WAYNESVILLE, N.C.—Richard and Ellen Hoyle, both in their 80s, took care of each other in their single-story home until the morning of April 26.

Shortly before 11 a.m. that day, Richard, 89 years old, shot Ellen, 85, court records say. He called 911 to report a murder-suicide and then shot himself. Police found the couple side by side, in bed. Their wills rested on the kitchen table, with a list of names and phone numbers under the words “PEOPLE TO NOTIFY OF MY DEATH.” Richard, who also went as Dick, left a note.

Ellen was growing frail and Richard was in pain, say those who had seen them in recent months. They believe the couple could no longer care for each other, didn’t wish to burden others and didn’t want to leave their home. It isn’t clear whether Ellen expressed a desire to die.

A growing portion of murder-suicides, while exceedingly rare, are affecting older adults. The strain of caregiving likely plays a role, say researchers in the aging field who have studied the issue. Nearly 10% of murder-suicides in 2021 involved a perpetrator 65 and older, up from 8.9% in 2019. Among those 80 and older the percentage has nearly tripled, to 4.26% in 2021 from 1.43% in 2019, according to the Violence Policy Center, which tracks murder-suicides using news reports.

Experts who study murder-suicide, also referred to as homicide-suicide, generally define it as when someone kills another person and then kills himself or herself, usually within minutes or hours.

A widely cited study found that the prevalence rate for murder-suicides among those 55 and older was 0.62 per 100,000 people—nearly twice the 0.34 rate of those younger than 55.

Donna Cohen, a retired psychiatry professor behind the research, found that a husband was acting as his wife’s caregiver in about half of spousal murder-suicides among those over 55. The burden of physical illness, increasing cost of care , isolation and sense of hopelessness play roles, says Cohen. About 20% of murder-suicide cases involving older couples are what she calls “symbiotic,” where both were known to have expressed a desire to die, but there is no clear evidence of a pact.

“These are not acts of love or altruism. They are acts of depression and desperation,” says Cohen. Primary-care physicians, family and friends often don’t recognize signs that someone is depressed, she says.

Sheryl Chatfield, an associate professor at Kent State University who has researched murder-suicides among older people, says people are living longer with health problems and that male partners typically feel responsible for themselves and their spouses. Often, there is a precipitating event before the murder-suicide—the person providing care suffers an injury or illness, and can no longer care for a partner.

This account of the Hoyles is based on interviews, court documents and other records.

Richard and Ellen were a quiet couple, “sort of loners,” says Richard’s former classmate, Manuel Hooper.

Richard grew up in Waynesville and had deep ties. His grandfather owned the local feed store and was a justice of the peace. After high school, Richard studied engineering at North Carolina State College and worked on construction projects overseas. Along the way, he met and married Ellen, who had a daughter, whom he adopted.

The couple lived in various cities in the Carolinas, but Richard would return to Waynesville for high-school reunions and golf, says Hooper. When the Hoyles moved back, Richard and Hooper got together with another classmate, who died last year. Of their roughly 150 high-school classmates, about 15 are still living, says Hooper. During visits to the Hoyle home, Ellen would say hello but not join the conversation. “She had been sick for a good long while,” says Hooper.

Alex McKay befriended the couple at Hardee’s, where they went in the morning for biscuits and gravy. McKay, a local historian, often introduced himself to the older residents to learn more about the town. They were sweet together, says McKay.

Richard invited McKay to his house. Ellen would wave to him from their bedroom. The house was modest but “immaculate,” says McKay.

Richard had a box filled with photos of his grandfather’s feed store on Main Street, receipts, and lease agreements, all organized in labeled envelopes.

“He said, ‘I’m giving stuff to you. I don’t have anyone to leave it to who would appreciate it,’” says McKay. He didn’t know the couple had a daughter.

The Hoyles listed their home for sale in late 2022, but the listing was removed in early 2023. In one of their more recent conversations, Richard told McKay that he and Ellen were trying to decide what to do about their living situation, given Ellen’s declining health, and he didn’t know if they could be together in assisted living because she needed a higher level of care.

The couple relied on Chad Setzer, a single dad, for yardwork and help around the house. Setzer stopped over weekly, sometimes bringing Ellen chicken sandwiches from Bojangles. They told him about their three beloved dogs, Richard’s fascination with honeybees and his overseas work projects.

Setzer said Richard encouraged him to start his own lawn-care business and offered to buy him a used truck and a mower. “I didn’t want it and tried to give them money, but he wouldn’t take it,” says Setzer.

The Hoyles wrote their wills in 2023, leaving their house and assets to Setzer. They made funeral arrangements, directing that their ashes be scattered at a church in Asheville. Richard’s cousin, Mike Sutton, and his wife, Brenda, witnessed the signing of the wills but said they didn’t read them. Setzer said he didn’t know he was the beneficiary.

The last time the Suttons saw the Hoyles was in early 2024 at Walmart. The couple was holding on to each other, providing support. Another relative, who had talked to Richard in recent months, said the couple was close to being homebound because they were having more aches and pains.

About a week before the shootings, Setzer said Richard was in pain. “He got to where he couldn’t walk,” says Setzer, who began making daily trips to help Richard dress and use the bathroom. Richard told Setzer that the pain was in his tailbone and they figured he hurt himself using his stationary bike.

“I thought he broke something but he refused to go to the doctor,” he says.

Days before the shootings, Setzer recalls Richard saying, “I didn’t think it would end like this.”

“I didn’t understand,” says Setzer. He said he thought Richard was talking about getting old and unable to easily move around.

The day before the shooting, Richard’s school friend Hooper says they talked on the phone for about 20 minutes, something they regularly did. They lamented not being able to golf anymore and how old age had taken its toll.

“I got the feeling and I don’t know why, that he wanted to tell me something,” recalls Hooper. “After a while, he said, ‘Someone is going to be well-off when we die.’”

Just before 11 a.m. on April 26, Richard called 911. “There’s been a murder-suicide,” he told the dispatcher, according to a voice recording, and provided an address.

“How do you know this has happened?”

“Because I’m the one.”

“You’re the one who is going to kill yourself?”

“Yes.”

The dispatcher asked why. Richard didn’t answer.

“I’m ending this phone call,” Richard said at the end of the recording.

Richard left a note, which hasn’t been released. Waynesville Police Chief David Adams said it was “common knowledge” that Ellen wasn’t well and that Richard, who was her caregiver, had a lot of health issues, too.

Police called his cousin, Mike Sutton, who was on the top of Richard’s list of people to contact.

The Hoyles’ daughter declined to comment. The Hoyles’ small circle of local friends said the couple didn’t talk about a daughter.

“I’m so saddened by this,” McKay, the historian, posted on social media. “Richard and Ellen especially both had been in bad health over the last few years. In one of our last talks a couple months ago, he mentioned they had been trying to figure out what to do for their remaining years i.e. assisted-living.”

Setzer said he doesn’t understand. “I don’t think I’ve seen anyone that much in love except my grandparents,” he says. “I never thought he would do anything like that.”

Hooper wonders why Richard didn’t say anything in their last phone call. “I guess he would have thought I would have gone immediately to his house.”

Hooper pulled out his senior yearbook from 1953, showing the note that Richard had written to Hooper at the time. “It sure has been wonderful going to school with you…I sure am going to miss you and all the others when it is all over with but you know what they say. That all good things have to come to an end and I guess it might as well be now. ”

Help is available: Reach the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by dialing or texting 988. 

Write to Clare Ansberry at clare.ansberry@wsj.com