Hikers Found Hidden Tunnel in a Cave Led to Abandoned 17 Skeletons of Teenagers Missing Since 1970s
In March 2018, two college students exploring a remote Georgia forest stumbled upon a cave entrance that had been sealed for decades.
Inside, they found a tunnel that led to something no one expected.
17 bodies that had been waiting in darkness for nearly 40 years.
But what made this discovery even more heartbreaking were the letters found clutched in their hands.
Messages to families that were never sent, written by young adults who were all exactly 18 years old when they died, full of hope for a future that would never come.
This is that story.
Eddie Reed had been planning this spring break hiking trip for months.
March 15th, 2018.
Thursday, the first day of spring break.
Eddie was 21 years old, a junior at Georgia State University studying environmental science.
He’d spent the entire semester in Atlanta studying, working part-time at a coffee shop, dreaming about getting back into the mountains.
His best friend, James Maurice, was with him.
James was 22, a senior majoring in geology.
They’d been hiking together since freshman year, always looking for new trails, always exploring areas most people avoided.
They’d driven 3 hours north to the Chattahuchi National Forest, remote area, few marked trails, exactly what they wanted.
By noon, they were 5 mi from the nearest road.
The forest was thick here.
old growth trees, dense underbrush, the kind of place where you could walk 20 ft off the trail and disappear completely.
Eddie stopped to check his GPS.
They were heading toward a ridge he’d marked on the map weeks ago.
A spot where the topography suggested interesting rock formations.
“How much further?” James asked, adjusting his backpack.” Maybe half a mile,” Eddie said.
The ridge should be just past that next rise.
They kept walking.
The terrain got steeper.
They scrambled over fallen trees, pushed through thick vegetation.
This was what Eddie loved, being somewhere most people would never go.
Then James stopped.
Eddie, look at that.
Eddie followed his gaze.
About 30 ft uphill, there was an opening in the rock face.
Not natural, too regular, too intentional.
They climbed toward it.
As they got closer, Eddie could see it clearly.
a cave entrance, but it had been sealed at some point.
The front was partially collapsed.
Recent, judging by the fresh dirt and broken rocks.
Rock slide, James said, examining the debris.
Looks like it happened within the last few months, probably from all that rain we had in January.
The slide had opened a gap about 3 ft wide, big enough to squeeze through.
Eddie pulled out his flashlight, shined it into the opening.
The beam disappeared into darkness.
“Want to check it out?” Eddie asked.
James grinned.
“Obviously,” Eddie went first.
He had to turn sideways to fit through the gap.
Once inside, the cave opened up.
He stood up, shined his light around.
The cave was bigger than he expected, maybe 15 ft across.
But something was wrong.
The walls weren’t natural.
They were too smooth, too regular.
James, look at this.
Eddie called back.
James squeezed through the gap, pulled out his own flashlight.
What the hell? The walls were brick.
Old brick covered in dirt and moss, but definitely man-made.
This isn’t a natural cave, James said, running his hand along the wall.
This is a tunnel.
Someone built this.
They moved deeper.
The tunnel sloped downward.
After about 50 ft, it turned left, then right.
The air got colder, damper.
Eddie could hear water dripping somewhere ahead.
After another 100 ft, the tunnel ended at a door, not a cave entrance.
An actual door, heavy iron, rusted.
But what chilled Eddie to the bone was the lock.
It was on their side, the tunnel side.
A heavy sliding bolt rusted into the locked position.
Whoever was on the other side hadn’t been kept out.
They had been locked in.
Eddie and James stood there in silence.
Eddie’s flashlight beam stayed fixed on that bolt on the rust.
On the way, the metal had seized in the locked position.
Someone had wanted this to stay shut forever.
Should we? Eddie’s voice came out quieter than he intended.
James didn’t answer right away.
He was staring at the door.
at the bolt.
Eddie could hear his friends breathing faster now, shallow.
There’s a reason it’s locked from this side.
James finally said, “I know.
” Neither of them moved.
Eddie’s hand went to the bolt.
His fingers hovered over the rusted metal.
Every instinct was screaming at him to leave, to walk away, to pretend they’d never found this place, but they’d come this far.
“Okay,” Eddie said, more to himself than to James.
Okay.
He grabbed the bolt, pushed.
It didn’t move.
The rust had welded it in place.
He picked up a rock from the tunnel floor, started hammering.
The sound echoed down the tunnel.
Too loud.
Wrong.
James moved beside him.
Added his weight.
Together, they pounded at the bolt.
Metal screeched.
Eddie’s hands were shaking now.
He couldn’t tell if it was from the effort or from something else.
Finally, the bolt slid back.
Eddie’s hand went to the door.
He pushed.
The hinges screamed as the door swung inward.
The smell hit first before Eddie’s flashlight beam even found anything.
Not decay, something else.
Stale chemical, like breathing in dust that used to be alive.
His stomach turned.
Then the light caught something white.
Eddie’s brain tried to make it make sense.
Rocks? No.
Too smooth.
two curved a skull.
His flashlight jerked away reflexively, the beams swinging wild across the walls.
His heart was hammering against his ribs.
Eddie.
James grabbed his wrist.
Don’t move the light so fast.
I can’t see, but Eddie couldn’t control it.
His hand was shaking too badly.
The beam caught another skeleton and another.
They were everywhere.
“Oh god,” Eddie whispered.
“Oh god! Oh god! How many? He couldn’t count.
Couldn’t process what he was seeing.
Bones scattered across the concrete floor.
Rib cages, skulls, femurss.
Some complete, some broken apart.
All roughly the same size.
Young adults dead for a long time.
We need to leave.
James’s voice had gone high and tight.
Eddie, we need to get out of here right now.
But Eddie’s light had found something else.
pieces of paper yellowed, scattered among the bones like fallen leaves.
Wallets, jewelry, scraps of clothing that had rotted away to almost nothing.
One letter was still folded, tucked against what used to be someone’s hand.
Someone had been writing.
When they died, they’d been writing home.
Eddie’s stomach lurched violently.
He turned and vomited against the wall.
The sound echoed in the small space.
He heaved again.
Nothing coming up but Bile.
Eddie.
James was pulling at his arm now.
Come on.
Come on.
We have to go.
Eddie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Tried to breathe.
The air tasted wrong.
Felt wrong in his lungs.
He let James pull him backward.
Out of the room, away from the bones, away from the letters.
They ran back through the tunnel.
Eddie’s flashlight beam bounced wildly off the brick walls.
His boots slipped on the damp floor, but he kept moving.
Had to keep moving.
Had to get out through the twists and turns past the cave entrance into daylight.
Eddie bent over, hands on his knees, gasping.
The fresh air felt like a slap.
Too bright, too clean, too normal for what they’d just seen.
James was beside him, breathing hard.
Neither of them spoke.
Eddie’s hands were still shaking as he pulled out his phone.
had to try twice to unlock it.
No signal.
He held it up, moved around.
Finally, one bar appeared.
He dialed 911.
The phone rang.
Once, twice.
Eddie stared at his hand.
The same hand that had touched that bolt, that had pushed open that door.
911.
What’s your emergency? Eddie opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
His throat had closed up.
Sir, are you there? Bodies.
Eddie managed.
His voice didn’t sound like his own.
We found there are bodies, human, multiple.
I don’t There are so many.
Sir, I need you to slow down and tell me where you are.
Chattahuchi.
The forest.
There’s a cave and a tunnel in a room and they He was talking too fast.
Couldn’t stop.
Couldn’t slow down.
Someone locked them in.
There’s a door.
It was bolted from the outside.
They couldn’t get out.
And there are letters.
They were holding letters when they James took the phone from his hand.
Eddie hadn’t even realized he’d started crying.
Ma’am, this is James Maurice.
