place was
empty.
Others said they'd hear soft, distant laughter floating from the house late at night.
The kind of laughter only children make, but there weren't no children in there no more.
And then things got worse.
Doors slammed shut on their own.
Footsteps echoed through empty halls.
The air inside turned thick and heavy, like it didn't want you breathing it in.
Some folks who stepped inside claimed their skin prickled with a feeling like they were
being watched.
Others said they'd feel a cold, unseen hand brush against them when there weren't nobody
near.
One of the eeriest claims comes from paranormal investigators who spent the night inside.
More than once, they've reported hear and small voices whisper in their names in the
dark.
Some say they caught the laughter of children on their record and equipment, clear as day.
But when they played it back, there was something else mixed in.
A deep, ragged breathing sound, like something lurking just out of sight.
Objects move on their own.
A lamp, sitting solid as can be, suddenly topples over with no one near it.
A ladder, leaning safe against the wall, slams to the ground like something pushed it.
Some folks even say they've seen shadows moving in the house, darting from room to room, just
out of reach.
But the worst part?
The attic.
It was in that attic, some believe, where the killer hid before striking.
And whatever was up there ain't left.
More than one visitor has reported hear and slow, deliberate footsteps creaking from above.
But when they go to check, ain't nothing there.
Some investigators have brave-sittin' in that attic alone, in the dark, asking questions
into the silence.
And sometimes the silence answers back.
Some say it's the spirits of the more children, trapped in the place where they were taken
too soon.
Others reckon it's something darker, something older than the house itself.
Something that fed off the horror that night and never left.
One thing's for sure, if you stay in that house long enough, you don't leave alone.
The Velisca Axe Murder House has been featured in countless paranormal investigations, documentaries,
and TV shows, each one leaving with the same conclusion.
Something unnatural lingers there.
Some folks visit looking for proof or a story to tell, but others, others leave with something
they can't explain.
And some of them, they don't leave at all.
Nowadays, the Velisca Axe Murder House stands like a ghost of its former self, a place frozen
in time, stuck in the horror of that June night over a century ago.
Books come from all over, hoping to catch a glimpse of something unnatural, something
that don't belong in this world.
The house has been restored to look just like it did back in 1912, down to the old furniture,
the oil lamps, and the uneasy silence that seems to sit heavy in the air.
By day, it welcomes visitors, letting them walk through them same rooms where eight souls
were taken in their sleep.
But by night, that's when the real brave, or the real foolish, come knocking.
See, the house don't just stand still, it remembers.
And if you spend the night inside, laying in the dark, listening to the creaks and whispers
that seem to come from nowhere, you might just feel it remembering you too.
Some folks leave with stories of voices, shadows, cold touches on their skin, others leave without
sleep, without answers, and some, they leave in a hurry, refusing to say what they saw.
For some reason, or maybe because of it, people keep coming back.
It ain't just curiosity, it's something deeper, darker, something calling folks inside.
The Velisca axe murders still stand as one of the most chilling, blood-curdling, unsolved
crimes in America.
A reminder that evil don't just hide in big cities, or in the stories folks tell around
the fire, it can slip into the quietest of places, right through the front door, right
into your own home.
The unanswered questions still hang in the air, tangled up with the restless spirits
that might still be waiting for justice, or something else.
One thing's for sure, Velisca ain't just a name on a map no more.
It's a wound that never healed, a whisper on the wind, a shadow that won't fade, and
long after we're gone, that little house on Second Street will still be standing, watching.
What do you reckon drove the killer to do what they'd done?
Was it pure madness, or something else?
Something evil whispering in the dark?
Do you think the case went cold, because the world back then just didn't have the tools
to solve it, or was there something more sinister at work, keeping the truth buried, and most
important of all, do you believe the Moore family and them still and your girls still
linger inside that house, searching for peace, or something more?
Leave your comments and tell us what you think.
If you love a good mystery, one that ain't quite done with the living yet, hit that subscribe
button and join Kentucky Melody next time for another story, another shadow, another
place where the past still speaks.
But be careful now, some stories don't just stick with you, they follow you home, so y'all
sleep tight tonight if you can.