October 27, 2025 • 39 mins
"Call the marshal. Tell him to come quick. There's something awful in there."
On the morning of 10 June 1912, Mary Peckham stepped out her back door to hang her laundry. Her house stood next to the Moore family's home in Villisca, Iowa; close enough that she could usually hear the soft chaos of their mornings. The Moores were early risers, and their routine rarely varied.
That morning, though, the house next door was silent. And that stillness unsettled Mary Peckham. She eventually sought help and had a Moore relative drop by to check in on the family. What they found would make the town's very name synonymous with horror...
Part 1/2
Research, writing, hosting, and production by Micheal Whelan
Learn more about this podcast at http://unresolved.me
If you would like to support this podcast, consider heading to https://www.patreon.com/unresolvedpod to become a Patron or Producer
Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/unresolved--3266604/support.
On the morning of 10 June 1912, Mary Peckham stepped out her back door to hang her laundry. Her house stood next to the Moore family's home in Villisca, Iowa; close enough that she could usually hear the soft chaos of their mornings. The Moores were early risers, and their routine rarely varied.
That morning, though, the house next door was silent. And that stillness unsettled Mary Peckham. She eventually sought help and had a Moore relative drop by to check in on the family. What they found would make the town's very name synonymous with horror...
Part 1/2
Research, writing, hosting, and production by Micheal Whelan
Learn more about this podcast at http://unresolved.me
If you would like to support this podcast, consider heading to https://www.patreon.com/unresolvedpod to become a Patron or Producer
Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/unresolved--3266604/support.
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Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:03):
This episode contains graphic content that may not be suitable
for all ages. Listener discretion is advised. If you or
someone you know is struggling or in crisis, help is available,
call or text nine eight eight, or chat with someone
at nine eight eight lifeline dot org. Those outside of
the US, reach out to someone at your local crisis
(00:24):
center or hotline. Please do not suffer in silence. The
dawn of June tenth, nineteen twelve, broke gently over Veliska, Iowa.
The first shafts of sun struck the white clapboard houses
of East Second Street, and for a while everything seemed
(00:47):
exactly as it should be. The lilacs in the yards
were heavy with bloom. A rooster crowed somewhere behind the
grain elevator. It was an ordinary Monday in a town
that believed itself protected from anything truly terrible. At seven
point thirty that morning, Mary Peckham stepped out her back
door to hang her laundry. Her house stood next to
(01:07):
the Moore family, close enough that she could usually hear
the soft chaos of their mornings. The mother, Sarah Moore,
bustling in the kitchen, the scrape of chairs, the rising
laughter of children who always seemed half ready for school.
The Moors were early risers, and their routine rarely varied
that morning. Though the house next door was silent, the
(01:30):
stillness unsettled Mary Peckham. Sarah Moore, her neighbour's matriarch, wasn't
the kind of woman to sleep in, especially on a Monday.
Mary lingered on her porch, folding and unfolding a towel
in her hands. The Moor's blinds were drawn, their curtains
closed tight. Even the chickens in the yard had not
been fed, so Mary waited another half an hour before
(01:53):
knocking on the door. No one answered. She circled to
the back and tried again. Still nothing. The screen door
was latched from the inside. Mary cupped her hands against
a glass, trying to see through, but the shades had
been pulled down. She knocked harder, saying Sarah, mister Moore,
but the sound went nowhere. It was then that she
(02:15):
walked briskly down the street to find Josiah More's brother Ross.
He was the kind of man everyone in Velliska called
when something needed sorting out, level headed, reliable. When Mary
reached his store, she told him Ross, something's wrong. At
Joe's house. They're not up and the doors are all locked.
Ross left immediately, his key in his pocket. By the
(02:38):
time he and Mary reached the moor Home, the morning
sun had climbed over the rooftops. Ross knocked loudly again,
no response, though he turned the key in the front lock.
Stepped into the parlor and called out into the dimness.
The air inside was heavy, the shades were drawn, A
faint metallic odor lingered. He took a few cautious steps
(03:02):
toward the guest bedroom. The door was half closed. Through
the crack, he saw what looked like two shapes in
the bed, covered from head to foot with a sheet.
He pushed the door open. The scene that met him
froze him in place. Ross Moore stumbled backward out onto
the porch, pale and shaking. Mary, he said, his voice trembling,
(03:25):
call the Marshal, tell him to come quick. There's something
awful in there. That morning, as Marshall Hankhorton walked the
quiet path toward the moor Home, Veliska was still unaware
that its innocence had ended forever. This is the story
(03:51):
of the Veliska Axe Murders. Part one, A town asleep
nestled in the gentle hills of southwest Iowa, Veliska was
the sort of place that made its living from the
land and its comfort from community. About twenty five hundred
people called at home. The railroad cut through its southern edge,
bringing goods, news, and the occasional traveler. Two banks, three churches,
(04:16):
a handful of general stores, and a tidy row of
shops framed the town square. Residents prided themselves on their
town's moral character. They were farmers, merchants, teachers, preachers, descendants
of the first settlers that had broken the prairie sod
fifty years earlier. Sundays were sacred, and gossip was the
(04:37):
nearest thing to scandal. The Veliska Review chronicled the rhythm
of their lives, ice socials, harvest fairs, new births. The
biggest headlines were about the price of corn or the
arrival of a new automobile. Crime barely registered. The sheriff
mostly dealt with runaway livestock and the occasional drunk on
(04:57):
main street. There was a sense common in rural America
at the time that small towns were immune to the
darkness that plagued cities The people of Veliska often left
their doors unlocked and their windows open to the summer air.
Neighbors borrowed flower without asking. Strangers were rare, but not
necessarily unwelcome. The town's name itself, Veliska, was believed to
(05:21):
come from a native word meaning pleasant few. It seemed
fitting a place of peace and prosperity, where the fields
stretched wide and the world felt steady. No one could
have imagined that within a single night, the town's very
name would become synonymous with horror. Josiah Joe Moore was
(05:42):
a man who had built his life the old fashioned
way through diligence, trust and faith. Born in eighteen sixty eight,
he had come to Velliska as a young man and
found work at the local hardware store, owned by Frank F. Jones.
Moore was quick witted and good with customers. For nearly
a decade, he was Jones' best employee, and the two
men were close until Joe decided to strike out on
(06:05):
his own. In nineteen oh eight, he opened the JB.
Moore Hardware Store just off Feliska's town square. It prospered quickly,
and in winning the local John Deere contract, a valuable
piece of business previously held by Jones. Moore's independence became permanent,
though Jones remained publicly sevil, there was talk of resentment.
(06:26):
In a small town, even polite rivalries carry sharp edges.
At home, Moore was known as a family man. He
and his wife, Sarah Montgomery Moore, had been married for
thirteen years and had four children. Sarah, thirty nine, was
the heart of the family. She played the organ at
the Presbyterian church and led the Ladies Aid Society. Friends
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described her as calm and soft spoken, the sort of
woman who could organize a community event without raising her voice.
Their children, Herman eleven, Catherine ten, Lloyd seven, and Paul
five filled the house with noise and light. Hermann was earnest,
the quiet helper who shadowed his father at the hardware store.
(07:10):
Catherine had her mother's poise and her father's humor. Boyd
and Paul were inseparable, often seen racing their bicycles down
Second Street. Photographs from that spring show a happy, ordinary family.
Josiah with his trimmed mustache and bowler hat, Sarah in
her white lace blouse. The children gathered close in Sunday
(07:30):
clothes on the evening of June ninth, nineteen twelve, the
Moors welcomed two guests into their home, Lena and Ana Stillinger,
daughters of Joe and Sarah Stillinger, who lived a few
miles away. The Stillinger girls were sweet, natured and well behaved.
