The Isolated World of the Whittaker Family
Nestled deep in the wooded hills of Odd, West Virginia, a dirt road winds through rusted fencing before revealing the Whittaker property—a collection of decaying structures that appear to have been slowly collapsing for decades. The main house, its siding warped by years of changing seasons, stands behind a porch where Halloween skeletons hang beside Christmas angels, their plastic forms rattling with every breeze.
The yard tells a story of time passing: towels hang from makeshift clotheslines, while old tires, crushed beer cans, and broken containers gather around the steps. Each object once served a purpose but now simply marks the passage of years in this isolated corner of Appalachia.
Inside, the air carries the heavy scent of gas from a stove where beans and sausage have been left to congeal, flies moving freely across countertops. A television blares in the background, its noise absorbed by a room where the calendar remains frozen on March. Beyond the window, past a collapsing chicken coop and weather-beaten trailers, stands the family outhouse—a testament to their disconnected existence.
The Sudden Removal and Remaining Siblings
This was the scene that greeted Daily Mail reporters when they returned to the Whittaker home after a significant change: three family members had been removed by adult protective services. In September, Ray Whittaker (72), his sister Lorene (79), and Lorene's son Timmy (46) were taken from the property in a quiet operation that left the two remaining siblings confused and heartbroken.
Betty Whittaker, 73, and her brother Larry, 69, now occupy the house alone. They say authorities provided no explanation for the removal at the time it occurred. "I miss them a lot, I raised them," Betty told reporters, her voice filled with emotion. She and Larry have had no contact with their relatives since the day they were taken.
Larry expressed his frustration at the lack of information. "I've been staying at home, waiting on a phone call, but that's all I know. They haven't called or let me know nothing," he said. "They won't tell us where they at."
The brother believes the sudden intervention came as a direct result of the enormous attention generated by online videos featuring the family. "People out there making money off them [the videos], and they don't like it," Larry speculated. "They told us don't talk to nobody. They watching."
A Century of Genetic Isolation
The Whittaker family's unusual story spans more than a century through the West Virginia hills. Their genetic isolation began with a single marriage between two sets of cousins descended from identical twin brothers—a union that effectively folded the family tree back on itself.
According to reports, the Whittakers' parents were "first cousins, twice, because they share both sets of grandparents." The pattern began when identical twin brothers Henry and John Whittaker had children who later married each other, starting a cycle of consanguineous unions that continued through generations.
Scientists point to what's known as "inbreeding depression"—the expression of harmful recessive genes passed repeatedly through the same bloodline. A 2021 study by the University of San Francisco Valley in Brazil noted the association between high rates of marriage between relatives and the development of congenital malformations, abortions, deafness, and mental and physical disabilities.
The Whittakers displayed many of these consequences. Family members often communicated through grunts rather than speech, and when filmmaker Mark Laita pressed them about physical abnormalities in earlier films, one relative suggested, "Might be coal mining" as an explanation.
When Global Attention Arrived in Odd
The Whittakers' private world shattered in 2020 when filmmaker Mark Laita uploaded a twelve-minute documentary to his YouTube channel Soft White Underbelly. The video, intended to highlight "untold stories from across the country," revealed the family's living conditions and genetic isolation with startling intimacy.
Laita described it as "one of the most disturbing interviews I've ever done." He had first encountered the family in 2004 while taking photographs for his book Created Equal. Even then, the meeting faced resistance—"protective" neighbors confronted him with a shotgun, explaining they didn't want people coming to ridicule the family.
The filmmaker compared the Whittakers to characters from the 1972 thriller Deliverance. "It was out of control," Laita recalled. "There's these people walking around and their eyes are going in different directions and they are barking at us."
The 2020 documentary drew tens of millions of views, transforming the sheltered, isolated household into a global curiosity. Interest grew so rapidly that Laita eventually needed a police escort to return to the property.
Life After the Removal
With Ray, Lorene, and Timmy gone, the house in Odd now holds only Betty and Larry, who continue living in what reporters described as squalid conditions. The stove remains running, food cools on burners, insects move across counters, and the yard remains strewn with discarded items and holiday decorations left out through changing seasons.
West Virginia's Department of Human Services told the Daily Mail they were "aware of the situation" but could not discuss the case "due to confidentiality laws." The agency reportedly refused further comment because of "the ongoing nature of the matter."
Public reaction to the family's situation has been divided. Some accuse the internet of turning the Whittakers' hardships into entertainment, with one reader commenting, "This is a total invasion of this family's privacy." Others expressed cautious relief that the removed family members might now be in cleaner environments with proper meals and hygiene.
What state authorities are doing with the three relatives remains unknown. Under confidentiality laws, no agency has released information about their location or welfare.
Meanwhile, Betty and Larry remain at the property in Odd, carrying on in the home where they've lived for decades, waiting for news about the family members removed without explanation, their quiet days now even quieter with three fewer voices in the house that once held seven or eight.
