West Virginia’s infamous Whittaker family—the clan dubbed “America’s most inbred” after racking up tens of millions of views online—has unleashed a bombshell accusation: two YouTubers who skyrocketed them to viral fame are now under police investigation for allegedly swiping donations intended for the impoverished relatives.

Larry Whittaker, 69, went nuclear in a series of emotional videos, claiming content creators Eric Carroll, 41, from Georgia, and local Patrick Roark, 46, pocketed cash, supplies, and even a flashy 2010 black Range Rover that generous fans sent to help the family escape their crumbling shack in Odd, West Virginia.

“Everything that come in for the Whittakers, they kept,” Larry fumed to The Post from the family’s rundown porch. “They took the money, the clothes, the food—everything.”

The feud exploded after Carroll and Roark launched their own “Whittaker Family” YouTube channel in June 2025, promising daily updates and a fresh start—including a new Amish-built home funded by viewer donations.

Their debut video, where Betty and Larry debunked cruel rumors, exploded to nearly 350,000 views overnight. Followers flooded in, sending Venmo payments, Amazon wish-list items, and boxes of groceries straight to addresses provided by the duo.

But by fall, the dream soured. Larry claims a gleaming Range Rover donated by a kind-hearted viewer arrived—with Roark demanding the family sign it over as “payment” for filming. When they refused, Larry says Roark kept the SUV anyway. It now sits parked outside Roark’s half-finished house up the road.

West Virginia State Police confirmed to The Post they launched a fraud probe in September, publicly urging anyone who sent money or merchandise through Carroll or Roark to come forward.

“Multiple complaints allege these individuals solicited and accepted donations on behalf of the Whittaker family but failed to deliver,” said Cpl. J.W. Ellison of the Beckley detachment.

Roark fired back in a tearful Facebook Live, flashing receipts and insisting he and Carroll had a “three-way contract” to split YouTube revenue with the family. He claims Carroll ghosted with the channel’s ad money—around $40,000 owed to him personally—and that every donated item reached the Whittakers.

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” Roark said, giving The Post a tour of his under-construction home, bought for $20,000 cash in 2024. “Look—I ain’t living high. This is donation money? Please.”

Carroll, reached in Georgia, called the accusations “total BS” and blamed Roark for the fallout. “I walked away when I saw where it was heading,” he texted. “Patrick’s the one still posting videos.”

The drama is the latest chapter in the Whittakers’ tragic saga. First thrust into the spotlight by Mark Laita’s 2020 Soft White Underbelly documentary—which has topped 45 million views—the family’s severe genetic issues from generations of inbreeding touched hearts worldwide.

Laita raised over $130,000 through GoFundMes, but cut ties in 2024 after accusing relatives of blowing cash on drugs and even faking a death for funeral donations.

Then came Carroll and Roark, locals who befriended the family and promised a brighter future. Their channel ballooned to thousands of subscribers, monetizing daily vlogs of Betty cooking, Ray grunting greetings, and Timmy wandering the yard.

Fans eagerly opened wallets. One donor from Texas sent $5,000 for home repairs. Another shipped a generator after storms knocked out power. Dozens mailed clothes, canned goods, and toys.

But Larry says most never arrived. “Boxes came to Patrick’s house. We got maybe a tenth.”

Adding fuel: three vulnerable family members—Ray, 72; Lorene, 79; and Timmy, 46—were quietly removed by Adult Protective Services in September and placed in state care. Betty blames the endless cameras and chaos from viral fame.

“They were watching us all the time,” she whispered. “It got too much.”

Online sleuths are eating it up. Reddit threads and TikToks dissect every receipt, with #WhittakerScandal trending worldwide.

Some side with the YouTubers: “These guys finally gave the family a voice—Mark Laita abandoned them!”

Others rage: “Exploiting disabled people for clicks? Disgusting.”

Roark vows to keep filming, teasing a “tell-all” documentary. He’s hired an accountant to audit donations and promises a family trust.

“People want the truth,” he said. “We’re building that new house—one way or another.”

Meanwhile, the Whittakers’ shack—leaky roof, peeling paint, chickens roaming the living room—looks frozen in time.

Larry, chain-smoking on the porch, just shakes his head.

“We trusted them,” he muttered. “Thought they were friends.”

As winter bites the hollows of Raleigh County, one thing’s clear: fame lifted the Whittakers from obscurity, but the price keeps rising.

And with state troopers knocking, someone’s about to pay.