Lena was twelve, the elder protective of her younger sister.
(07:51):
The invitation had been spontaneous. After the Sunday evening church program.
The more children wanted their friends to stay the night
rather than walk home in the dow. Their parents agreed.
It was a small kindness, the sort that happens every
day in a trusting town, and it sealed the girl's fates. Sunday,
(08:14):
June ninth was one of the most cheerful days of
the year for Veliska's Presbyterian Church. The annual Children Day
program was a fixture of early summer, a mix of
scripture recitations, songs, and simple plays celebrating youth and faith.
Sarah Moore had spent weeks preparing the event. She had
written notes for each child's part, arranged flowers, and made
(08:37):
sure that the youngest knew their lines. It was the
kind of wholesome celebration that defined small town life in
the early nineteen hundreds, so the Moors rose early that morning.
The family walked a church together for Sunday service, returned
home for lunch, and then spent the afternoon relaxing and
preparing for the evening's festivities. The Stillinger girls joined them
(08:58):
later in the afternoon, dressed neatly in light colored dresses,
their hair tied with ribbons. That evening, the church was full,
neighbors fanned themselves against the June heat. The children performed
from a small stage decorated with garlands and banners reading
suffer the little children to come unto me. The program
(09:19):
began at eight o'clock and ended at around nine thirty.
Among those in attendance was a traveling preacher named Reverend
George Kelly, a wiry Englishman known for his odd mannerisms
and nervous energy. No one gave him much notice that night,
When the final hymn concluded, the Moors lingered a chat
with friends and congratulate the children. They were among the
(09:42):
last to leave the church. Walking home with the two
Stillinger girls through the dimly lit streets, it was a cool,
quiet evening. The walk took less than ten minutes. At
around ten o'clock, the family reached their front porch. Josiah
unlocked the door, Sarah little lamp, and the household settled
in for the night. Upstairs, beds creaked as children whispered
(10:06):
to one another, retelling moments from the evening, the songs
the laughter outside. The last train of the night passed
through Veliska, its whistle echoing faintly across the sleeping town,
and in one of the houses along its track, a
stranger might have been waiting. Now we returned to the
(10:38):
morning of June tenth, nineteen twelve, when neighbor Mary Peckham
grew suspicious of the quiet surrounding the more property and
sought help. When Marshall Hank Horton crossed the threshold of
the moorhouse, the air inside was heavy, stale, and unnaturally still.
He moved through the narrow parlor, where a child's coat
hung neatly on a peg, a reminder that the home
(11:01):
had been ordinary just a few hours earlier. Orton carried
a kerosene lamp in one hand. The curtains inside the
house were drawn, the rooms cloaked in half darkness. In
the guest bedroom he found two small figures in the bed,
their faces hidden beneath bedclothes. He lifted the corner of
the sheet and stepped back immediately. The scene before him
(11:23):
was worse than he ever could have imagined. Upstairs, he
found much of the same, the more family, each in
their own beds. The rooms looked undisturbed, as though the
family had fallen asleep and never stirred again. Every mirror
in the house had been covered, The curtains were all drawn,
doors locked from the inside. Marshall Hankhorton left the house
(11:46):
quickly on the porch. His hands were shaking. He told
Josiah's brother, Ross, don't let any one else in. This
is bad, very bad. But already people were gathering. The
sound of women weeping carried down the street. Neighbors pressed
to the porch, whispering, demanding to know what had happened.
(12:07):
Whorton tried to hold them back, but the crowd grew
faster than the law could contain it. By midday, dozens
than perhaps hundreds, had entered the house. They filed through
the rooms in disbelief, trampling footprints across the floors, touching objects,
lifting sheets, speaking in hushed tones that seemed out of
(12:28):
place among the dead. When the county coroner finally arrived,
he found chaos. Any evidence that might have once been
there was gone. Once the building was cleared, officials began
(12:52):
their work. The coroner, the sheriff, and the county attorney
spent hours documenting what they could still observe. Their notes
read like an autopsy of a nightmare. The doors had
been locked from within, windows were closed, shades drawn tightly.
Lamps had been adjusted so that their light was minimal,
the chimneys removed, the wicks turned low. In the kitchen,
(13:15):
a plate of food sat untouched on the table beside
a bowl of murky water. The axe, the murder weapon,
wiped but not cleaned, leaned against the wall in the
guest room. What puzzled investigators most was the calm of
the setting. There were no signs of struggle, no overturned furniture,
no indication that anyone had been awakened in time to
(13:37):
fight back. Whatever had happened had unfolded quickly and seemingly quietly.
The coroner concluded that the family and their two young
guests had all died in their sleep. He found evidence
that the killer had taken care afterward to cover the
victim's faces, a gesture that no one could explain. And
then there were the smaller mysteries, Mirrors covered with clothing,
(14:00):
curtains pinned shut with household objects, as if to ensure
that not a single beam of light escaped the house.
Each clue raised more questions than it answered. By the
afternoon of June tenth, the story had swept through Velliska
like wildfire. Neighbors spoke of it in disbelief, their voices low,
as though the sound itself might awaken something dreadful. Sheriff
(14:24):
Orin Jackson arrived from Red Oak to take charge. He
found the house already compromised, footprints from curious townspeople everywhere,
evidence handled, even removed. Still, the investigators began piecing together
a timeline based on the state of the bodies. The
doctor estimated that the deaths had occurred some time after midnight.
(14:45):
A kerosene lamp left near the bed suggested that whoever
had done this had moved carefully, using only the dimmest light.
In the attic, the sheriff found a box of cigarette butts.
It was the first solid clue, a sign that' someone
may have hidden there waiting for the family to return
from the church program. How long they had waited or
(15:05):
why they had chosen that night, No one knew the
back door had been locked from the inside. There were
faint traces of mud near the porch steps, though whether
they came from the killer or the crowds that followed
was impossible to tell. The investigators stepped outside, blinking into
the bright afternoon. The street was still thick with people,
(15:26):
each carrying their own theory. Someone muttered that a stranger
had been seen near the depot at dawn. Another swore
he'd heard footsteps in his yard that night. Before the
day was over, Veeliska's sense of safety had vanished that evening.
As the sun went down, every household in Veliska locked
its doors, windows were bolted, curtains drawn. The trust that
(15:48):
had to find the town evaporated in a sinkle day.
Men sat up through the night with rifles across their knees.
Dogs barked at shadows. The whistle of a passing train
made people flinge Rumors began immediately. Some said the killer
must have fled on the early morning train, escaping before sunrise.
Others believed he was still hiding somewhere nearby, maybe in
(16:10):
a barn, a field, perhaps another attic. A search party
formed before midnight, lanterns bobbing through the darkness, they combed
the roads and rail lines, finding nothing. By dawn, the
searchers were turned home, exhausted, their torches guttering out. One
by one. Veliska was no longer a quiet town. It
(16:31):
was now a town on guard. By the next morning,
reporters had arrived. The Omaha Bee, the Des Moines Register,
and the Kansas City Star all sent correspondents by train.
