Whole Family Incest Stories

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Whole Family Incest Stories
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THIS is life inside the depraved family whose incest and squalor hidden in the hills of a quiet country town hid a terrible secret.
ON A rough block of scrub hidden in the hills above a quiet NSW country town, the Colt family had a terrible secret.
Living in a row of ramshackle tents and sheds which had no showers, toilets or running water were 40 adults and children. But the Colts kept to themselves .
Neighbours on one of the large properties or hobby farms occasionally heard a chainsaw, but no laughter or play.
The men occasionally sold firewood and two of the adult men worked as council labourers.
Occasionally, the womenfolk would come into town in a four-wheel drive.
Out would pile a dirty troupe of ragtag children, some of them rail thin, wearing dirty clothes.
The town people didn't even know their names.
Occasionally, when the welfare officers came visiting, the children would be forced to attend a few days of school, where they needed remedial teaching.
It wasn't until a squad of police and child protection officers arrived unannounced on the property one day in early June last year, that the shocking truth about the Colts would be revealed.
Not only were the Colt family closely related by generations of incest. In fear of discovery the appalling facts about their family, the Colts had fled three other Australian states before coming to rest in rural NSW.
And it was here that four generations of interbreeding exploded into a life of depravity.
Under the eye of the family matriarch, Betty Colt, who slept in the marital bed with her brother, the children copulated with each other and with adults.
Years of interrelations had resulted in some of the children misshapen and intellectually impaired. Many of them could not speak intelligibly.
They were profoundly neglected, to the point they didn't know how to shower or use toilet paper, and were covered in sores and racked with disease.
Left to their own devices, brothers with sisters, uncles with nieces, fathers with daughters, they engaged in sexual activities.
The children also mutilated the genitalia of animals.
When the girls became pregnant, they would often simply miscarry on the farm, not wanting to arouse suspicions among doctors or health professionals.
While the Colt women claim outsiders had fathered their children - itinerant men, a wheat worker, a Swedish backpacker - science told otherwise.
When they finally managed to get test swabs into a laboratory, geneticists uncovered a family tree which was a nightmare of "homozygosity", when a child's parents are closely related.
Eight of the Colt children have parents who were either brother and sister, mother and son or father and daughter.
A further six have parents who were either aunt and nephew, uncle and niece, half siblings or grandparents and grandchild.
Interviews with the Colts revealed the family saga began back in New Zealand, in the first half of last century when June Colt was born to parents who were brother and sister.
June married Tim and in the 1970s the couple emigrated to Australia.
The family would then move, several times, between South Australia, Western Australia, and Victoria, usually living in remote rural communities, shying away from public knowledge about the truth.
Tim and June gave birth to four daughters and two sons.
Three of the daughters - Rhonda, 47, Betty, 46, and Martha, 33, and at least one of the sons, Charlie, form the elder members of the family group in the NSW bush camp.
She contended their father was a man called Phil Walton, now dead, who was known to the family as Tim.
But genetics show one of her children, Bobby, 15, was fathered either by her father, whose name was Tim, or the brother she was sleeping with.
Four more of Betty's children were fathered by a close family member.
Betty's eldest child, Raylene, now aged 30, has a 13-year-old daughter, Kimberly.
Raylene insists Kimberly's father is a man called Sven, from Sweden or Switzerland.
Testing identifies Kimberly's father as either her half brother, an uncle or a grandfather.
Betty's second oldest child, Tammy, now aged 27, has given birth to three daughters, one of whom died from a rare genetic disorder, and all of whom, she eventually admitted, were fathered by her closest brother, Derek, 25.
Betty's younger sister, Martha Colt, 33, has five children, four of whom were fathered by her own father, Tim, or by her brother, and another who is the product of a union with a close relation.
It was the 10 youngest of Betty and Martha's children, and Raylene's daughter, Kimberly, 13, who ran wild in a sexual spree about the property.
Betty's children, Bobby, 15, Billy, 14, Brian, 12, Dwayne, 9, and Carmen, 8, all have parents who are close family members.
Martha's children, Albert, 15, Jed, 14, Ruth, 9, and Nadia, 7, are also the product of closely-related parents.
Interviewed by child protection workers and psychologists, they told of a virtual sexual free-for-all.
Ruth and Nadia said Albert, Jed and Karl showed them pornographic magazines, touched their breasts and Albert had sexual intercourse with them.
Kimberly said she had oral sex with Dwayne, while Carmen watched. Her mother Raylene had been aware of the incident.