We’re in the Chattahuchi National Forest.
His voice was steadier than Eddie’s, but Eddie could hear the tremor underneath.
We found human remains, skeletal, multiple sets, at least 10, maybe more, in what looks like a basement room at the end of a tunnel system.
James read off the GPS coordinates from his phone.
Eddie could only hear pieces of the conversation.
Words like secure the scene and don’t go back inside and units are being dispatched.
When James hung up, they sat down on a fallen log.
Neither spoke.
Eddie’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He clasped them together, squeezed hard, but they still trembled.
All he could see when he closed his eyes was that room.
Those bones.
That letter folded against someone’s hand.
They died trying to write home.
Eddie.
James’s voice was quiet.
You okay? No.
Eddie shook his head.
No, I’m not okay.
Yeah, me neither.
They sat there in silence waiting for the police.
Eddie counted his breaths, tried to focus on something, anything other than what was in that room.
But every time he blinked, he saw it again.
The bones, the letters, the bolt on the outside of the door.
Someone had locked them in, had walked away, had left them there to die.
25 minutes felt like hours.
Finally, they heard voices, footsteps crashing through the underbrush.
Four sheriff’s deputies arrived, breathing hard from the climb.
“You the ones who called?” the lead deputy asked.
“Yes, sir,” James said.
Eddie couldn’t make his voice work yet.
Inside, through the cave, there’s a tunnel.
James stood up.
It leads to a room.
The bodies are in there, and there are letters, documents, personal items.
The deputy looked at his colleagues, called for backup, CSI, medical examiner.
Then he turned back to them.
Show me.
Eddie stood on shaking legs, led them back through the cave, through the tunnel, back to that iron door.
The deputy shined his flashlight inside.
Eddie watched his face change.
Watched 15 years of police training try to hold against whatever was happening behind the man’s eyes.
The deputy backed out fast.
Too fast.
His boot caught on the door frame and he barely caught himself.
Jesus Christ, he whispered.
It came out like a prayer.
He said it again, quieter, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just seen.
He fumbled for his radio.
had to try twice to key the mic because his thumb kept slipping.
Dispatch, this is Deputy Carson confirming multiple sets of human remains.
Skeletal appears to be adults.
We need GBI here immediately.
This is a major crime scene.
His voice was professional, but Eddie could hear the shake underneath and tell them to bring evidence collection.
There are documents and personal items with the remains.
Over the next hour, more people arrived.
detectives, crime scene investigators, a forensic anthropologist.
They set up lights in the tunnel.
Generators hummed, cameras flashed.
Eddie and James were escorted back to the cave entrance, told to wait, given bottles of water neither of them could drink.
A deputy took notes while they answered preliminary questions.
Betty’s answers came out flat, mechanical, like someone else was speaking through him.
Then a woman approached.
mid-40s, short brown hair, professional clothes that looked out of place in the forest.
She had a badge clipped to her belt.
I’m Detective Sharon Mills, Georgia Bureau of Investigation.
She said, “You’re Eddie Reed and James Maurice?” “Yes, ma’am.
” Eddie said, “I need you to walk me through exactly what happened.
Start from when you entered the forest this morning.
” Eddie told her everything.
the hike, finding the cave, the tunnel, the locked door, the room full of bones, the letters.
His voice stayed steady, but his hands were still shaking.
He kept them in his lap where she couldn’t see.
Mills took notes the entire time.
When Eddie finished, she looked up.
You mentioned letters, documents.
Yes.
Pieces of paper, some folded, some crumpled.
They were scattered among the remains like the people had been holding them when they died.
Mills’s expression changed, became more intense.
Did you read any of them? No, we didn’t touch anything.
We just we saw them and left.
That was smart.
Those letters might tell us who these people were, what happened to them.
She closed her notebook.
Okay, we’re going to need formal statements from both of you.
But for now, I want you to understand something.
What you found in there is going to be a major investigation.
It’s going to take time, weeks, maybe months.
You’re going to be questioned multiple times.
Your names are going to be in the press.
Are you prepared for that? Eddie and James looked at each other.
They just come hiking.
Now they were witnesses in what looked like a mass murder case.
We’ll do whatever you need,” Eddie said.
“Good.
For now, go back to wherever you’re staying.
Write down everything you remember about today.
Every detail, times, observations, anything.
Email it to me.
” She handed Eddie a business card and don’t talk to the press.
“Not yet.
We need to notify families first.
” Eddie and James hiked back to their car.
The forest was crawling with police now.
Vehicles everywhere.
Yellow tape going up.
Helicopters overhead.
They drove to the motel where they were staying.
Neither of them spoke.
What was there to say? Eddie parked.
Turned off the engine.
They sat in the car staring at the motel door.
We should probably eat something.
James finally said.
Neither of them moved.
Eddie looked at his hands.
They were dirty, covered in cave dust and rust from that bolt.
He needed to wash them.
needed to scrub until they were clean.
Eddie, what? One of them was by the door.
Did you see that? Like they were trying to get out.
Don’t.
Eddie’s throat tightened.
I can’t think about that right now, but it was too late.
He could see it.
The skeleton curled up against the iron door.
The wallet nearby.
The letter tucked in a crack in the wall.
They died trying to escape.
Died knowing no one was coming.
Eddie got out of the car, walked to their room.
James followed.
Inside, Eddie went straight to the bathroom, turned on the water, started scrubbing his hands.
The soap was too cold, the water too hot, but he kept scrubbing.
James sat on the other bed, staring at nothing.
Still wearing his hiking boots, still holding his phone.
Eddie washed his hands three times.
Four.
His skin was turning red, but he couldn’t stop.
couldn’t get them clean enough.
Eddie.
James’ voice from the other room.
You need to stop.
Eddie looked at his hands.
Raw, burning.
He shut off the water.
He came back into the room, sat on his bed.
They stayed like that.
Two college students who’d gone hiking and found 17 bodies, neither knowing what to say.
That night, Eddie couldn’t sleep.
He kept seeing those bones, those letters.
Young adults left in a dark room for decades with messages they tried to send home.
Who were they? How did they die? Why were they hidden in a basement accessible only through a cave? And who were the letters written to? Eddie grabbed his laptop.
He pulled up satellite images of the area where they’d been hiking.
Zoomed in, followed the ridge, tried to figure out where the tunnel would have led.
There about 200 yd from the cave entrance there was a clearing and in that clearing the remains of a structure mostly overgrown but visible from above.
Eddie zoomed in closer.
The foundation was still there.
The footprint of a building rectangular, large, multiple sections.
He opened a new tab.
Started searching.
Abandoned buildings.
Chattahuchi National Forest.
historical structures, North Georgia mountains, institutions closed 1980s.
Nothing specific, just general tourist information.
He tried a different approach.
He pulled up county property records, found the coordinates for the area, searched for historical ownership.
There a property listing from 1965.
The Oak Creek Rehabilitation Center, State of Georgia, Department of Human Services, 120 acres.
Eddie clicked through to the property history.
The state had contracted the land from 1955 through 1982.
Then it was sold to the National Forest Service.
The buildings were demolished in 1983.
Oak Creek Rehabilitation Center, a state-run mental health facility.
Eddie searched for more information, found a few scattered references.
A mention in a 1960s newspaper article about state programs providing job training and addiction treatment in North Georgia.
A photograph from 1970 showing a large brick building with the state seal on the sign, but nothing after 1982.
The facility just disappeared from the records.
Eddie closed his laptop.
A facility that closed 36 years ago.
17 skeletons in a basement room, letters clutched in dead hands, a tunnel leading to a cave that had been sealed until a few months ago.
He had a bad feeling he knew what they’d found.
3 days later, Detective Mills called Eddie.
Mr.
Reed, I wanted to update you on the investigation.