Within a day, Veliska's streets were crowded with strangers, not
only journalists, but curiosity seekers and self appointed detectives. Photographers
(16:52):
set up tripods outside the moor home, recording the grief
of the town people, who gathered in stunned silence. The
newspapers called it a slaughter beyond understanding. Headlines described a
human fiend, the work of a madman, the worst crime
in Iowa's history. But beyond the sensational language, there was
(17:12):
little clarity. Attorney General Howard Clark traveled from Des Moines
to assist. He walked through the house, examined the walls,
still darkened, by blood, and admitted privately that the case
might never be solved. The man who did this knew
what he was doing, Clark told the press. He left
nothing of himself behind. What evidence remained was fragmentary, a
(17:35):
few footprints, a smudged lantern, a weapon that belonged to
the victims themselves. It was the sort of crime for
which the early twentieth century had no tools. Two days
after the discovery, on June twelfth, the entire town gathered
for the funeral. The services for the More and Stillinger
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families were held together at the Methodist Church. Every peace
huku was filled. Hundreds more stood outside in the summer heat,
hats in hand, listening through open windows. The eight caskets
were arranged in two rows, covered in flowers. Reverend Ewing,
the same minister who had led the joyful Children's Day
program just nights earlier, now stood before his congregation to
(18:19):
speak of loss too large to measure. He did not
speak of the killer. He spoke instead of innocence, his
voice trembling. We must remember them as they were. This
is a darkness that no one here deserved, but we
must not let it unmake our faith in one another.
As the procession moved from the church to the cemetery,
the town fell silent except for the slow creak of
(18:42):
wagon wheels. The graves were dug side by side, the
moors and the still inter sisters, separated by only a
few feet of earth. More than five thousand mourners attended,
twice Veliska's population. Many stayed long after the coffins were lowered,
as though unwilling to let the family vanish from sight.
The more home on Second Street was sealed afterward, its
(19:05):
windows boarded and its door locked. Few could bear to
pass it. By midsummer, wildflowers had begun to grow in
the yard, The grass was uncut. The house now stood
like a monument to something that no one in town
could name. By the end of the first week, Velisco
was no longer a town of two thousand, but a
(19:27):
makeshift command post for chaos. Trains arrived daily carrying detectives
and journalists. Horses lined the main street. People who had
never before heard of Montgomery County, Iowa now debated the
details of its dead. Jerriff Orin Jackson coordinated what passed
for the investigation. He was methodical and careful, but unprepared
(19:49):
for a crime that seemed beyond the boundaries of small
town reason. The States sent assistance, but the state itself
had little to offer. Forensic science in nineteen twelve was
a crude thing. There were no crime labs, no fingerprint files,
no understanding of criminal profiling. Investigators mostly relied on intuition, rumor,
(20:09):
and what little they could see, though Sheriff Jackson began
by retracing the family's last day. He questioned parishioners from
the Presbyterian Church confirmed that the Moors had left the
children's day service close to ten o'clock PM, and then
walked home along Second Street with the Stillinger girls in tow.
Several witnesses recalled seeing them pass under the gas lamps,
(20:31):
Josiah carrying a small lantern, Sarah's hand resting gently on
Catherine's shoulder. That was the last verified sighting of any
of them. From there, Jackson tried to reconstruct the hours
that followed based on body temperature and the condition of
the remains. The coroner placed the time of death between
midnight and two a m. No one in the neighborhood
(20:52):
reported screams or gunfire. One neighbor claimed to have heard
a faint thud in the night, but thought that it
was a horse kicking a stall. Whoever had entered the
More home had done so with uncanny silence. The attic
discovery a box of cigarette butts, became the first meaningful lead.
Investigators theorized that the killer had hidden there before the
(21:14):
family came home, waiting for the lamps to dim, but
this too was speculation. The attic could have been used
earlier that evening by one of the More children. A
second clue was more tangible, the locked doors. Every exit
had been secured from the inside, and only the front
key later recovered could open them. If the killer had
(21:34):
locked the house behind him, how had he done so
without leaving a trace. The answer eluded them. Every physical
piece of evidence was compromised. Dozens of visitors had tracked
footprints through the rooms before the law men arrived. Items
had been moved, some even stolen. A local man bragged
in a nearby saloon that he had taken a piece
(21:55):
of the moor wall of paper as a souvenir. Jackson's
frustration boiled over in one recorded remark, We're looking for
one man, and we've got two thousand in the way.
As weeks passed, the investigation widened beyond Montgomery County. Sheriff
Jackson began tracing reports from nearby towns. A farmer in Macedonia,
(22:17):
Iowa claimed to have seen a man walking along the
railroad tracks at dawn on June tenth, carrying a bundle
wrapped in cloth. Others recalled a stranger loitering near the
depot the evening before. None of these sidings could be verified.
Then came the comparisons. In the months leading up to
the Veliska murders, similar crimes had occurred across the Midwest,
(22:40):
Whole families bludgeoned in their sleep, often near railroad lines.
The newspapers listed them side by side, calling it a
Midwestern plague. Investigators wondered whether Veliska was part of a pattern,
maybe a killer traveling by train, choosing isolated homes near depots,
striking without warning in then vanishing into the next town
(23:01):
before dawn. But even this theory had holes. There was
no clear description of a suspect, no physical evidence to
tie one case to another. The alternative was more frightening,
that the killer had not traveled at all, but lived
among them. By late summer talk turned inward. Some townspeople
(23:22):
whispered the name of Frank Jones, Josiah Moore's former employer.
Their business relationship had soured years before when Moore left
to open his own store. Jones, a respected state senator,
denied any animosity, but in private people wondered whether bitterness
had survived beneath the surface. Then there was the traveling preacher,
(23:43):
Reverend George Kelly, nervous, eccentric, always watching. He had been
in the church the night before the murders, left town
by the early train the next morning, and soon after
began sending letters to investigators, strange letters describing the crime
in detail, claiming visions from God. At the time, few
(24:04):
took him seriously. Veliska was full of frightened people, and
Kelly seemed only another oddity in a town already drowning
in them. Still, his name lingered in notebooks and margins,
a curiosity that would years later grow into something much larger.
(24:34):
By the end of nineteen twelve, the investigation had stalled.
The crowds were gone, the newspapers had moved on, but
the town could not forget. The moorhouse stood empty through
the winter. Children avoided the block entirely, but builts crossed
to the other side of the street. Some said the
sound of footsteps could be heard inside late at night,
though no one was brave enough to go and check.
(24:56):
The townspeople, once united by friendship and church gathering, grew
suspicious of one another. Neighbors who had once shared meals
together now locked their doors and avoided conversation. One local
editorial captured, at best, it is not only that eight
have died, it is that the piece of Veliska has
been murdered too. The killer was gone, whether by train,
(25:19):
by horse, or on foot. No one could say that
the silence they left behind stretched longer than any trail
of evidence. In the case unsolved was far from over.
(25:44):
The murder transformed Veliska from an obscure farm town into
a national fascination. Reporters arrived from as far as Chicago
and New York. They roamed the streets, interviewed weeping neighbors,
and published daily updates that mixed fact with the theater.
The Des Moines Register described the crime scene in grotesque detail.
(26:05):
The Kansas City Star speculated about a mad slayer who
drifted from town to town. The Omaha Bee suggested it
was the work of an enemy known to the family.
