In the autumn of 1953, an unusual stillness settled over Crow’s Nest Hollow, a remote valley deep in the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia’s Pocahontas County. Residents later described the season as eerily quiet, as if the mountains themselves were holding their breath. It was during this time that the first documented complaints about the Mortyn family reached the county sheriff’s office, though the official records would remain buried in filing cabinets for over a decade before anyone thought to examine them closely. The Mortyn homestead sat at the far end of a winding dirt road that snaked through dense forest for nearly eight miles from the nearest paved highway.
The property consisted of a weathered two-story farmhouse built in the 1880s, surrounded by roughly forty acres of increasingly wild land. Visitors who ventured down that treacherous road invariably commented on an oppressive silence that seemed to emanate from the property itself—a quiet so profound it felt unnatural in a region known for abundant wildlife and rushing mountain streams. Nehemiah Mortyn, the family patriarch, had purchased the property in 1934 following what local records described as his discharge from a state psychiatric facility in Huntington. The circumstances of his institutionalization were never made public, though a brief notation in the county clerk’s files mentioned a violent incident involving farm equipment and a neighbor’s livestock in his previous county of residence.
His wife, Cordelia, appeared in census records as having no previous address listed before their marriage in 1935—an unusual circumstance that raised questions decades later when researchers attempted to trace the family’s origins. The couple’s two grown offspring, Ambrose and Deline, were both well into their thirties by 1953, yet neither had ever been recorded as having left the family property for any extended period. Employment records, school enrollment, medical visits, even basic social interactions with neighboring families were virtually non-existent for any member of the household. They existed in a state of almost complete isolation that seemed to defy the social norms of even the most remote Appalachian communities.
The first official complaint came from Garrett Holloway, a mail carrier assigned the route that included Crow’s Nest Hollow in September 1953. Holloway’s report, discovered in 1965 during a routine archive reorganization, described an incident that occurred during his third week on the job. He had been instructed to deliver a certified letter to the Mortyn residence requiring a signature from an adult member of the household. Upon arriving, Holloway noted that all the windows of the house appeared to be covered from the inside with dark fabric or boards, despite the afternoon being bright and clear.
When he knocked, he was met by Ambrose Mortyn, a gaunt man with prematurely gray hair. What disturbed Holloway most was not Ambrose’s appearance, but a sound that emanated from within the house—a rhythmic scratching or scraping, as if someone were dragging their fingernails across wood in a deliberate pattern. When Holloway asked about the noise, the man’s expression remained completely blank, and he claimed to hear nothing unusual. Throughout their brief exchange, the sound continued without interruption, growing slightly louder, as if the source was moving closer to the front door.
Holloway completed his delivery and left, but the incident troubled him enough that he requested a transfer to a different route after only two months of service. The second complaint came from an unexpected source. Reverend Cornelius Blackthorne of the Pine Ridge Baptist Church filed a formal report with the county sheriff in November 1953. He had received an unsigned letter requesting that he visit the family to perform what the writer described as necessary spiritual cleansing.
Making the journey on a cold Tuesday morning in late October, Blackthorne was greeted not by any member of the family, but by an overwhelming stench emanating from the vicinity of the house. He described the odor as unlike anything he had encountered—neither the smell of decay nor unwashed living conditions, but something that reminded him of wet earth mixed with something metallic and wrong. When Blackthorne knocked, the door was answered by Deline Mortyn, a woman he estimated to be in her mid-thirties but whose appearance suggested someone much older. Her hair, completely white despite her apparent age, hung in long, unkempt strands around a face so pale it seemed almost translucent.
What troubled the reverend most was her eyes, which had an unusual quality that made it difficult to maintain eye contact. She seemed to look through him rather than at him. When Blackthorne explained his purpose and mentioned the letter, Deline’s expression changed. In his report, he wrote that her face seemed to empty out, as if some essential aspect of her humanity had simply withdrawn, leaving behind only a shell that continued to speak and move.
She informed him that no such letter had been sent and that they required no spiritual guidance of any kind. Throughout the exchange, Blackthorne heard the same repetitive scratching, along with what sounded like muffled voices engaged in rhythmic chanting. Deline claimed her father was reading aloud from agricultural journals—an explanation Blackthorne found unconvincing given the cadence and tone. As he prepared to leave, he glimpsed a face pressed against an upstairs window at an odd angle, as if the person were lying down or positioned in some unnatural way.
Afterward, he began suffering nightmares in which he stood in a dark room filled with the sound of scratching while voices whispered words in a language he could not understand. A third complaint was filed in December 1953 by Ezra Cunningham, a hunter tracking deer through the woods adjacent to the Mortyn property. On the morning of December 15th, he became aware of a low, rhythmic moaning coming from the direction of the house. Curious despite his growing unease, Cunningham moved closer until he could see the back of the farmhouse.