We’ve completed the initial examination of the remains.
Doctor Helen Carter, our forensic anthropologist, has some preliminary findings.
What did she find? Eddie asked.
17 sets of skeletal remains, all young adults.
Based on bone development and dental analysis, all of them were approximately 18 years old at the time of death.
All show signs of having been there for approximately 40 to 50 years.
17.
All 18 years old.
Can you identify them? Eddie asked.
We’re working on it.
Dr.
Carter is using dental records and DNA when possible.
But here’s what makes this case unusual.
We found letters with almost every set of remains.
Personal letters.
Some were addressed.
Some had names.
We’re using those to help with identification.
What did the letters say? Mills was quiet for a moment.
They’re heartbreaking.
Mr.
Reed.
These were young people writing to their families telling them they were getting better, that they’d be home soon, that they were hopeful about the future.
And none of those letters were ever sent.
They died holding messages to loved ones who never received them.
Eddie felt a lump in his throat.
That’s awful.
It gets worse.
The building above that basement was the Oak Creek Rehabilitation Center.
It operated from 1955 through 1982 as a state contracted facility for young adults.
Specifically, it served people aging out of the foster care system, 18year-olds who had nowhere else to go.
So, these were young adults who just aged out of foster care.
Yes, they turned 18.
Foster care ended.
They had no family support.
Many had mental health issues or were struggling to find work.
Oak Creek promised treatment, job training, a fresh start.
Instead, they were killed and hidden in a basement.
Eddie closed his eyes.
18-year-olds, barely adults, trying to get help, trying to start over, and they walked into a death trap.
Do you know how they died? Several of the skeletons show evidence of trauma, healed fractures consistent with repeated physical abuse, malnutrition.
The cause of death for each individual is hard to determine after this long, but this wasn’t natural.
These young people didn’t just die, they were killed.
Who ran the facility? a woman named director Margaret Collins.
She was the head administrator from opening in 1955 until it closed in 1982.
She died in 1995.
The maintenance supervisor was a man named Mr.
Vincent Kelly.
He died in 2001.
The facility was supervised by Commissioner Thomas Brennan from the State Department of Human Services.
He died in 2011.
So, everyone who worked there is dead.
The key figures, yes, we’re trying to locate former residents and staff who might still be alive, but it’s been 36 years since the facility closed.
Most people who were adults then are in their 70s and 80s now.
Some have died.
Some we can’t locate.
What happens now? Now, we identify every victim.
We notify their families.
We read those letters to find out who these young people were.
and we figure out exactly what happened at Oak Creek Rehabilitation Center between 1968 and 1979.
Eddie hung up.
He sat in his motel room and thought about those letters.
18-year-olds writing home, full of hope, full of plans, and they died before anyone could read what they’d written.
Over the next 3 weeks, Dr.
Helen Carter worked 18-hour days in her lab.
She examined every skeleton, measured every bone, photographed every detail, collected DNA samples, sent them to labs across the country for analysis.
But what consumed most of her time were the letters, 17 letters, some were complete, some were fragments.
All of them were heartbreaking.
She handled each one with gloves, photographed them, transcribed them carefully.
Each letter was a window into a young life cut short.
The first letter she transcribed was found near the skeleton closest to the door.
The handwriting was neat.
Practiced.
The paper was yellowed but still legible.
Dear mom, I know you’re worried about me, but I’m doing okay here.
The counselors are helping me.
I’m learning to deal with my anger in better ways.
Director Collins says I’m making good progress.
I should be ready to come home by Christmas.
I miss you.
I miss Marcus and Tasha.
Tell them their big brother is getting better.
I’m going to make you proud.
I promise.
Love, James.
The letter was dated May 1968.
The signature matched the name on a wallet found nearby.
James Washington, born May 1950.
He’d turned 18 just weeks before writing this letter.
Dr.
Carter cross referenced dental records, confirmed the identification.
James Washington, 18 years old, died June 1968, approximately one month after writing that letter to his mother.
His mother never received it.
She never knew he’d been making progress.
She never knew he missed his siblings.
She never knew he planned to come home for Christmas.
The next letter was folded carefully, tucked into what remained of a jacket pocket.
The handwriting was feminine, looping, emotional.
Dear Caroline, I’m so happy you got adopted.
You deserve a good family.
Don’t worry about me.
I’m okay here.
The doctors are helping me with my depression.
I’m learning to be happy again.
And guess what? You’re going to be an aunt.
I heard you’re pregnant.
I can’t wait to meet my niece or nephew.
I’m going to spoil them so much.
Tell them Aunt Teresa loves them already.
I’ll visit when I get out.
Maybe for Christmas.
I’m getting better every day.
I miss you so much.
Love forever, Teresa.
The letter was dated March 1971.
The name Teresa Brooks was written on an ID card found nearby.
Dr.
Carter did the math.
Teresa’s sister Caroline had been pregnant in March 1971.
If the baby was born in late 1971, that child would be 47 years old now.
Teresa had written to tell her unborn niece or nephew that she loved them, that she couldn’t wait to meet them, that she was going to spoil them, and she died in June 1971, 3 months after writing the letter.
2 months before the baby was born, that niece or nephew never knew Aunt Teresa existed.
Never knew there was someone who loved them before they were even born.
Dr.
Carter had to stop working for a few minutes.
She went outside, breathed fresh air, tried not to cry.
But there were 15 more letters to transcribe.
15 more young lives to document.
15 more families who never got to read their loved ones final words.
Letter after letter.
Each one hopeful.
Each one planning for a future that never came.
Dear dad, I’m doing better.
The addiction counseling is helping.
I’m 90 days sober.
Mrs.
Collins says, “If I keep improving, I can leave by summer.
I’m going to get a job.
I’m going to make you proud of me.
I know I messed up before, but this time is different.
I promise.
” Your son, David.
Dear Gloria, I’m sorry I worried you.
I’m okay.
They’re helping me here.
I’m learning job skills.
I might be able to get work as a mechanic when I leave.
I’m going to get better and come home and make everything right.
Tell mom I love her.
I love you, too.
Your brother, David.
Dear Martin, I know you think I should have stayed with you, but I needed help.
The people here understand.
They’re teaching me to deal with my problems.
Don’t worry about me.
I’m going to be fine.
When I get out, we’ll go fishing like we used to.
I miss you, big brother.
Love, Larry.
One letter was barely legible, water damaged, crumpled, as if someone had been crying while writing it.
Mom, I’m scared.
Something’s not right here.
Please come get me.
Please, I want to come home.
I don’t care if I don’t have anywhere to go.
I’ll figure it out.
Just please come get me.
I love you, James.
That letter was dated June 1968.
Written in the same handwriting as the hopeful letter from May.
James Washington had written two letters, one full of hope, one full of fear.
Neither was ever sent.
Dr.
Carter compiled all 17 letters into a report.
She sent it to Detective Mills.
She sent copies to the families as soon as they were identified, and she kept copies for herself because these letters needed to be preserved.
These young voices needed to be heard.
even 40 years too late.
Detective Mills began the process of notifying families.
This was the part of the job she hated most.
But this time it was different.
This time it was personal.
She started with Gloria Matthews.
She was 70 years old now.
Lived in Mon, Georgia.
She’d been searching for her brother David for 46 years.
Mills knocked on the door.
An elderly woman answered.
small gray hair, sharp eyes that had seen too much pain.
Miss Matthews, I’m Detective Sharon Mills with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.
May I come in? Gloria’s face went pale.
She knew.
After 46 years of waiting, she knew this wasn’t a social call.
You found David, she said.
It wasn’t a question.
Yes, ma’am.
I’m so sorry.
May I come in? They sat in Gloria’s living room.
Mills told her everything.
The cave, the tunnel, the basement room, the 17 bodies, the identification through dental records, Gloria cried.