Each newspaper told a different version of the same story,
and each version spread faster than the truth. Photographers snapped
images of the moorhouse, its curtains still drawn, its porch
(26:26):
crowded with onlookers. One journalist noted, never in Iowa's history
has a single home drawn so many eyes and so
many questions. The attention brought interference as well. Theories multiplied,
false confessions poured in. A transient in Missouri claimed to
be the killer, but as timeline did not match. A
(26:47):
man in Kansas was arrested for carrying a bloody axe,
which turned out to be from slaughtering hogs. The story
had become a bit of a national mirror. Everyone saw
what they wanted to see, But for the people who
lived in Valleneiska, the attention was unbearable. The More's friends
and family were interrogated repeatedly. Sarah Moore's relatives were followed
(27:08):
by reporters to neighboring towns. Shopkeepers complained that visitors came
not to buy goods, but to hear gossip. Farmers from
miles around arrived by wagon just to stand outside the
house peering through its blank windows. Many residents resented the outsiders. Others,
of course, courted them, offering wild theories in exchange for
(27:30):
a mention in print. The town's moral center, once rooted
in mutual trust, began to slowly erode. The sheriff's office, overwhelmed,
offered a one thousand dollars reward for information leading to
the arrest of the killer. No one claimed it. As
weeks began to turn into months, Veliska settled into a
tense normalcy. The Moor House was boarded up, its furniture removed,
(27:54):
its rooms empty except for the memory of what had
happened there. But in kitchens and shops, people in town
still whispered names. Among the whispers, one name came up
more often than the others, that of Frank F. Jones.
Jones was a prominent Feliska businessman and a respected Iowa
(28:15):
State senator. Years earlier, Josiah Moore had worked for him
in the Jones hardware store. When Moore left to open
his own business, he took with him several key accounts,
including the lucrative John Deere contract that loss stone. In
towns like Veliska. Business rivalries often carried the weight of
family betrayals, so rumor held that Jones never forgave Josiah.
(28:39):
Some claimed that the two men no longer spoke. Others
said that their feud was exaggerated. The truth likely lay
somewhere in between, cool civility masking quiet resentment. Detectives considered
whether Jones could have hired someone to exact revenge, but
he had a solid reputation and no history of violence.
Theory hey lingered, mostly because it made emotional sense. Uliska
(29:04):
could more easily believe in human envy than in random evil.
Frank F. Jones denied any involvement, calling these suggestion itself
absurd and cruel. Still, the suspicion lingered in whispers, a
stain that would shadow his family for years. Late that summer,
new information reached the sheriff's office in other towns across
(29:27):
the Midwest. Early similar crimes had been reported in Colorado Springs,
a family of six had been bludgeoned in their sleep
with an axe. In Ellsworth, Kansas, and Paula, Kansas, similar
attacks that left entire households dead. The similarities were uncanny
curtains drawn lamps, extinguished mirrors covered. Each scene lay within
(29:50):
walking distance of a trail line. Each killer had left
the murder weapon behind, Each had struck between midnight and dawn.
Newspapers began to link the event together, suggesting the work
of a traveling murderer, a fantom who moved with the trains.
For Sheriff Jackson, the idea was both terrifying and relieving.
It meant Veliska might not have been singled out, that
(30:13):
the killer could be a stranger, not one of their own.
But it also meant that he was chasing a ghost
to cross hundreds of miles of railroad tracks. Lawmen in
multiple states began exchanging telegrams and comparing notes. Nothing concrete emerged.
There were no fingerprints to match together, no photographs of suspects.
The pattern was chilling, but it was mostly intangible, a
(30:37):
rumor that refused to dissolve. The first time anyone seriously
considered Reverend George Kelley a suspect, it was not because
of what he had done in Feliska, but because of
what he said afterward. Kelly was an English born itinerant
preacher in his thirties, Small and nervous with wire spectacles
(30:57):
and a voice that rose and fell like a question.
He had attended the children's day program on the evening
of June ninth, sitting alone in the back pew. The
next morning, he took the early train out of town
at precisely five nineteen a m less than four hours
before the bodies were discovered. Weeks later, he began sending
letters to law enforcement, claiming that God had shown him
(31:20):
visions of the crime. He described the scene in detail,
including information that had not been publicly released. Some investigators
suspected inside knowledge, others thought he was simply obsessed with
the case. Kelly's mental health had long been a concern.
He was known to write inappropriate letters to young women
and was briefly committed to a mental institution years earlier. Still,
(31:44):
in nineteen twelve, he was not formally accused of any crime.
Theories about him would grow over the next few years,
until five years later they would bring him back to
Iowa and handcuffs, but that was still far ahead. For now,
Veoliska only knew him as strange little preacher who had
passed through town the night everything changed. Autumn came early
(32:26):
that year, the fields turning gold around a town that
no longer trusted the dark. By then, the investigation had
stalled completely. The one thousand dollars reward remained unclaimed. Any
leads that may have once existed had grown cold. The
Attorney General returned to Des Moines, and reporters stopped arriving
on the morning trains. In October of nineteen twelve, Sheriff
(32:49):
Jackson wrote a final summary to the state office. In it,
he wrote, all persons examined, no arrest, no new evidence.
The more home remained empty through the winter, its white
paint peeled in the wind, its curtains still drawn tight.
Children said they could see shapes in the windows that night,
shadows moving inside. Adults left nervously when they repeated the stories,
(33:14):
but avoided the street all the same. The Moor's relatives
sold what they could and left town. The Stillingers stayed
quiet and withdrawn for the rest of their lives. They
refused to speak publicly about that night. By nineteen thirteen,
Veliska was a ghost of itself. The longer the case
(33:34):
went unsolved, the heavier its silence became. Church attendants dropped,
businesses closed early the town's population began to shrink. Families
who could afford to move did so. In just two years,
Veliska lost nearly ten percent of its residence. Those who
stayed learned to live with suspicion. Neighbors watched each other
(33:55):
through lace curtains. Outsiders were questioned, then avoided. The town's
sense of community, its most defining quality, had been fractured.
An editorial in the Red Oak Express put it bluntly,
the tragedy at Velliska has cut a scar through the
heart of rural Iowa. It is not the work of
a single night, but the work of a decade to
(34:16):
mend it. But even a decade would not be enough.
Every few months, news of another axe murder arrived from
somewhere along the rail line Illinois, Kansas, Missouri. Each new
report revived old fears. Some of these same detectives who
had walked through the moor home now traveled from state
to state, comparing notes, searching for a thread that might
(34:38):
tie them together. They unfortunately did not find much. By
nineteen fifteen, the Veliska murders had become folklore, a cautionary
tale of darkness invading decency. But for all the talk,
one fact never changed. No one had ever been charged,
and the evidence, such as it was, lay locked away
in dusty boxes in the Montgomery County Courthouse. In the
(35:02):
years that followed, the house stood empty, quietly decaying. The
porch sagged, grass grew tall around the steps. The white
walls that had once echoed with children's laughter became a
symbol of what the town had lost. In time, it
became less a home than a monument, not to horror exactly,
but to a mystery that refused to fade. Five years
(35:36):
would pass before the name of Reverend George Kelly resurfaced
in headlines, before confessions, trials and new suspects reopened to
the wounds Buliska had tried to close. The killer's identity
remained unsolved, but the obsession with it had only just begun.
As one newspaper would write in nineteen seventeen, Buliska cannot sleep,
(35:57):
for the axe still hangs above its dreams. And so
the story continued, from whispered rumor to courtroom spectacle, from
forgotten files to modern myth. What began as a single
night of horror would stretch across a century of questions,
each one leading back to the same quiet house on
East Second Street that's on the next episode of Unresolved.
(36:51):
Thank you for listening to this episode of Unresolved. I
have been your host, Michael Wheelan. Research writing and production
for this podcast was handled by myself as Unresolved as
a fully independent production. To help keep it that way,
please head over to Patreon, where you can help support
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(37:11):
can get access to the vault of exclusive bonus episodes
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(37:32):
my BTK Resolved series, which I know has taken a
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over on Patreon at the link below in the show notes.
Speaker 2 (37:45):
There.
