The house at 3850 East New York Street sat quietly in an Indianapolis neighborhood, blending in with the rest. To anyone passing by, it looked like an ordinary home, a place where children played and families gathered. But inside, behind the closed doors, a nightmare unfolded—a horror so cruel that it would stain the house forever.

It began in the summer of 1965, when Sylvia Likens and her younger sister, Jenny, were left in the care of Gertrude Baniszewski. Their parents, traveling carnival workers, had paid Gertrude $20 a week to take care of the girls while they were away. A small price for what they thought would be safety. But safety was the last thing Sylvia would find in that house.

At first, Gertrude seemed tired but kind, a struggling mother of seven doing her best. The house was cramped, dirty, filled with children running in and out. Sylvia and Jenny tried to fit in, helping with chores, staying quiet when needed. But as days passed, something shifted. The payments from their parents were late, and Gertrude’s kindness turned to rage.

It started with harsh words. “You’re a filthy girl,” she spat at Sylvia one evening. “A liar, a thief. Just like your mother.” The insults were cruel, but Sylvia could handle words. She had no idea that words would soon turn into something much worse.

One night, after a late payment, Gertrude snapped. She grabbed Sylvia by the arm and slammed her against the wall. The first slap echoed through the house. Then came another. And another. Sylvia gasped, but there was no time to react before the woman picked up a wooden paddle and struck her across the back.

Jenny watched, trembling, too scared to move.

“You’re going to learn some respect,” Gertrude growled.

But Gertrude didn’t stop. She started encouraging her own children to join in. At first, they hesitated. Then, as if her hatred infected them, they obeyed. The beatings became a daily ritual. The wooden paddle, the slaps, the kicks—it became a game in the Baniszewski household.

The neighborhood kids joined in, too. They were invited over, welcomed like guests at a party. Except instead of playing outside, they were punching, kicking, and spitting on Sylvia. They tied her up, humiliated her, stripped her naked and laughed. No one stopped them.

Food became a privilege, something Sylvia was forced to earn. If she tried to take even a bite of leftovers, she was punished. Gertrude grabbed a hot dog, smeared it with feces, and shoved it into her mouth. “Eat it,” she ordered. “That’s all you deserve.” Sylvia gagged, her stomach twisting in horror, but she had no choice.

She grew weaker. Her once bright smile disappeared, replaced by hollow, sunken eyes. But the worst was yet to come.

One afternoon, Gertrude called the children together. “Hold her down,” she commanded. “I want everyone to see this.”

Sylvia, too weak to fight, barely struggled as hands grabbed her arms, pressing her to the dirty floor. Gertrude lit a sewing needle over an open flame, waiting until the tip glowed red-hot. Then, slowly, she pressed it into Sylvia’s stomach. The stench of burning flesh filled the air.

“I am a prostitute and proud of it,” she carved.

Sylvia’s screams filled the house. But no one came to help. No one knocked on the door. No one saved her.

The next day, she could barely move. Her breath was shallow, her body limp. But Gertrude wasn’t finished. She dragged Sylvia to the basement, where she was left alone in the darkness, lying in her own filth. No food, no water—just the sound of muffled laughter upstairs as life went on without her.

On October 25, Sylvia tried one last time to escape. With the last ounce of strength she had, she staggered toward the basement steps. She barely made it halfway before her body collapsed.

Gertrude stood over her, sneering. “You’re not even worth the trouble anymore,” she muttered. Then, for the final time, she slammed Sylvia’s head against the wall.

This time, Sylvia didn’t move.

She was gone.

When the police arrived, Gertrude feigned innocence. “She ran away,” she lied, but Sylvia’s body told the truth. The bruises, the burns, the cuts—they spoke louder than any words. And in the corner, trembling, Jenny whispered to the officers, her voice barely above a breath.

“Get me out of here, and I’ll tell you everything.”

The trial was swift, the courtroom silent as the details of Sylvia’s suffering were revealed. The jury listened, horrified, as doctors described the worst case of child abuse they had ever seen.

Gertrude was sentenced to life in prison. But she was released after just 20 years, walking free while Sylvia lay in an unmarked grave.

Justice never truly came. But the house at 3850 East New York Street never forgot. Years later, neighbors swore they could still hear the echoes of Sylvia’s screams at night.