The rear yard contained what appeared to be a garden laid out in concentric circles, with ordinary vegetables in the outer rings giving way to increasingly unfamiliar plants toward the center. At the very center stood a figure Cunningham initially took to be a scarecrow—but it was moving. An elderly man, presumably Nehemiah Mortyn, stood motionless with his arms raised above his head in a position that must have been physically exhausting to maintain. The low moaning sound was coming from him.
Ambrose and Deline were positioned at different points within the circular plantings, remaining motionless for extended periods before moving to new positions in what seemed a predetermined pattern. Cunningham watched for nearly thirty minutes. As the morning light grew stronger, he began to withdraw. When he looked back, all four family members were standing perfectly still, facing directly toward his location in the trees.
Cunningham felt certain they were looking at him. He ran through the forest until he reached his truck and drove directly to the county sheriff’s office. These three complaints, filed within a span of just four months, represented the entirety of official documentation regarding the Mortyn family during the 1950s. Sheriff Coleman Bradshaw, who received all three reports, conducted a brief investigation consisting primarily of a single visit to the property in January 1954.
He found the family eccentric but law-abiding, noting no evidence of illegal activities or threats to public safety. Invited into the house, he found it clean and well-maintained, though unusually dark due to the covered windows. Nehemiah explained that his family followed traditional practices related to agriculture and spiritual observance that might seem unusual to outsiders, but were perfectly legal and harmless. Bradshaw classified the complaints as resolved and took no further action.
In 1961, a significant change occurred. For the first time since purchasing the land, Nehemiah Mortyn failed to pay the annual property taxes. Phone service had been disconnected, and mail was being returned as undeliverable. Deputy Tax Assessor Margaret Whitmore was dispatched to investigate.
Her report provides the first detailed description of the family’s living conditions since Bradshaw’s investigation seven years earlier. The building’s exterior showed significant deterioration. Several windows had been boarded up entirely. The yard was overgrown with weeds.
The woman who greeted her, Deline, seemed to have aged decades rather than years, with deeply lined skin and a milky film over her eyes suggesting advancing cataracts. Her clothing hung loosely on an obviously severely underweight frame. Inside, many rooms appeared completely unused, with furniture covered by sheets and thick layers of dust. The windows were now completely boarded up from the inside.
The kitchen contained very little food. Whitmore became aware of the same rhythmic scratching sounds, seemingly coming from within the walls. She also noticed that all the interior doors had been fitted with multiple locks on the outside, as if someone had taken deliberate measures to prevent the rooms from being opened from within. Deline claimed the locks prevented drafts.
Whitmore filed her assessment recommending a significant reduction in tax valuation, and noted that county health officials might want to conduct a wellness check. That recommendation led to a visit from county health inspector Vernon Dalby in December 1961. Dalby’s legal authority gave him the right to examine the property thoroughly. He documented contaminated water supply, dangerously outdated electrical systems, and evidence of pest infestation.
The heaviest signs of pest activity were found in the interior walls, particularly in areas where the mysterious scratching sounds were most audible. Access panels that would normally allow inspection of the wall cavities had been sealed with home-mixed cement. When Dalby requested access to a heavily reinforced basement door, Ambrose became visibly distressed and began repeating rehearsed explanations. The door itself was much thicker than normal, reinforced with additional metal supports, and secured with an elaborate system of locks and bars.
Dalby measured the interior and exterior dimensions of the building and discovered a discrepancy suggesting the basement extended beyond the footprint of the upper floors—an architectural anomaly implying underground spaces that could not be accessed from within the main house. When he insisted on meeting the elder Mortyns, Ambrose reluctantly led him to a second-floor bedroom. The windows were completely sealed, creating total darkness. The air was thick with an odor combining human waste, rotting organic matter, and something chemical that burned his nostrils and throat.
Two beds were positioned against opposite walls, each containing a figure beneath heavy blankets. The first appeared conscious but unresponsive. The second contained a figure much smaller than an adult, with no visible sign of breathing or movement. When Dalby requested to examine this individual more closely, Ambrose became extremely agitated and insisted any disturbance could be life-threatening.
Throughout the inspection, the scratching sounds were much louder and more constant, coming from directly beneath the floorboards. The county initiated proceedings requiring the family to address the most serious health code violations within ninety days or face forced relocation. But before any legal action could be taken, an event occurred that changed everything. On February 14th, 1962, Deputy Sheriff Franklin Morris received an emergency call.
A telephone operator reported that someone from the Mortyn property had attempted to place a call but had been unable to communicate clearly. The only audible words were “Help us,” repeated several times before the line went dead. When Morris arrived, he found the front door standing open. The house appeared empty.
The second-floor bedroom where the elder Mortyns had supposedly been confined was now empty, its heavily sealed windows opened for what appeared to be the first time in years. Most significantly, the heavily reinforced basement door was standing open. The elaborate system of locks and bars had been removed, though they lay scattered on the floor as if forced off from the inside. Descending the stairs, Morris discovered the basement had been divided into several chambers.