Speaker 1 (37:45):
On Patreon, you can also become a producer of the show,
like these amazing people you have Roberta. Jansen, Sarah mosk Rotolo,
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(38:05):
Kevin Tweety, Heather Fiddler, Anna ty Cecy, Tabitha Colvin, Trixie Fink,
and Marcus Mitchell. Thank you all for your support and
thank you all for listening. The second half of this
story will be out this week, just in time for Halloween,
and I hope until then you all stay safe, stay healthy,
and stay aware. I'll talk to you all soon.
Speaker 2 (38:27):
Bye. Come boom oh, come boom boom, come do
This episode contains graphic content that may not be suitable
for all ages. Listener discretion is advised. If you or
someone you know is struggling or in crisis, help is available,
call or text nine eight eight, or chat with someone
at nine eight eight lifeline dot org. Those outside of
the US, reach out to someone at your local crisis
(00:24):
center or hotline. Please do not suffer in silence. The
dawn of June tenth, nineteen twelve, broke gently over Veliska, Iowa.
The first shafts of sun struck the white clapboard houses
of East Second Street, and for a while everything seemed
(00:47):
exactly as it should be. The lilacs in the yards
were heavy with bloom. A rooster crowed somewhere behind the
grain elevator. It was an ordinary Monday in a town
that believed itself protected from anything truly terrible. At seven
point thirty that morning, Mary Peckham stepped out her back
door to hang her laundry. Her house stood next to
(01:07):
the Moore family, close enough that she could usually hear
the soft chaos of their mornings. The mother, Sarah Moore,
bustling in the kitchen, the scrape of chairs, the rising
laughter of children who always seemed half ready for school.
The Moors were early risers, and their routine rarely varied
that morning. Though the house next door was silent, the
(01:30):
stillness unsettled Mary Peckham. Sarah Moore, her neighbour's matriarch, wasn't
the kind of woman to sleep in, especially on a Monday.
Mary lingered on her porch, folding and unfolding a towel
in her hands. The Moor's blinds were drawn, their curtains
closed tight. Even the chickens in the yard had not
been fed, so Mary waited another half an hour before
(01:53):
knocking on the door. No one answered. She circled to
the back and tried again. Still nothing. The screen door
was latched from the inside. Mary cupped her hands against
a glass, trying to see through, but the shades had
been pulled down. She knocked harder, saying Sarah, mister Moore,
but the sound went nowhere. It was then that she
(02:15):
walked briskly down the street to find Josiah More's brother Ross.
He was the kind of man everyone in Velliska called
when something needed sorting out, level headed, reliable. When Mary
reached his store, she told him Ross, something's wrong. At
Joe's house. They're not up and the doors are all locked.
Ross left immediately, his key in his pocket. By the
(02:38):
time he and Mary reached the moor Home, the morning
sun had climbed over the rooftops. Ross knocked loudly again,
no response, though he turned the key in the front lock.
Stepped into the parlor and called out into the dimness.
The air inside was heavy, the shades were drawn, A
faint metallic odor lingered. He took a few cautious steps
(03:02):
toward the guest bedroom. The door was half closed. Through
the crack, he saw what looked like two shapes in
the bed, covered from head to foot with a sheet.
He pushed the door open. The scene that met him
froze him in place. Ross Moore stumbled backward out onto
the porch, pale and shaking. Mary, he said, his voice trembling,
(03:25):
call the Marshal, tell him to come quick. There's something
awful in there. That morning, as Marshall Hankhorton walked the
quiet path toward the moor Home, Veliska was still unaware
that its innocence had ended forever. This is the story
(03:51):
of the Veliska Axe Murders. Part one, A town asleep
nestled in the gentle hills of southwest Iowa, Veliska was
the sort of place that made its living from the
land and its comfort from community. About twenty five hundred
people called at home. The railroad cut through its southern edge,
bringing goods, news, and the occasional traveler. Two banks, three churches,
(04:16):
a handful of general stores, and a tidy row of
shops framed the town square. Residents prided themselves on their
town's moral character. They were farmers, merchants, teachers, preachers, descendants
of the first settlers that had broken the prairie sod
fifty years earlier. Sundays were sacred, and gossip was the
(04:37):
nearest thing to scandal. The Veliska Review chronicled the rhythm
of their lives, ice socials, harvest fairs, new births. The
biggest headlines were about the price of corn or the
arrival of a new automobile. Crime barely registered. The sheriff
mostly dealt with runaway livestock and the occasional drunk on
(04:57):
main street. There was a sense common in rural America
at the time that small towns were immune to the
darkness that plagued cities The people of Veliska often left
their doors unlocked and their windows open to the summer air.
Neighbors borrowed flower without asking. Strangers were rare, but not
necessarily unwelcome. The town's name itself, Veliska, was believed to
(05:21):
come from a native word meaning pleasant few. It seemed
fitting a place of peace and prosperity, where the fields
stretched wide and the world felt steady. No one could
have imagined that within a single night, the town's very
name would become synonymous with horror. Josiah Joe Moore was
(05:42):
a man who had built his life the old fashioned
way through diligence, trust and faith. Born in eighteen sixty eight,
he had come to Velliska as a young man and
found work at the local hardware store, owned by Frank F. Jones.
Moore was quick witted and good with customers. For nearly
a decade, he was Jones' best employee, and the two
men were close until Joe decided to strike out on
(06:05):
his own. In nineteen oh eight, he opened the JB.
Moore Hardware Store just off Feliska's town square. It prospered quickly,
and in winning the local John Deere contract, a valuable
piece of business previously held by Jones. Moore's independence became permanent,
though Jones remained publicly sevil, there was talk of resentment.
(06:26):
In a small town, even polite rivalries carry sharp edges.
At home, Moore was known as a family man. He
and his wife, Sarah Montgomery Moore, had been married for
thirteen years and had four children. Sarah, thirty nine, was
the heart of the family. She played the organ at
the Presbyterian church and led the Ladies Aid Society. Friends
(06:48):
described her as calm and soft spoken, the sort of
woman who could organize a community event without raising her voice.
Their children, Herman eleven, Catherine ten, Lloyd seven, and Paul
five filled the house with noise and light. Hermann was earnest,
the quiet helper who shadowed his father at the hardware store.
(07:10):
Catherine had her mother's poise and her father's humor. Boyd
and Paul were inseparable, often seen racing their bicycles down
Second Street. Photographs from that spring show a happy, ordinary family.
Josiah with his trimmed mustache and bowler hat, Sarah in
her white lace blouse. The children gathered close in Sunday
(07:30):
clothes on the evening of June ninth, nineteen twelve, the
Moors welcomed two guests into their home, Lena and Ana Stillinger,
daughters of Joe and Sarah Stillinger, who lived a few
miles away. The Stillinger girls were sweet, natured and well behaved.
Lena was twelve, the elder protective of her younger sister.
(07:51):
The invitation had been spontaneous. After the Sunday evening church program.
The more children wanted their friends to stay the night
rather than walk home in the dow. Their parents agreed.
It was a small kindness, the sort that happens every
day in a trusting town, and it sealed the girl's fates. Sunday,
(08:14):
June ninth was one of the most cheerful days of
the year for Veliska's Presbyterian Church. The annual Children Day
program was a fixture of early summer, a mix of
scripture recitations, songs, and simple plays celebrating youth and faith.
Sarah Moore had spent weeks preparing the event. She had
written notes for each child's part, arranged flowers, and made
(08:37):
sure that the youngest knew their lines. It was the
kind of wholesome celebration that defined small town life in
the early nineteen hundreds, so the Moors rose early that morning.