46 years of wondering, 46 years of hoping.
And now she knew.
David hadn’t run away.
He hadn’t abandoned her.
He’d been murdered at 18 and hidden in a basement.
How did he die? Gloria asked through tears.
We don’t know exactly, but several of the remains show evidence of trauma.
We believe the young adults were killed over a period of years between 1968 and 1979.
Who killed them? We’re still investigating, but the facility was run by director Margaret Collins.
She died in 1995.
We believe she was responsible.
She’s dead, so there’s no justice, no trial.
Mills looked down.
I’m sorry.
Everyone who worked at the facility during that time period is deceased.
Director Collins, the maintenance supervisor, Mr.
Kelly, even the state commissioner who oversaw it, Thomas Brennan.
They’re all gone.
We can’t prosecute anyone.
Gloria put her face in her hands.
46 years I waited.
46 years I told people my brother didn’t run away, that something bad happened to him, and everyone told me to move on, to accept that he left.
And now I find out I was right.
And the people who did this are dead.
They got away with it.
Mills reached into her bag.
Miss Matthews, there’s something else.
We found letters with your brother’s remains.
He’d written them before he died.
I’d like to read them to you if you’re ready.
One is addressed to you and one to your father.
Gloria looked up, tears streaming down her face.
A letter? David wrote me a letter.
And dad.
She shook her head.
Dad passed away in 1980.
He never stopped looking either.
I’m sorry, Mills said gently.
But David was thinking of both of you.
Mills pulled out the photocopied letters.
She read the first one aloud.
Dear dad, I’m doing better.
The addiction counseling is helping.
I’m 90 days sober.
Mrs.
Collins says if I keep improving, I can leave by summer.
I’m going to get a job.
I’m going to make you proud of me.
I know I messed up before, but this time is different.
I promise.
Your son, David, Gloria sobbed.
He was getting better.
He was sober.
He was doing everything right.
Yes, ma’am.
And here’s the letter he wrote to you.
Dear Gloria, I’m sorry I worried you.
I’m okay.
They’re helping me here.
I’m learning job skills.
I might be able to get work as a mechanic when I leave.
I’m going to get better and come home and make everything right.
Tell mom I love her.
I love you, too.
Your brother, David, Gloria reached for the copies.
Held them like they were the most precious things in the world.
He wanted to come home.
He was planning his future.
He was going to be a mechanic.
Yes, ma’am.
Why didn’t he send these? Why did he keep them? We found the letters near the bodies.
We believe Director Collins confiscated all outgoing mail.
The residents thought they were sending letters home, but the letters never left the facility.
They were kept as evidence or perhaps as punishment.
We don’t know.
Gloria stared at the letters.
I have another letter from David from right before he went to Oak Creek.
He wrote it in October 1972.
He said he was scared but hopeful that he was finally getting help.
I kept that letter for 46 years.
I read it whenever I missed him.
I thought it was the last thing he ever wrote to me, but it wasn’t.
He wrote two more and I never knew.
I’m so sorry, Miss Matthews.
Can I keep these copies? Yes, they’re yours.
Gloria held the letters against her chest, still crying.
But there was something else in her expression now.
Not just grief, something like relief, something like peace.
He didn’t abandon me.
she whispered.
He was trying to come home.
He was getting better.
He wanted to make me proud.
Yes, ma’am, he did.
Thank you for bringing me these.
Thank you for letting me know the truth, even if it took 46 years.
Mills visited 14 more families over the next 2 weeks.
Each notification was heartbreaking.
Each family received letters they’d never known existed.
Each family learned that their loved one had been thinking of them, writing to them, planning to come home.
Reverend Isaiah Brooks was 65.
His sister Teresa had disappeared from the facility in 1971 when he was 18.
He’d been told she was transferred to another facility.
He’d spent 47 years trying to find her.
Mills read him Theresa’s letter.
The one about being excited to be an aunt.
The one about visiting for Christmas.
The one about getting better everyday.
She died in June 1971, Mills said gently.
3 months after writing this letter.
Your sister Caroline was pregnant at the time.
Yes, Isaiah said his voice was thick with emotion.
Caroline died young in 1985.
She had a daughter, Lisa.
She was born in September 1971.
Lisa would be 47 years old now.
Does Lisa know about Teresa? No.
Caroline never talked about Teresa.
It was too painful.
My mother told us not to mention Teresa around Caroline, so we didn’t.
Lisa grew up not knowing she had an aunt who died before she was born.
This letter suggests Teresa was very excited about becoming an aunt.
Isaiah read the letter again.
Tears fell onto the paper.
She wanted to meet Lisa.
She wanted to spoil her.
and she died 2 months before Lisa was born.
Lisa never knew someone loved her before she even existed.
I think Lisa deserves to know.
Mills said, “This letter is proof that your sister cared, that she was hopeful, that she was planning for the future.
Does Lisa have to know how Teresa died? Can we just tell her about the letter?” Mr.
Brooks, the case is public now.
It’s going to be in the news.
Lisa is going to find out one way or another.
Better that she hears it from family and better that she knows about this letter.
It shows that even in the worst circumstances, your sister was thinking about the future, about family, about love.
Isaiah nodded slowly.
I’ll tell her.
I’ll give her the letter.
Teresa deserves to be remembered.
And Lisa deserves to know she had an aunt who already loved her.
Martin Evans was 68.
His little brother, Larry, disappeared in 1974 when Larry was 18.
Martin had been told Larry was discharged from the facility and moved away.
He’d spent 44 years wondering why Larry never contacted him.
Mills read him Larry’s letter.
The one about being scared.
The one about wanting help.
The one about going fishing again.
When she finished, Martin buried his face in his hands.
“I knew something was wrong,” he said.
Larry called me a week before he disappeared.
He said he was scared.
He said something wasn’t right at the facility.
And you know what I told him? Mills waited.
I told him to tough it out.
I told him he needed the treatment.
I told him not to quit when things got hard.
And that was the last time I spoke to him.
Martin looked up.
His face was anguished.
For 44 years, I’ve felt guilty.
I thought Larry left because I wasn’t supportive enough.
I thought if I’d been a better brother, he would have stayed.
He would have gotten better.
But he didn’t leave, did he? He died.
And his last memory of me is me telling him to tough it out when he was begging for help.
Mr.
Evans, you couldn’t have known.
I should have listened.
I should have gone to get him.
I should have trusted my instincts.
He was scared.
And I told him to deal with it.
What kind of brother does that? Mills didn’t have an answer because the truth was Martin was going to carry this guilt for the rest of his life.
Nothing she could say would change that.
Mr.
Evans, your brother wrote that he wanted to go fishing with you again.
That means he loved you.
He wasn’t angry at you.
He was looking forward to seeing you again, but he never did because I didn’t come get him when he asked.
You didn’t know.
You thought he was safe.
You thought the facility was helping him.
You made the best decision you could with the information you had.
But Martin was already gone.
Lost in 44 years of guilt and grief that had just been confirmed.
His worst fear was true.
Larry had needed help, had asked for help, and Martin hadn’t come.
One by one, families learned the truth.
And one by one, they read the letters their loved ones had written.
letters full of hope, full of love, full of plans for a future that never came.
Each letter made the tragedy more real, more personal, more unbearable.
These weren’t just victims.
They were children writing home.
Young adults planning their lives.
People who believed they were getting better, who believed they were going somewhere, and they’d died before anyone could read what they’d written.
While Detective Mills was notifying families, Dr.
Dr.
Raymond Foster was researching the history of Oak Creek Rehabilitation Center.
Dr.
Foster was 59 years old, a historian at Georgia State University.
He specialized in the history of state institutions in the American South.
He’d studied hospitals, reform schools, and rehabilitation facilities for 30 years.