Albert, Jed, Karl, Bobby and Billy admitted they tortured animals, including puppies and cats. Carmen said her father was her uncle Charlie.
Ruth said her father was Charlie. She also said her brothers, Jed and Karl, had sex with her.
Following the discovery of the Colt family in the hills, 12 children have been removed from their parents.
Their mothers have hired lawyers to argue in the courts for the children's return.
One of the mothers is due to face court on charges of procuring the removal of a child from care and recruiting a child for a crime, and further charges are expected.
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Original reporting and incisive analysis, direct from the Guardian every morning
© 2022 Guardian News & Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. (modern)
In September 2000 my daughter was nearly 13 and had just started secondary school. She had always got on well with other children and worked hard. But after a couple of months things began to change. She started wearing lots of make-up. The school was a stone's throw away, but friends began calling for her as early as 7.30am. Next my older daughter spotted her hanging about in the local park with some lads from school who introduced the girls they befriended to older boys and men. I was very alarmed. Then she started missing certain lessons, sometimes whole days.
When she started disappearing overnight, I trawled the streets looking for her. I had no control over her. Sometimes she would say she was going to have an early night, then she'd turn on the shower and climb out the bathroom window. Once when she disappeared, I went through the park looking for her and asked a teenage boy if he'd seen her. I was horrified when he said, "Yes, all the prostitutes hang out by the bowling green."
I confronted my daughter. "That's not true," she said. "Those boys are my boyfriends."
As far as she was concerned, she was doing what she wanted to do and I was hindering her. Money didn't seem to be changing hands, but the girls were getting drink and drugs and mobile phones. The men flattered them into believing they loved them as part of a process of grooming them to have sex with lots of different men, some in their 30s and 40s. People ask me why I use the word "grooming" rather than referring to them as paedophiles, but most of these men haven't been convicted.
I felt as if my daughter was sliding away from me and I'd never be able to get her back. Every minute of every day became a nightmare. I couldn't eat, sleep or function properly, and I could see no way back. Every time she disappeared, I thought I'd never see her alive again. If a girl is over 13, she has to be the complainant in a case of sexual assault. Because this was happening outside the house, there was nothing I could do. The worst thing, as a mother, was not being able to prevent my daughter from being abused.
At the end of 2001, a year after her first disappearance, I put her into care. She didn't want to go, but I could no longer cope. My lowest point was the first time I visited her. Seeing her and having to walk away was unbearable. Everything exploded while she was in care, and I had a breakdown.
My nephew killed himself unexpectedly during this time. My daughter and I attended the funeral, and were both extremely upset. Afterwards, I took my daughter firmly by the shoulders and said to her, "You'll never know how many times I thought I'd be going to your funeral."
Then I walked away. She seemed to turn some sort of corner that day, and so did I. She started to realise what she was doing to herself and I could see for the first time that she needed me. I think I had to feel as low as it was possible to feel before I found the strength to fight what was happening to her and other girls.
I started campaigning with Ann Cryer, the MP for Keighley, for a change in the law to make hearsay evidence admissible in grooming cases, a change we secured last year. I'm proud of what I achieved and my daughter is proud of me, too.
After two years in care, she came back to live with me, went back to college, got qualifications. At times she feels down about what happened to her, which she now recognises as abuse. Last year Channel 4 made a programme about the grooming issue in this area and, although some white men were involved, the BNP hijacked it as a race issue: Asians exploiting white girls. I was furious because this is not a race issue.
The men live locally and we see them from time to time. They call my daughter names, and me, too, if I'm with her. I say to them, "I'm not frightened of any of you." My daughter calls out, "I've moved on with my life and it's a shame you can't move on with yours." Our relationship is better than it has ever been. We talk to each other and if she goes out with friends, she leaves a note on the fridge telling me where she's gone and when she'll be back. It's fantastic to get those notes.
· Do you have a story to tell? Email: experience@theguardian.com


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The intimate, the harrowing, the sweet, the surprising — the human.
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The author is a writer, performer and visual artist based in Melbourne, Australia. 
My marriage is splintering. My baby’s just over a year old and my toddler nearly 3. They wake every single night — my older boy is asthmatic — and I’m the one who gets up to help them. My mother has a loving bond with my boys, and it’s good to have another pair of hands and someone to talk to. The tension between me and my husband escalates daily. He wants sex. I want to sleep for 200 years. He sulks. 