The family walked a church together for Sunday service, returned
home for lunch, and then spent the afternoon relaxing and
preparing for the evening's festivities. The Stillinger girls joined them
(08:58):
later in the afternoon, dressed neatly in light colored dresses,
their hair tied with ribbons. That evening, the church was full,
neighbors fanned themselves against the June heat. The children performed
from a small stage decorated with garlands and banners reading
suffer the little children to come unto me. The program
(09:19):
began at eight o'clock and ended at around nine thirty.
Among those in attendance was a traveling preacher named Reverend
George Kelly, a wiry Englishman known for his odd mannerisms
and nervous energy. No one gave him much notice that night,
When the final hymn concluded, the Moors lingered a chat
with friends and congratulate the children. They were among the
(09:42):
last to leave the church. Walking home with the two
Stillinger girls through the dimly lit streets, it was a cool,
quiet evening. The walk took less than ten minutes. At
around ten o'clock, the family reached their front porch. Josiah
unlocked the door, Sarah little lamp, and the household settled
in for the night. Upstairs, beds creaked as children whispered
(10:06):
to one another, retelling moments from the evening, the songs
the laughter outside. The last train of the night passed
through Veliska, its whistle echoing faintly across the sleeping town,
and in one of the houses along its track, a
stranger might have been waiting. Now we returned to the
(10:38):
morning of June tenth, nineteen twelve, when neighbor Mary Peckham
grew suspicious of the quiet surrounding the more property and
sought help. When Marshall Hank Horton crossed the threshold of
the moorhouse, the air inside was heavy, stale, and unnaturally still.
He moved through the narrow parlor, where a child's coat
hung neatly on a peg, a reminder that the home
(11:01):
had been ordinary just a few hours earlier. Orton carried
a kerosene lamp in one hand. The curtains inside the
house were drawn, the rooms cloaked in half darkness. In
the guest bedroom he found two small figures in the bed,
their faces hidden beneath bedclothes. He lifted the corner of
the sheet and stepped back immediately. The scene before him
(11:23):
was worse than he ever could have imagined. Upstairs, he
found much of the same, the more family, each in
their own beds. The rooms looked undisturbed, as though the
family had fallen asleep and never stirred again. Every mirror
in the house had been covered, The curtains were all drawn,
doors locked from the inside. Marshall Hankhorton left the house
(11:46):
quickly on the porch. His hands were shaking. He told
Josiah's brother, Ross, don't let any one else in. This
is bad, very bad. But already people were gathering. The
sound of women weeping carried down the street. Neighbors pressed
to the porch, whispering, demanding to know what had happened.
(12:07):
Whorton tried to hold them back, but the crowd grew
faster than the law could contain it. By midday, dozens
than perhaps hundreds, had entered the house. They filed through
the rooms in disbelief, trampling footprints across the floors, touching objects,
lifting sheets, speaking in hushed tones that seemed out of
(12:28):
place among the dead. When the county coroner finally arrived,
he found chaos. Any evidence that might have once been
there was gone. Once the building was cleared, officials began
(12:52):
their work. The coroner, the sheriff, and the county attorney
spent hours documenting what they could still observe. Their notes
read like an autopsy of a nightmare. The doors had
been locked from within, windows were closed, shades drawn tightly.
Lamps had been adjusted so that their light was minimal,
the chimneys removed, the wicks turned low. In the kitchen,
(13:15):
a plate of food sat untouched on the table beside
a bowl of murky water. The axe, the murder weapon,
wiped but not cleaned, leaned against the wall in the
guest room. What puzzled investigators most was the calm of
the setting. There were no signs of struggle, no overturned furniture,
no indication that anyone had been awakened in time to
(13:37):
fight back. Whatever had happened had unfolded quickly and seemingly quietly.
The coroner concluded that the family and their two young
guests had all died in their sleep. He found evidence
that the killer had taken care afterward to cover the
victim's faces, a gesture that no one could explain. And
then there were the smaller mysteries, Mirrors covered with clothing,
(14:00):
curtains pinned shut with household objects, as if to ensure
that not a single beam of light escaped the house.
Each clue raised more questions than it answered. By the
afternoon of June tenth, the story had swept through Velliska
like wildfire. Neighbors spoke of it in disbelief, their voices low,
as though the sound itself might awaken something dreadful. Sheriff
(14:24):
Orin Jackson arrived from Red Oak to take charge. He
found the house already compromised, footprints from curious townspeople everywhere,
evidence handled, even removed. Still, the investigators began piecing together
a timeline based on the state of the bodies. The
doctor estimated that the deaths had occurred some time after midnight.
(14:45):
A kerosene lamp left near the bed suggested that whoever
had done this had moved carefully, using only the dimmest light.
In the attic, the sheriff found a box of cigarette butts.
It was the first solid clue, a sign that' someone
may have hidden there waiting for the family to return
from the church program. How long they had waited or
(15:05):
why they had chosen that night, No one knew the
back door had been locked from the inside. There were
faint traces of mud near the porch steps, though whether
they came from the killer or the crowds that followed
was impossible to tell. The investigators stepped outside, blinking into
the bright afternoon. The street was still thick with people,
(15:26):
each carrying their own theory. Someone muttered that a stranger
had been seen near the depot at dawn. Another swore
he'd heard footsteps in his yard that night. Before the
day was over, Veeliska's sense of safety had vanished that evening.
As the sun went down, every household in Veliska locked
its doors, windows were bolted, curtains drawn. The trust that
(15:48):
had to find the town evaporated in a sinkle day.
Men sat up through the night with rifles across their knees.
Dogs barked at shadows. The whistle of a passing train
made people flinge Rumors began immediately. Some said the killer
must have fled on the early morning train, escaping before sunrise.
Others believed he was still hiding somewhere nearby, maybe in
(16:10):
a barn, a field, perhaps another attic. A search party
formed before midnight, lanterns bobbing through the darkness, they combed
the roads and rail lines, finding nothing. By dawn, the
searchers were turned home, exhausted, their torches guttering out. One
by one. Veliska was no longer a quiet town. It
(16:31):
was now a town on guard. By the next morning,
reporters had arrived. The Omaha Bee, the Des Moines Register,
and the Kansas City Star all sent correspondents by train.
Within a day, Veliska's streets were crowded with strangers, not
only journalists, but curiosity seekers and self appointed detectives. Photographers
(16:52):
set up tripods outside the moor home, recording the grief
of the town people, who gathered in stunned silence. The
newspapers called it a slaughter beyond understanding. Headlines described a
human fiend, the work of a madman, the worst crime
in Iowa's history. But beyond the sensational language, there was
(17:12):
little clarity. Attorney General Howard Clark traveled from Des Moines
to assist. He walked through the house, examined the walls,
still darkened, by blood, and admitted privately that the case
might never be solved. The man who did this knew
what he was doing, Clark told the press. He left
nothing of himself behind. What evidence remained was fragmentary, a
(17:35):
few footprints, a smudged lantern, a weapon that belonged to
the victims themselves. It was the sort of crime for
which the early twentieth century had no tools. Two days
after the discovery, on June twelfth, the entire town gathered
for the funeral. The services for the More and Stillinger
(17:56):
families were held together at the Methodist Church. Every peace
huku was filled. Hundreds more stood outside in the summer heat,
hats in hand, listening through open windows. The eight caskets
were arranged in two rows, covered in flowers. Reverend Ewing,
the same minister who had led the joyful Children's Day
program just nights earlier, now stood before his congregation to
(18:19):
speak of loss too large to measure. He did not
speak of the killer. He spoke instead of innocence, his
voice trembling. We must remember them as they were. This
is a darkness that no one here deserved, but we
must not let it unmake our faith in one another.