He started with the state archives.
The current administration was cooperative.
They gave him access to all records related to Oak Creek.
Oak Creek had opened in 1955.
It was built to serve young adults aging out of the foster care system, 18-year-olds who had mental health issues or addiction problems, young people who had nowhere else to go.
The facility promised treatment, counseling, job training, and housing.
It was supposed to be a fresh start, a bridge between childhood and independent adulthood.
Instead, it became a death trap.
The facility could house up to 50 patients at a time.
It had a counseling center, a workshop for job training, dormitories, a cafeteria.
It was isolated, 30 mi from the nearest town, surrounded by national forest.
Margaret Collins had been appointed director in 1955.
She was 38 years old then, a civil servant who had previously managed a state supply depot.
She had no training in mental health treatment, no education in psychology or social work, just a reputation for cutting costs and maintaining strict discipline.
Vincent Kelly was hired as the maintenance supervisor in 1960.
He was 30 years old.
He handled repairs, groundskeeping, security.
The records described him as efficient.
Later testimonies from former employees described him as brutal.
Commissioner Thomas Brennan from the Department of Human Services was assigned to supervise Oak Creek in 1965.
He visited once a month, reviewed reports, conducted inspections.
According to his records, everything was always satisfactory.
Dr.
Foster found something interesting in the financial records.
Starting in 1968, Oak Creek began receiving federal and state funding for each patient in their care.
The amount varied, but it averaged about $450 per month per patient.
The records showed the facility maintained an average population of 40 to 45 patients throughout the 1970s.
That meant the facility was receiving roughly $20,000 per month in government payments, a significant sum for that time.
Dr.
Foster cross referenced this with the list of 17 victims.
He checked the dates of death against the financial records.
James Washington died in June 1968, but the financial record showed Oak Creek continued receiving payments for James Washington until August 1995, 27 years after his death.
Terresa Brooks died in June 1971.
The record showed payments continued until December 1994, 23 years after her death.
David Matthews died in November 1972.
Payments continued until October 1995.
23 years.
Dr.
Foster checked every victim.
The pattern was the same.
Each young adult had died, but the facility continued reporting them as active patients, continued receiving government payments for them for years, sometimes decades after they were dead.
He calculated the total approximately $1.
8 $8 million in fraudulent payments between 1968 and 1995.
But that wasn’t all.
Dr.
Foster found something even more disturbing.
The facility had officially closed in 1982.
The building was sold to the National Forest Service in 1983.
The remaining patients were transferred to other facilities, but the financial records showed something different.
Payments for the 17 deceased patients didn’t stop in 1982.
They continued, “Director Collins had filed paperwork claiming the patients had been transferred to specialized care homes.
She provided addresses, names of private institutions, but when Dr.
Foster checked, none of those institutions existed.
The addresses were fake.
The transfers never happened.
The payments were redirected to post office boxes, all controlled by Margaret Collins.
James Washington, who died in 1968, had payments directed to Director Collins until August 1995, 27 years after his death.
The fraud didn’t stop when the facility closed.
It continued for another 13 years until Margaret Collins died in 1995.
Only then did the payments finally stop.
Dr.
Foster calculated the total fraud from 1968 when the first patient died until 1995 when Collins died.
Approximately $2.
1 million had been stolen.
Government money meant for the treatment of vulnerable young adults.
Instead, it went into Margaret Collins bank accounts and she used that money.
Well, Dr.
Foster found property records.
Collins had purchased three vacation homes between 1975 and 1990.
One in Florida, one in North Carolina, one in Virginia, all paid for in cash.
While families mourned their missing children, Margaret Collins was vacationing in beach houses bought with stolen money.
Dr.
Foster compiled his findings into a report.
He sent it to Detective Mills.
He sent it to the FBI.
He sent it to the governor’s office.
This wasn’t just murder.
This was systematic financial fraud on a massive scale.
This was profiting from the deaths of vulnerable young people.
When Detective Mills received Dr.
Foster’s report, she forwarded it to the FBI’s white collar crime division.
They assigned an agent named Dr.
Lisa Brooks to investigate the financial aspect.
Dr.
Lisa Brooks was 47 years old.
She’d been with the FBI for 20 years.
She specialized in tracking financial fraud, following money trails, uncovering embezzlement schemes.
She’d seen a lot of terrible things in her career.
But this case was different.
This wasn’t just stealing money.
This was profiting from murdered young adults.
Lisa started with Margaret Collins bank records.
It took weeks to get the necessary court orders.
The banks had to search archives for accounts that had been closed decades ago, but eventually the records came through.
Collins had maintained three personal bank accounts between 1968 and 1995.
The deposits matched exactly with the fraudulent government payments.
Every month, like clockwork, money flowed in.
Lisa traced every transaction, every deposit, every withdrawal.
She built a complete financial profile of Margaret Collins.
The woman had lived well, very well.
Beach houses, luxury cars, international travel, all funded by stolen money meant for dead patients.
When Collins died in 1995, her estate was worth approximately $1.
8 million.
All of it built on stolen government payments.
All of it derived from murdered young adults.
Her will left everything to her sister’s family in Florida.
They’d had no idea where the money came from.
They thought their aunt was just good at saving.
Lisa compiled her findings.
She was preparing to send the report to Detective Mills when something caught her eye.
One of the victims was named Terresa Brooks.
Lisa’s mother’s maiden name was Brooks.
Her mother had died when Lisa was 12.
Lisa had been raised by her grandmother.
Her grandmother had died when Lisa was 25.
Lisa knew very little about her mother’s family, but she remembered something.
Her grandmother used to mention a sister, her mother’s younger sister, who went away in the early 1970s.
The family never talked about what happened.
It was like she’d been erased.
Lisa pulled up Theresa Brooks file.
Born May 1956 in Atlanta.
Wait, that didn’t match.
The file said Teresa died in 1971.
But if she was born in 1956, that would make her only 15 in 1971.
The report said all victims were 18.
Lisa checked the original intake form scanned into the file.
The typewritten date on the index card was smudged.
She looked closer.
It wasn’t a six.
It was a three.
Teresa’s birthday was May 3rd, 1953.
She had turned 18 in May 1971.
She entered Oak Creek in March 1971, just 2 months before her birthday.
She died in June 1971, just weeks after becoming a legal adult.
The name Caroline Brooks was listed as next of kin Caroline.
That was Lisa’s mother’s name.
Lisa’s hands started shaking.
She pulled up the full case file, found a photograph of Terresa Brooks from her facility intake in March 1971.
A 17-year-old woman, black, thin, sad eyes.
Lisa had seen that face before in old family photos.
Teresa looked exactly like Lisa’s mother.
Same eyes, same face shape, same expression.
Teresa Brooks was Lisa’s aunt, the sister her grandmother never talked about.
The family member who went away, and Lisa had been investigating her murder without knowing.
But there was more.
Lisa found the transcribed letters in the case file.
She read Teresa’s letter.
Dear Caroline, I’m so happy you got adopted.
You deserve a good family.
Don’t worry about me.
I’m okay here.
The doctors are helping me with my depression.
I’m learning to be happy again.
And guess what? You’re going to be an aunt.
I heard you’re pregnant.
I can’t wait to meet my niece or nephew.
I’m going to spoil them so much.
Tell them Aunt Teresa loves them already.
I’ll visit when I get out.
Maybe for Christmas.
I’m getting better every day.
I miss you so much.
Love forever, Teresa.
The letter was dated March 1971.
Lisa’s mother had been pregnant in March 1971.
Lisa had been born in September 1971.
Teresa had written this letter to her unborn niece.
To Lisa, before Lisa was born, tell them Aunt Teresa loves them already.
Lisa read the words over and over.
Her aunt had loved her before she was born.
had been excited to meet her, had planned to spoil her, had been getting better so she could be part of Lisa’s life.