It’s late. We’ve had visitors, we’ve been drinking. I’m demented with exhaustion and stress. The baby needs a bottle and the toddler demands a hug. My husband sits on the couch and my mother’s on the floor in front of him. There’s an undercurrent, something unspoken, between them. He’s massaging her shoulders. While I get my sons fed and ready for bed, I can see the massage is becoming something else. My husband and my mother are making out, in front of me, in my living room. Unable to deal with it, I ignore them. I should throw a pot of cold water over them, throw them out of the house and out of my life, but I’m so tired my face is falling off and my bones are crumbling, and this is too outrageous to even acknowledge.
“Fuck ’em,” I think. “They deserve each other.” I take myself off to bed but can’t sleep. I hear the door to the spare room where my mother sleeps open and close. I hear them go in. Eventually, my husband comes into our bedroom.
In the morning my husband goes to work, and my mother and I pretend nothing has happened. This is the way of things in our family: hysterics when the cat’s tail gets caught in the door, but if your 16-year-old son takes off into the night in crisis or your 18-year-old daughter slashes her wrists, we don’t talk about it, it didn’t happen. Ours isn’t the only family like this, but with us the habit of denial runs especially deep.
Later, a friend asked, “Why don’t you have it out with her?” (My husband, by then, long gone .) Impossible — she’s pathologically incapable of assuming responsibility and would resort to attacking, crying or inventing excuses. Occasionally I’ve alluded to that night. Last year she wrote telling me she didn’t have sexual intercourse with my husband, and it was painful and unfair to be “falsely accused.”
It took a lot for me to understand my mother, and even more to forgive her.
When I told her I was writing this essay, she responded, “You do what you want to do. I’m not proud of some of the things I’ve done, but I can’t go back to change anything.”
Then I got a second letter, begging me not to cut her out of my life, that she would always love me unconditionally. I answered, pointing out that whether or not penetration took place is entirely beside the point, and if I were going to cut her out of my life I would have done so already. One reason I didn’t is that my sons deserve to have a grandmother who adores them, so I chose to protect their relationship with her.
It took a lot for me to understand my mother, and even more to forgive her, but I’ve learned to see her behavior in a wider context. My mother’s been competing with other women all her life — starting with her own mother over her father’s affections, with me over my father, my boyfriends, my husband, and with her friends over any man around. She’s such a flawed bundle of insecurities that she even needed her children to find her sexually attractive, imposing herself on us in ways so murkily inappropriate we were left demolished, muted, unable to form any kind of response.
Such dysfunction, such emotional disconnection, such narcissism speaks of damage that goes very deep. “I can’t remember anything from before the age of 7,” she said once. “What does that tell you?” I asked, but she remained silent.
Yet. My mother is a warm, charming woman with a playful, accommodating nature; as long as you’re not one of her offspring in emotional distress, she’s generous, kind and helpful. And she’s proud of me — even if she’s never known where she stops and where I begin: “I bathe in reflected glory” is a favorite saying of hers.
Despite the things she’s done, she loves me, tainted though that love is. As long as I play happy and keep my pain to myself, we get on famously. I can stay connected to her because I see her clearly. I know what to expect, and, more importantly, what not to. I treasure the good things we retain. But I can never trust her, and love only goes so far without trust. 
Buddhism teaches that our parents give us a body, and the rest is up to us. The spiritual teacher Miguel Ruiz established four agreements for a good life, and the second is: “Take nothing personally. People do what they do because of themselves.” The night she slept with my husband, my mother was driven by her ruined child-self, by the unformed, needy part of her that can’t know right from wrong. In healing my life, I’ve drawn on the wisdom and support offered by friends, daily meditation and practicing self-awareness without judgment — quiet noticing, if you will. My mother may never address the traumas she suffered — or those she caused in my life — but I choose compassion over anger, reflection over recrimination.

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My middle son is 8 years old. My daughter is 5. They’ve been taking baths together since she was old enough to sit up in the big tub without drowning. And they still do. (My 12-year-old son now prefers manly showers but, every once in a while, all three of them still jump in.)
They also, up until a year ago, shared a single bedroom, which meant plenty of running around in various states of undress and, periodically, re-enactments of the stripping scene from the musical “Gypsy,” while singing “You’ve Got to Have a Gimmick.”
They’re not the only ones. In a household with five people and one and a half bathrooms, sharing is a must. Which means if either my husband or I are in the shower and a kid’s got to go–the kid’s got to go, everyone’s modesty be damned. And this doesn’t even include all the times I’m in the shower and my children suddenly discover they need me to negotiate a critical cease-fire or solve a burning dilemma like whether or not lizards have eyelids immediately .
Our apartment also gets extremely hot in the summertime, which mea
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