As the procession moved from the church to the cemetery,
the town fell silent except for the slow creak of
(18:42):
wagon wheels. The graves were dug side by side, the
moors and the still inter sisters, separated by only a
few feet of earth. More than five thousand mourners attended,
twice Veliska's population. Many stayed long after the coffins were lowered,
as though unwilling to let the family vanish from sight.
The more home on Second Street was sealed afterward, its
(19:05):
windows boarded and its door locked. Few could bear to
pass it. By midsummer, wildflowers had begun to grow in
the yard, The grass was uncut. The house now stood
like a monument to something that no one in town
could name. By the end of the first week, Velisco
was no longer a town of two thousand, but a
(19:27):
makeshift command post for chaos. Trains arrived daily carrying detectives
and journalists. Horses lined the main street. People who had
never before heard of Montgomery County, Iowa now debated the
details of its dead. Jerriff Orin Jackson coordinated what passed
for the investigation. He was methodical and careful, but unprepared
(19:49):
for a crime that seemed beyond the boundaries of small
town reason. The States sent assistance, but the state itself
had little to offer. Forensic science in nineteen twelve was
a crude thing. There were no crime labs, no fingerprint files,
no understanding of criminal profiling. Investigators mostly relied on intuition, rumor,
(20:09):
and what little they could see, though Sheriff Jackson began
by retracing the family's last day. He questioned parishioners from
the Presbyterian Church confirmed that the Moors had left the
children's day service close to ten o'clock PM, and then
walked home along Second Street with the Stillinger girls in tow.
Several witnesses recalled seeing them pass under the gas lamps,
(20:31):
Josiah carrying a small lantern, Sarah's hand resting gently on
Catherine's shoulder. That was the last verified sighting of any
of them. From there, Jackson tried to reconstruct the hours
that followed based on body temperature and the condition of
the remains. The coroner placed the time of death between
midnight and two a m. No one in the neighborhood
(20:52):
reported screams or gunfire. One neighbor claimed to have heard
a faint thud in the night, but thought that it
was a horse kicking a stall. Whoever had entered the
More home had done so with uncanny silence. The attic
discovery a box of cigarette butts, became the first meaningful lead.
Investigators theorized that the killer had hidden there before the
(21:14):
family came home, waiting for the lamps to dim, but
this too was speculation. The attic could have been used
earlier that evening by one of the More children. A
second clue was more tangible, the locked doors. Every exit
had been secured from the inside, and only the front
key later recovered could open them. If the killer had
(21:34):
locked the house behind him, how had he done so
without leaving a trace. The answer eluded them. Every physical
piece of evidence was compromised. Dozens of visitors had tracked
footprints through the rooms before the law men arrived. Items
had been moved, some even stolen. A local man bragged
in a nearby saloon that he had taken a piece
(21:55):
of the moor wall of paper as a souvenir. Jackson's
frustration boiled over in one recorded remark, We're looking for
one man, and we've got two thousand in the way.
As weeks passed, the investigation widened beyond Montgomery County. Sheriff
Jackson began tracing reports from nearby towns. A farmer in Macedonia,
(22:17):
Iowa claimed to have seen a man walking along the
railroad tracks at dawn on June tenth, carrying a bundle
wrapped in cloth. Others recalled a stranger loitering near the
depot the evening before. None of these sidings could be verified.
Then came the comparisons. In the months leading up to
the Veliska murders, similar crimes had occurred across the Midwest,
(22:40):
Whole families bludgeoned in their sleep, often near railroad lines.
The newspapers listed them side by side, calling it a
Midwestern plague. Investigators wondered whether Veliska was part of a pattern,
maybe a killer traveling by train, choosing isolated homes near depots,
striking without warning in then vanishing into the next town
(23:01):
before dawn. But even this theory had holes. There was
no clear description of a suspect, no physical evidence to
tie one case to another. The alternative was more frightening,
that the killer had not traveled at all, but lived
among them. By late summer talk turned inward. Some townspeople
(23:22):
whispered the name of Frank Jones, Josiah Moore's former employer.
Their business relationship had soured years before when Moore left
to open his own store. Jones, a respected state senator,
denied any animosity, but in private people wondered whether bitterness
had survived beneath the surface. Then there was the traveling preacher,
(23:43):
Reverend George Kelly, nervous, eccentric, always watching. He had been
in the church the night before the murders, left town
by the early train the next morning, and soon after
began sending letters to investigators, strange letters describing the crime
in detail, claiming visions from God. At the time, few
(24:04):
took him seriously. Veliska was full of frightened people, and
Kelly seemed only another oddity in a town already drowning
in them. Still, his name lingered in notebooks and margins,
a curiosity that would years later grow into something much larger.
(24:34):
By the end of nineteen twelve, the investigation had stalled.
The crowds were gone, the newspapers had moved on, but
the town could not forget. The moorhouse stood empty through
the winter. Children avoided the block entirely, but builts crossed
to the other side of the street. Some said the
sound of footsteps could be heard inside late at night,
though no one was brave enough to go and check.
(24:56):
The townspeople, once united by friendship and church gathering, grew
suspicious of one another. Neighbors who had once shared meals
together now locked their doors and avoided conversation. One local
editorial captured, at best, it is not only that eight
have died, it is that the piece of Veliska has
been murdered too. The killer was gone, whether by train,
(25:19):
by horse, or on foot. No one could say that
the silence they left behind stretched longer than any trail
of evidence. In the case unsolved was far from over.
(25:44):
The murder transformed Veliska from an obscure farm town into
a national fascination. Reporters arrived from as far as Chicago
and New York. They roamed the streets, interviewed weeping neighbors,
and published daily updates that mixed fact with the theater.
The Des Moines Register described the crime scene in grotesque detail.
(26:05):
The Kansas City Star speculated about a mad slayer who
drifted from town to town. The Omaha Bee suggested it
was the work of an enemy known to the family.
Each newspaper told a different version of the same story,
and each version spread faster than the truth. Photographers snapped
images of the moorhouse, its curtains still drawn, its porch
(26:26):
crowded with onlookers. One journalist noted, never in Iowa's history
has a single home drawn so many eyes and so
many questions. The attention brought interference as well. Theories multiplied,
false confessions poured in. A transient in Missouri claimed to
be the killer, but as timeline did not match. A
(26:47):
man in Kansas was arrested for carrying a bloody axe,
which turned out to be from slaughtering hogs. The story
had become a bit of a national mirror. Everyone saw
what they wanted to see, But for the people who
lived in Valleneiska, the attention was unbearable. The More's friends
and family were interrogated repeatedly. Sarah Moore's relatives were followed
(27:08):
by reporters to neighboring towns. Shopkeepers complained that visitors came
not to buy goods, but to hear gossip. Farmers from
miles around arrived by wagon just to stand outside the
house peering through its blank windows. Many residents resented the outsiders. Others,
of course, courted them, offering wild theories in exchange for
(27:30):
a mention in print. The town's moral center, once rooted
in mutual trust, began to slowly erode. The sheriff's office, overwhelmed,
offered a one thousand dollars reward for information leading to
the arrest of the killer. No one claimed it. As
weeks began to turn into months, Veliska settled into a
tense normalcy. The Moor House was boarded up, its furniture removed,
(27:54):
its rooms empty except for the memory of what had
happened there. But in kitchens and shops, people in town
still whispered names. Among the whispers, one name came up
more often than the others, that of Frank F. Jones.