And she died in June 1971, 3 months before Lisa was born.
Her mother never told her.
Her grandmother never told her.
They’d erased Teresa from the family history.
And now Lisa was reading her aunt’s final words.
Words written to her, words that had been waiting 47 years to be delivered.
Lisa sat in her FBI office and cried.
She’d been tracking financial fraud, following money trails, treating this like any other case.
And the whole time, one of the victims was writing to her, saying she loved her, saying she couldn’t wait to meet her.
Lisa called Detective Mills.
Detective Mills, this is Dr.
Lisa Brooks from the FBI.
I have the financial fraud report ready, but I need to tell you something.
One of the victims, Teresa Brooks, she’s my aunt and she wrote a letter to me.
Before I was born, there was a long pause.
Your aunt? Yes.
My mother’s younger sister.
I never knew what happened to her.
My family never talked about it.
I just learned the truth today.
And I read her letter.
She was excited to be my aunt.
She wanted to meet me.
She died 3 months before I was born and I never knew she existed.
Dr.
Brooks, I’m so sorry.
Do you want to step away from this case? We can assign someone else to handle the financial investigation.
Lisa wiped her eyes.
No, I want to finish it.
Teresa deserves justice.
They all do.
I’m going to make sure everyone knows exactly what happened, exactly how much money was stolen.
I’m going to expose every detail.
And I’m going to make sure my aunt is remembered, not just as a victim, but as someone who loved her family, who was hopeful, who wanted to be part of my life.
Are you sure? I’m sure.
This is personal now, and I’m going to make sure Margaret Collins name is destroyed.
She murdered my aunt.
She stole government money in my aunt’s name for 24 years.
My aunt wanted to spoil me.
Instead, Collins bought beach houses with money stolen in my aunt’s name.
I’m going to make sure the whole world knows what she did.
Lisa finished her report.
But now it wasn’t just a report.
It was a mission.
She included every detail, every stolen payment, every fake transfer, every fraudulent claim.
She documented how Collins had collected roughly $450 per month for each deceased patient, how the payments continued long after the facility closed, how the money was invested and grew into a nearly $2 million estate.
She calculated that Terresa Brook’s death had generated approximately $130,000 in fraudulent payments over 24 years.
Lisa’s aunt had been worth $130,000 to Director Collins.
The thought made Lisa sick, but it also made her angry.
Angry enough to keep working.
Angry enough to make sure the truth came out.
She added a personal note to her report, something she’d never done before.
Terresa Brooks was my aunt.
She died at age 18 in June 1971.
She left behind a letter expressing her excitement about becoming an aunt.
She wanted to meet me, to spoil me, to be part of my life.
Instead, she was murdered and Margaret Collins profited from her death for 24 years.
This report is dedicated to Terresa Brooks and the 16 other young adults whose lives were stolen.
They deserved better.
They deserved justice and they deserve to be remembered.
When Detective Mills received Lisa’s report, she knew this case was about to explode.
She called a press conference, invited every major news outlet in Georgia, set it up at GBI headquarters in Atlanta.
On April 20th, 2018, Mills stood in front of 40 reporters and cameras.
5 weeks ago, two college students discovered 17 sets of human remains in a cave in the Chattahuchi National Forest.
Those remains have now been identified as patients of Oak Creek Rehabilitation Center, a state contracted mental health facility that operated from 1955 through 1982.
She paused.
Let that sink in.
All 17 victims were 18 years old at the time of death.
All had recently aged out of the foster care system.
All were seeking treatment for mental health issues or addiction.
They died between 1968 and 1979.
Their deaths were covered up with false reports claiming they had been discharged or transferred.
No investigations were conducted.
No searches were initiated.
Their bodies were hidden in a basement room accessible only through a tunnel system that led to a cave.
We have now determined that the facility director, Margaret Collins, systematically murdered these young adults over an 11-year period.
She then filed false reports and continued to collect government payments for these deceased patients.
In some cases, payments continued for more than 20 years after the patients death.
The total fraud exceeds $2.
1 million.
Margaret Collins died in 1995.
Vincent Kelly, the maintenance supervisor who helped conceal the crimes, died in 2001.
Commissioner Thomas Brennan, who supervised the facility and received kickbacks from the stolen funds, died in 2011.
Because all perpetrators are deceased, no criminal charges can be filed.
Mills paused, took a breath.
But I want to share something else.
We found letters with the remains.
Final letters written by these young adults to their families.
Letters that were never sent.
Letters full of hope and love and plans for the future.
She held up photocopies of several letters.
James Washington wrote to his mother.
I’m learning to deal with my anger in better ways.
I should be ready to come home by Christmas.
I’m going to make you proud.
Terresa Brooks wrote to her sister.
I can’t wait to meet my niece or nephew.
I’m going to spoil them so much.
Tell them Teresa loves them already.
David Matthews wrote to his sister.
I’m going to get better and come home and make everything right.
These young people were hopeful.
They were working on themselves.
They believed they had a future and someone took that from them.
Someone murdered them and hid them and profited from their deaths for decades.
Mills look directly into the cameras.
The families are being given these letters.
Messages from loved ones they thought were lost forever.
Words written 40 years ago that are finally being delivered.
We cannot bring these young people back.
We cannot prosecute the people who killed them.
But we can make sure they are remembered.
We can make sure their names are spoken.
We can make sure the world knows what happened to them.
The press conference erupted.
Reporters shouted questions.
Mills answered what she could.
Then she introduced Dr.
Helen Carter who provided medical details.
Then Dr.
Raymond Foster who explained the financial fraud.
Finally, Mills introduced Dr.
Lisa Brooks.
Dr.
Brooks is an FBI agent who investigated the financial fraud in this case.
She has also informed us that one of the victims, Teresa Brooks, was her aunt.
And Teresa left a letter, a letter to her unborn niece, to Dr.
Brooks, written 47 years ago.
The room went silent.
Lisa stepped to the microphone.
She was holding a piece of paper.
Teresa’s letter.
My aunt Teresa was 18 years old when she died in June 1971.
I was born in September 1971.
I never knew she existed.
My family never talked about her.
My mother died when I was 12 without ever telling me I had an aunt.
Her voice was steady, but her hands shook.
Two weeks ago, I learned the truth.
Not just that my aunt was murdered, but that she left a letter.
A letter to me before I was born.
Lisa read from the letter.
And guess what? You’re going to be an aunt.
I heard you’re pregnant.
I can’t wait to meet my niece or nephew.
I’m going to spoil them so much.
Tell them aunt Teresa loves them already.
Lisa looked up, tears streaming down her face.
I am that niece.
Teresa was excited to meet me.
She already loved me.
She wanted to spoil me.
And she died 3 months before I was born.
I grew up not knowing I had an aunt who was waiting for me, who wanted to be part of my life.
Margaret Collins murdered my aunt.
Then she stole government money in my aunt’s name for 24 years.
$130,000.
That’s what my aunt’s death was worth to her.
But my aunt’s life was worth more than that.
My aunt was someone who loved her family, who was working on herself, who believed she had a future, who wanted to meet her niece and spoil her.
I’m releasing the full financial report to the press.
Every payment, every transaction, every dollar.
I want the world to know exactly what Margaret Collins did.
I want her name to be synonymous with evil.
and I want every family member of the other 16 victims to know that I fought for their loved ones the same way I fought for my aunt.
Lisa stepped away from the microphone.
She was shaking, but she felt lighter.
The truth was out.
Teresa’s story was told, and Teresa’s letter would be read by millions.
The press conference ended.
The story went viral within hours.
State facility hid 17 murdered young adults for decades.
Director embezzled 2 million while victims families received letters 40 years late.