The first contained living quarters that had been occupied for an extended period, abandoned for weeks or possibly months. The second contained a workshop with tools and construction materials. The third and largest chamber contained the source of the mysterious scratching sounds. The walls had been carved directly from the earth and rock beneath the house, extending well beyond the building’s foundation.
The excavation appeared to have been done by hand over an extended period. The walls were covered with markings executed in what looked like charcoal or possibly dried blood, covering every available surface. More disturbing was evidence that this underground chamber had been used for activities involving human remains. Morris found several areas where the earth floor had been disturbed and refilled.
When later excavated, they were found to contain organic matter consistent with human tissue, though too deteriorated for positive identification. Despite extensive efforts by local law enforcement and state investigators, no trace of Nehemiah, Cordelia, Ambrose, or Deline Mortyn was ever found. Their fate remained unknown, and the case eventually faded from official attention. In 1965, the abandoned property was seized for unpaid taxes and auctioned.
The winning bidder was a development company planning to demolish the structures and subdivide the land. But before demolition could begin, workers uncovered an additional underground chamber that had not been found during the original police investigation, accessible only through a carefully concealed entrance built into the natural rock formation. Inside, investigators found a detailed journal maintained by multiple family members over nearly twenty years. The earliest entries, from the late 1930s, described normal family activities.
Beginning in the early 1940s, the tone changed. The family began documenting communications with entities they believed resided beneath their property. These communications supposedly provided instructions for modifying the house and creating the underground chambers. Through the 1940s and 1950s, the entries revealed an increasingly elaborate system of beliefs centered on the idea that the family had been chosen as guardians for these underground entities, requiring progressive isolation and modification of their living space.
The covered windows, sealed rooms, and unusual garden were all explained as accommodations for their underground companions. Most disturbing were the later entries describing escalating demands for offerings of food, possessions, and eventually more intimate forms of sacrifice. Final entries from early 1962 described a crisis in which the family realized they could no longer meet the demands placed upon them. The entities were becoming more insistent and threatening while the family’s physical and mental condition had deteriorated beyond their ability to maintain basic survival.
The last entry, written in handwriting analysis suggested belonged to Deline, consisted of a single line: “We understand now what they really wanted from us all along. ”
State police detective Raymond Halkom conducted a renewed investigation through 1965 and 1966. His comprehensive report, filed in 1967, concluded that the Mortyn family had engaged in activities that violated multiple laws, including the desecration of human remains and possibly homicide. However, the investigation could not determine whether these activities resulted from criminal intent or severe psychological breakdown.
The ultimate fate of the four family members remained unanswered. Halkom theorized they had either fled the area or died somewhere on the property in undiscovered locations. But aspects of the case troubled him. The excavation work represented an enormous amount of physical labor that seemed beyond the capabilities of four increasingly frail and malnourished individuals.
The chambers showed evidence of careful planning and expertise in working with stone and earth that none of the family had documented training for. Halkom remained convinced until his death in 1982 that the full truth had never been discovered. The property was eventually developed as planned, with the underground chambers filled in and sealed. But the new residents began reporting problems within the first year.
Multiple families described strange sounds from beneath their houses, flooding with muddy water that seeped up through concrete floors, and small openings appearing in basement floors overnight. A 1969 study by engineers and geologists revealed the underground chambers were more extensive than anyone had realized, with connecting passages extending beyond the property boundaries. The team discovered evidence that some spaces were still accessible and possibly still in use—fresh tool marks, recently disturbed earth, organic matter suggesting human habitation. Before additional investigation could be conducted, the team’s equipment began experiencing systematic failures.
Several members became ill with severe headaches, nausea, and temporary hearing loss. The investigation was suspended indefinitely. In 1970, the remaining residents formally petitioned the county to buy back their properties, and the county agreed. The properties were abandoned and allowed to deteriorate.
The underground chambers were sealed with concrete and metal barriers, and the surface areas fenced off. The official record concluded with speculations and theories but no definitive answers about what had driven four apparently normal people to transform their home into an underground complex dedicated to purposes that defied rational explanation. The abandoned property in Crow’s Nest Hollow remains sealed and empty, gradually being reclaimed by the forest. The concrete barriers blocking access to the underground chambers are slowly cracking with age, though no one has any intention of removing them or exploring what may still lie beneath.
On particularly quiet nights, local residents sometimes report hearing faint rhythmic scratching or scraping coming from the direction of the old Mortyn property. Whether these sounds represent ongoing activity related to the original mystery or simply the natural settling of abandoned structures remains unknown. What is certain is that the name Mortyn has become synonymous with secrets too dark to fully comprehend, and the hollow where they once lived continues to hold its silence, keeping whatever truths lie buried beneath its soil hidden from the world that was never meant to understand them.