Jones was a prominent Feliska businessman and a respected Iowa
(28:15):
State senator. Years earlier, Josiah Moore had worked for him
in the Jones hardware store. When Moore left to open
his own business, he took with him several key accounts,
including the lucrative John Deere contract that loss stone. In
towns like Veliska. Business rivalries often carried the weight of
family betrayals, so rumor held that Jones never forgave Josiah.
(28:39):
Some claimed that the two men no longer spoke. Others
said that their feud was exaggerated. The truth likely lay
somewhere in between, cool civility masking quiet resentment. Detectives considered
whether Jones could have hired someone to exact revenge, but
he had a solid reputation and no history of violence.
Theory hey lingered, mostly because it made emotional sense. Uliska
(29:04):
could more easily believe in human envy than in random evil.
Frank F. Jones denied any involvement, calling these suggestion itself
absurd and cruel. Still, the suspicion lingered in whispers, a
stain that would shadow his family for years. Late that summer,
new information reached the sheriff's office in other towns across
(29:27):
the Midwest. Early similar crimes had been reported in Colorado Springs,
a family of six had been bludgeoned in their sleep
with an axe. In Ellsworth, Kansas, and Paula, Kansas, similar
attacks that left entire households dead. The similarities were uncanny
curtains drawn lamps, extinguished mirrors covered. Each scene lay within
(29:50):
walking distance of a trail line. Each killer had left
the murder weapon behind, Each had struck between midnight and dawn.
Newspapers began to link the event together, suggesting the work
of a traveling murderer, a fantom who moved with the trains.
For Sheriff Jackson, the idea was both terrifying and relieving.
It meant Veliska might not have been singled out, that
(30:13):
the killer could be a stranger, not one of their own.
But it also meant that he was chasing a ghost
to cross hundreds of miles of railroad tracks. Lawmen in
multiple states began exchanging telegrams and comparing notes. Nothing concrete emerged.
There were no fingerprints to match together, no photographs of suspects.
The pattern was chilling, but it was mostly intangible, a
(30:37):
rumor that refused to dissolve. The first time anyone seriously
considered Reverend George Kelley a suspect, it was not because
of what he had done in Feliska, but because of
what he said afterward. Kelly was an English born itinerant
preacher in his thirties, Small and nervous with wire spectacles
(30:57):
and a voice that rose and fell like a question.
He had attended the children's day program on the evening
of June ninth, sitting alone in the back pew. The
next morning, he took the early train out of town
at precisely five nineteen a m less than four hours
before the bodies were discovered. Weeks later, he began sending
letters to law enforcement, claiming that God had shown him
(31:20):
visions of the crime. He described the scene in detail,
including information that had not been publicly released. Some investigators
suspected inside knowledge, others thought he was simply obsessed with
the case. Kelly's mental health had long been a concern.
He was known to write inappropriate letters to young women
and was briefly committed to a mental institution years earlier. Still,
(31:44):
in nineteen twelve, he was not formally accused of any crime.
Theories about him would grow over the next few years,
until five years later they would bring him back to
Iowa and handcuffs, but that was still far ahead. For now,
Veoliska only knew him as strange little preacher who had
passed through town the night everything changed. Autumn came early
(32:26):
that year, the fields turning gold around a town that
no longer trusted the dark. By then, the investigation had
stalled completely. The one thousand dollars reward remained unclaimed. Any
leads that may have once existed had grown cold. The
Attorney General returned to Des Moines, and reporters stopped arriving
on the morning trains. In October of nineteen twelve, Sheriff
(32:49):
Jackson wrote a final summary to the state office. In it,
he wrote, all persons examined, no arrest, no new evidence.
The more home remained empty through the winter, its white
paint peeled in the wind, its curtains still drawn tight.
Children said they could see shapes in the windows that night,
shadows moving inside. Adults left nervously when they repeated the stories,
(33:14):
but avoided the street all the same. The Moor's relatives
sold what they could and left town. The Stillingers stayed
quiet and withdrawn for the rest of their lives. They
refused to speak publicly about that night. By nineteen thirteen,
Veliska was a ghost of itself. The longer the case
(33:34):
went unsolved, the heavier its silence became. Church attendants dropped,
businesses closed early the town's population began to shrink. Families
who could afford to move did so. In just two years,
Veliska lost nearly ten percent of its residence. Those who
stayed learned to live with suspicion. Neighbors watched each other
(33:55):
through lace curtains. Outsiders were questioned, then avoided. The town's
sense of community, its most defining quality, had been fractured.
An editorial in the Red Oak Express put it bluntly,
the tragedy at Velliska has cut a scar through the
heart of rural Iowa. It is not the work of
a single night, but the work of a decade to
(34:16):
mend it. But even a decade would not be enough.
Every few months, news of another axe murder arrived from
somewhere along the rail line Illinois, Kansas, Missouri. Each new
report revived old fears. Some of these same detectives who
had walked through the moor home now traveled from state
to state, comparing notes, searching for a thread that might
(34:38):
tie them together. They unfortunately did not find much. By
nineteen fifteen, the Veliska murders had become folklore, a cautionary
tale of darkness invading decency. But for all the talk,
one fact never changed. No one had ever been charged,
and the evidence, such as it was, lay locked away
in dusty boxes in the Montgomery County Courthouse. In the
(35:02):
years that followed, the house stood empty, quietly decaying. The
porch sagged, grass grew tall around the steps. The white
walls that had once echoed with children's laughter became a
symbol of what the town had lost. In time, it
became less a home than a monument, not to horror exactly,
but to a mystery that refused to fade. Five years
(35:36):
would pass before the name of Reverend George Kelly resurfaced
in headlines, before confessions, trials and new suspects reopened to
the wounds Buliska had tried to close. The killer's identity
remained unsolved, but the obsession with it had only just begun.
As one newspaper would write in nineteen seventeen, Buliska cannot sleep,
(35:57):
for the axe still hangs above its dreams. And so
the story continued, from whispered rumor to courtroom spectacle, from
forgotten files to modern myth. What began as a single
night of horror would stretch across a century of questions,
each one leading back to the same quiet house on
East Second Street that's on the next episode of Unresolved.
(36:51):
Thank you for listening to this episode of Unresolved. I
have been your host, Michael Wheelan. Research writing and production
for this podcast was handled by myself as Unresolved as
a fully independent production. To help keep it that way,
please head over to Patreon, where you can help support
the show and receive additional content in return. There you
(37:11):
can get access to the vault of exclusive bonus episodes
stories like the Coast to Coast am Area fifty one
Caller or the Creepy Cape Intruder, as well as every
episode of Resolved right Tackle Solved Cases. I have a
special bonus episode for Halloween coming out soon. You don't
want to miss that, as well as the conclusion to
(37:32):
my BTK Resolved series, which I know has taken a
bit longer than anyone expected, but is just about finished
once again. You can get access to all of those
over on Patreon at the link below in the show notes.
Speaker 2 (37:45):
There.
Speaker 1 (37:45):
On Patreon, you can also become a producer of the show,
like these amazing people you have Roberta. Jansen, Sarah mosk Rotolo,
Ben Crocum, Scott Meacy, Marian Walsh, just into Class, Crystal Jay,
Lauren Nicole, James Weiss, Alex Calagoropolis, Stacey Hauser, Stephen Diaz,
(38:05):
Kevin Tweety, Heather Fiddler, Anna ty Cecy, Tabitha Colvin, Trixie Fink,
and Marcus Mitchell. Thank you all for your support and
thank you all for listening. The second half of this
story will be out this week, just in time for Halloween,
and I hope until then you all stay safe, stay healthy,
and stay aware. I'll talk to you all soon.
Speaker 2 (38:27):
Bye. Come boom oh, come boom boom, come do
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