FBI agent discovers murder victim was her aunt who wrote letter before agent was born.
The story was everywhere.
CNN, NBC, Fox News, the New York Times, the Washington Post.
International outlets picked it up.
The letters were the focus.
News outlets read them on air.
Newspapers printed them.
People around the world cried reading the hopeful words of 18-year-olds who never got to grow old.
The governor’s office issued a statement that evening.
We are horrified by the revelations about Oak Creek Rehabilitation Center.
The actions of Director Margaret Collins, Supervisor Vincent Kelly, and Commissioner Thomas Brennan represent a complete betrayal of the state’s duty to protect vulnerable people.
We extend our deepest apologies to the families of the 17 victims.
We are committed to full transparency and accountability.
But the statement wasn’t enough.
Public outrage was immediate and intense.
People weren’t just angry about the murders.
They were devastated by the letters.
By the realization that these young people had been hopeful, had been planning futures, had been working on themselves, and someone had stolen all of that.
The fact that they were all exactly 18 years old made it worse.
They’d just aged out of foster care.
They’d just become legal adults.
They’d been at the most vulnerable moment of their lives.
And instead of getting help, they’d been murdered.
Protests erupted outside state buildings across Georgia.
Calls for investigations into all state-run institutions.
Demands for compensation for the families.
And in the middle of this storm were Eddie Reed and James Maurice, the two college students who just wanted to go hiking.
Eddie’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
reporters, documentary producers, podcast hosts.
Everyone wanted to interview the people who found the bodies and the letters.
Eddie ignored most of them, but he did agree to one interview with a reporter from the Atlanta Journal Constitution named Jennifer Harris.
Jennifer was 42.
She’d been an investigative journalist for 20 years.
But this story was different.
This wasn’t just about crime.
It was about stolen futures, about hope destroyed, about love that arrived 40 years too late.
She met Eddie at a coffee shop near Georgia State campus.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk,” Jennifer said.
“I know you’ve been getting a lot of requests.
” “Yeah,” Eddie said.
“It’s been overwhelming.
James and I just wanted to hike.
We didn’t expect any of this.
Walk me through what happened that day,” Eddie told her.
the ridge, the rock slide, the cave entrance, the tunnel, the locked door, the basement room full of bones, and the letters.
What went through your mind when you saw the letters that someone had been trying to communicate? That these weren’t just anonymous victims.
These were people who had families, who were writing home, who had things to say, and no one ever read what they wrote.
Have you read all the letters? Detective Mills showed me some of them.
They’re heartbreaking.
These young people were hopeful.
They believed they were getting better.
They believed they had futures.
And they died before anyone could read what they’d written.
What do you think should happen now? The families deserve to have those letters.
Those are the last words from their loved ones.
And everyone deserves to know what happened.
These 17 young people matter.
Their words matter.
Their lives mattered.
And the world needs to know that.
The article ran on April 25th.
It was comprehensive.
It included interviews with Eddie, Detective Mills, Dr.
Foster, Dr.
Lisa Brooks, and three family members.
It included excerpts from the letters.
It detailed the murders, the fraud, the cover up.
But what made the article go viral were the letters.
Jennifer had received permission from the families to publish them.
All 17 letters in full.
People around the world read James Washington’s letter about making his mother proud.
Terresa Brook’s letter about being excited to be an aunt.
David Matthews letter about coming home and making things right.
Larry Evans letter about going fishing with his brother.
Letter after letter, hope after hope, future after future, all stolen.
The article was shared millions of times.
It prompted two congressional hearings about oversight of mental health facilities.
It led to new laws in Georgia requiring independent inspections of all residential treatment centers.
But for the families, none of that mattered as much as the letters.
Those precious final words, those messages from loved ones who’d been lost for 40 years.
While the story dominated the news, local officials were scrambling.
Sheriff Walter Kemp was 63 years old.
He’d been sheriff of the county where Oak Creek once stood for 20 years.
He was up for reelection in November.
This scandal was bad for his campaign.
He called Detective Mills.
Detective, we need to talk about the media coverage.
What about it, Sheriff? It’s excessive.
We need to dial it back.
Stop releasing those letters to the press.
The families gave permission.
Those letters belong to them.
They have the right to share them.
It’s sensationalist.
It’s turning this into a spectacle.
And frankly, it’s interfering with my county’s operations.
It’s showing the world who these young people were.
It’s making them real.
That’s important.
It’s making my job harder.
People are demanding answers, demanding accountability, demanding I explain why this happened in my county.
Maybe you should explain it, Sheriff.
Why did this happen? Why did 17 young adults disappear and no one investigated? Why did families report their loved ones missing and nothing was done? That was 40 years ago.
Different sheriffs, different systems, but you’re the one in charge now.
And you’re trying to suppress the story instead of supporting the families.
That’s not going to look good.
Detective Mills, I’m strongly advising you to cease all media contact regarding this case.
It’s creating a public order issue.
You can’t order me to do that.
I work for GBI, not the county.
Then I’ll speak to your supervisor about jurisdiction and proper procedure.
Mills hung up.
2 hours later, her supervisor called Sharon.
The sheriff called he’s not happy.
I know.
He wants me to stop talking to the press to stop releasing the letters.
He claims it’s a public order issue and and I told him the families have the right to share their loved ones words.
This is their story to tell.
Her supervisor side, I agree, but try to be diplomatic.
We still have to work with local law enforcement, even if they’re feeling the heat, noted.
But Mills wasn’t going to be quiet.
Neither were the families.
Neither was Eddie.
When Eddie heard that Sheriff Kemp was trying to suppress coverage, he posted about it on social media.
Sheriff Kemp is trying to shut down coverage of the Oak Creek investigation.
He wants the letters to stop being published.
Why? Because it’s an election year.
Because he doesn’t want people asking hard questions.
But 17 young adults wrote letters to their families.
Letters full of hope and love.
Those letters deserve to be read.
Those voices deserve to be heard.
Sheriff Kemp doesn’t get to silence them.
The post went viral.
Thousands of shares.
Local news picked it up.
National news picked it up.
Sheriff Kemp’s office was flooded with calls.
People demanding answers.
People demanding he stop interfering.
People demanding he resign.
3 days later, Kemp gave a press conference.
The investigation into Oak Creek Rehabilitation Center is ongoing.
We are committed to full transparency.
Rumors that I attempted to suppress information are false.
I have supported this investigation from day one and will continue to do so, but the damage was done.
Kemp’s poll numbers dropped.
In November, he lost his re-election by 23 points.
While Sheriff Kemp was trying to control the story, the State Department of Human Services was conducting its own internal investigation.
Katherine Brennan was 58 years old.
She worked as an internal auditor for the department.
She’d been with the state for 30 years.
She was also Commissioner Thomas Brennan’s niece.
When the scandal broke, Catherine was horrified.
Her uncle had supervised Oak Creek.
He’d received kickbacks.
He’d covered up the abuse.
He’d ignored parents’ letters, begging for help.
He’d known young people were dying and did nothing.
Catherine had loved her uncle.
He’d died in 2011.
She’d spoken at his funeral.
She’d called him a good man, a dedicated public servant.
Now she was learning the truth, and it was destroying her.
She requested access to Commissioner Brennan’s archived files.
The department initially refused, but Catherine threatened to resign to go to the press to tell them the state was hiding evidence.
They gave her the files.
Catherine spent 3 days reading letters, reports, correspondence, all of it written by her uncle between 1965 and 1982.
She found letters from parents, desperate letters, begging Commissioner Brennan to check on their children, expressing concern about the facility, asking for help.
One letter was from Sarah Washington, James Washington’s mother, dated May 1968.
Dear Commissioner Brennan, I received a letter from my son James last month.
He said he was doing well and would be home for Christmas, but it’s been 5 weeks and I haven’t heard from him again.
