A Family's Descent into Tragedy: The Ethel Yeldem Story
On the evening of August 28th, 1922, Ethel Geller Yeldem was about to step onto a streetcar at the southwest entrance of the Ohio State Fairgrounds when something on the curb caught her eye—a small, rectangular case. Curious, she picked it up and, once settled into her seat, opened it to reveal an expensive-looking pair of eyeglasses. Wanting to do the right thing, she set out to find the owner, answering lost-and-found notices and even posting one of her own. But as weeks passed with no claimant, she reasoned that the glasses must have belonged to a fairgoer who had long since left town. With no further leads, she tucked them away in a drawer and forgot about them.
Love and Family
Fittingly, just as she had tried to return the spectacles to their owner, love and companionship eventually found their way back to her. A year after her first husband’s sudden death from a heart attack, Ethel met Darby Yeldem, a striking labourer who claimed to be Native American. Their relationship was passionate, to say the least—so much so that by the time they were married, Ethel was already expecting. In the years that followed, she was in a near-constant state of pregnancy, bringing seven children into their modest west side home. With four more children from her previous marriage, life in the Yeldem household was nothing short of chaotic.
A Family in Crisis
But in 1925, the cracks in their marriage deepened into something much darker. Ethel discovered that Darby had been molesting her eldest daughter, Mildred. During his trial, another shocking truth came to light—Darby wasn’t Native American at all but African American, and his real surname wasn’t Yeldem but Medley. He had reversed the spelling of his name and lied about his background to conceal a criminal past. That same year, while the family was still reeling from the betrayal, tragedy struck again. Ethel’s ten-month-old son, Walter, died of cholera infantum.
A String of Hardships
The following year offered no respite. In July 1926, eight-year-old Elaine was struck by a car while chasing a ball into the street. She survived, but with a fractured skull and broken ribs. Then, in December, Darby was finally sentenced to ten years in the Ohio Penitentiary for his crimes against Mildred. While his imprisonment may have brought some relief, it also left Ethel struggling to provide for her children. She took in laundry and sold newspapers on the corner of State and High Streets, doing whatever she could to make ends meet. Through it all, Mildred persevered—despite the horror she had endured, she excelled in both academics and athletics, eventually securing a job at Mount Carmel Hospital as a student nurse to help support the family.
Ethel Yeldem's Breaking Point
Spring had never been kind to Ethel. In April 1918, her first husband, Otto, had died suddenly at work. The following March, she had married Darby. In April 1925, her world had shattered when he raped her thirteen-year-old daughter. And in May 1928, her son Vernon, just ten years old, had walked all the way to Dayton to escape the hardship of home, only to be returned by the police.
By May 1930, Ethel had reached her breaking point. On the morning of the 6th, she confided in a neighbour that they might soon have to make a trip to Green Lawn Cemetery because she was ready to give up. The neighbour brushed it off, telling her to "brace up." Later that day, Ethel did something unusual—she bought each of her children new clothes, a luxury they could scarcely afford. Instead of going to school, they took a taxi to Baker Art Studio, where they posed for a family portrait. After returning home, they enjoyed an uncharacteristically extravagant meal. Then, one by one, Ethel sent her children upstairs to prepare for bed.
A Mother's Final Act
As each child climbed the stairs, Ethel bathed them, dressed them in their nightgowns, and lovingly combed their hair. Then, she picked up a rifle wrapped in a towel and shot each one through the heart. One by one, she laid their bodies on mattresses in the front bedroom.
But ten-year-old Elaine realised what was happening. She managed to escape through a window onto the back porch roof. A group of boys playing baseball next door saw her, half-dressed, screaming, "Murder! Murder! Mother is killing all of us!" They watched as an arm reached out from the window, grabbed Elaine, and dragged her back inside. Assuming she was just getting a beating, they resumed their game.
That evening, Mildred returned from work and heard crying upstairs. When she asked if everything was alright, Ethel replied that she had punished one of the younger children. Then she sent Mildred to the store to buy stamps. No sooner had Mildred left than Ervan, one of Ethel’s older sons, returned from the theatre. As he stepped inside, he heard faint moans from upstairs and ran to see what was wrong.
What he found was beyond comprehension. Ethel lay in bed, her shirt soaked in blood from a gunshot wound to the chest. Nearby, his sister Elaine was dead. He rushed to the front bedroom, where he discovered six of his siblings, their bodies neatly arranged. Overcome with horror, he barely managed to cry out for help. Down on the street, Mildred stood frozen, the book of stamps slipping from her fingers as the realisation dawned.
The Aftermath
Authorities arrived to a scene of unimaginable devastation. Ethel had left behind a note for her surviving children:
"Mildred, Ervan and Vernon:
Don’t think too hard of mother for this please. Just always try to do what is right. Listen to older advice. It will always be for your good what is told you. I am so tired I can’t go on and no one to take care of the rest is why I take them with me. I want you to go to church, do as you are told and try to live this down.
Goodbye, Mother."
But Ethel didn’t die. The bullet had missed her heart, and doctors believed she would recover. She refused to speak, barely whispering pleas to be left alone. On May 8th, as her seven children were laid to rest in a mass grave at Union Cemetery, she thrashed in anguish. The two youngest, Alan and Alice, were buried together in a single casket.
On May 16th, despite her prognosis, Ethel suddenly complained of chest pains. Moments later, she died of internal haemorrhaging. She was buried beside her children. Plans for a headstone never materialised, and today, the site is little more than an unmarked patch of grass.
Later, it emerged that Ethel had written to Darby in prison, telling him of her plans to kill their children. The penitentiary’s mail vetting process delayed the letter, and by the time it arrived, it was far too late.
In 2012, the house where the tragedy took place was demolished as part of the city’s Vacant and Abandoned Property Initiative. Today, only the concrete steps remain—a silent, unsettling reminder of a mother’s desperation in the face of relentless hardship.