I’ve called the facility several times, but no one will let me speak to him.
They say he’s in intensive treatment and can’t be disturbed.
Please, Commissioner, can you check on him? I’m worried.
He always writes me every week.
Something feels wrong.
Please help.
Sarah Washington.
Commissioner Brennan’s response was attached.
Dated June 1968.
Dear Mrs.
Washington, I visited Oak Creek last week and spoke with Director Collins about your son.
She assures me James is receiving excellent care and making good progress.
The intensive treatment program limits outside contact to help patients focus on recovery.
This is normal and nothing to be concerned about.
I encourage you to be patient.
Your son is in good hands.
Sincerely, Commissioner Thomas Brennan.
Catherine checked the victim list.
James Washington had died in June 1968, probably within days of Brennan writing that letter, possibly even before.
Her uncle had lied to a grieving mother, had told her not to worry, had assured her that her son was in good hands.
While her son was either already dead or dying, Catherine found more letters like this.
Parents begging for help, Brennan telling them not to worry, assuring them their children were fine and those children were dead.
She found financial records showing Brennan received 10% of the government payments for each patient at Oak Creek, approximately $3,000 per month, $150,000 over 17 years.
Her uncle had been paid to look the other way.
Paid to ignore desperate parents.
Paid to lie.
Catherine made copies of everything.
Then she called Jennifer Harris at the Atlanta Journal Constitution.
Miss Harris, this is Catherine Brennan.
I work for the Department of Human Services.
I have documents you need to see.
They met that evening.
Catherine handed over the files.
All of them.
These are my uncle’s records.
Commissioner Thomas Brennan.
He supervised Oak Creek.
He knew what was happening.
He ignored parents begging for help.
He was paid to stay silent.
I want the world to know what he did.
This is going to destroy your uncle’s reputation.
Good.
He doesn’t deserve a reputation.
He deserves to be remembered as the man who let young people die while their parents begged him for help.
Jennifer’s article ran 2 days later.
State official ignored desperate parents while young adults died at facility he supervised.
The story included copies of the parents’ letters.
Sarah Washington’s letter begging Commissioner Brennan to check on James.
Brennan’s response assuring her James was fine.
The revelation that James had died around the time Brennan wrote that letter.
The article included financial records showing Brennan’s kickbacks, $150,000, payment for silence, payment for lies.
The governor issued another apology.
But it was clear the state had lost control of the narrative.
The government wasn’t just guilty of negligence.
They’d actively ignored desperate families.
They’d lied to grieving parents.
They’d profited from murdered young adults.
Public pressure intensified.
Protests outside the governor’s mansion, calls for criminal investigations into the Department of Human Services, lawsuits from the families.
On May 15th, 2018, the governor of Georgia gave a press conference.
On behalf of the state of Georgia, I offer our deepest apologies to the families of the 17 victims of Oak Creek Rehabilitation Center.
The actions of Director Collins, Supervisor Kelly, and Commissioner Brennan were unconscionable.
They betrayed their oaths.
They betrayed the young people in their care.
They betrayed the families who trusted us.
Effective immediately, the state is establishing a $5 million compensation fund for the families.
We are also creating annual scholarships in the names of all 17 victims.
We are publishing all 17 letters in a memorial book that will be distributed to every high school in Georgia.
And we are implementing new oversight procedures for all state institutions.
We cannot undo the past, but we can commit to ensuring nothing like this ever happens again.
We can honor these 17 young people by speaking their names, by sharing their words, by making sure they are never forgotten.
The announcement didn’t satisfy everyone.
Some families felt 5 million wasn’t enough.
Some felt no amount of money could compensate for 40 years of lies.
But it was acknowledgment.
It was the state admitting failure.
It was a step toward accountability.
And the promise to publish the letters in a memorial book meant something.
It meant these young people’s final words would be preserved, would be read by future generations, would live on.
While the legal and financial settlements were being negotiated, the families were focused on something else, bringing their loved ones home.
All 17 sets of remains were released by the medical examiner in June 2018.
Each family had to decide what to do.
Some chose individual burials in family plots.
Some chose cremation, but many families wanted something different.
They wanted to bury their loved ones together.
As a memorial, as a reminder of what happened, as a way to honor the letters that had connected them all, Reverend Isaiah Brooks organized the effort.
He reached out to all 17 families, proposed a joint memorial service and burial site.
These young people suffered together, he said.
They wrote letters together, they died together.
Let them rest together.
and let their letters be carved in stone.
Let their words live forever.
15 of the 17 families agreed.
The remaining two chose private family burials, which everyone respected.
The memorial was planned for October 7th, 2019, 18 months after Eddie and James found the cave.
The site chosen was the former location of Oak Creek Rehabilitation Center.
The National Forest Service agreed to set aside 2 acres for a memorial cemetery.
The land would be maintained in perpetuity as a remembrance site.
The memorial was designed by a black architect from Atlanta.
It featured a central monument surrounded by 15 individual grave markers, each with a name, dates, and an excerpt from their letter engraved on it.
The central monument was 10 ft tall.
Black granite, gold lettering at the top, in memory of the stolen.
Oak Creek Rehabilitation Center, 1968 to 1979.
Below that, all 17 names with ages.
James Washington, age 18.
June 1968, Terresa Brooks, age 18.
June 1971, David Matthews, age 18.
November 1972, Lawrence Evans, age 18.
October 1974, and 13 more names, each one 18 years old, each one a future stolen.
At the bottom, forever 18, their words live on.
Each individual grave marker had the person’s name and their final message of hope engraved on it.
The families had decided that they would not let their loved ones be remembered by their final moments of fear, but by the hope they held in their hearts.
October 7th, 2019.
More than 700 people gathered at the memorial site.
family members, former residents of Oak Creek who’d survived, community activists, religious leaders from multiple faiths, politicians, press students from Eddie and James’s University.
Eddie Reed and James Maurice were there.
They’d been invited to sit with the families up front.
This time they accepted.
The service began with a prayer from Reverend Isaiah Brooks.
We gather today to honor 17 souls who were stolen from their families, who were hidden in darkness, who wrote letters full of hope that were never sent.
Today we deliver those letters.
Today we speak their names.
Today we read their words.
Today we promise they will never be forgotten again.
One by one, family members came forward to speak about their loved ones.
And one by one, they read the letters aloud.
Gloria Matthews spoke about her brother David.
David was 18.
He had just aged out of foster care.
He wanted to be a mechanic.
He wanted to make me proud.
She pulled out the letter.
Her hands shook as she read, “Dear Gloria, I’m sorry I worried you.
I’m okay.
They’re helping me here.
I’m learning job skills.
I might be able to get work as a mechanic when I leave.
I’m going to get better and come home and make everything right.
Tell mom I love her.
I love you, too.
Your brother, David, Gloria’s voice broke.
He wanted to come home.
He was planning his future.
He was trying to make things right.
And someone took that from him.
But his words are here now, carved in stone forever.
Martin Evans spoke about his brother, Larry.
Larry was 18, my little brother.
He called me a week before he died.
He said he was scared.
He asked me to come get him and I told him to tough it out.
For 44 years, I’ve carried that guilt.
For 44 years, I’ve wished I’d listened.
He pulled out the letter.
Tears streamed down his face as he read, “Dear Martin, I know you think I should have stayed with you, but I needed help.
The people here understand.
They’re teaching me to deal with my problems.
Don’t worry about me.
I’m going to be fine.
When I get out, we’ll go fishing like we used to.
I miss you, big brother.
Love, Larry.
Martin looked up.
He wasn’t angry at me.
He still wanted to go fishing with me.
He still called me big brother.
And I’ll spend the rest of my life wishing I’d come to get him when he asked.
Dr.
Lisa Brooks spoke about her aunt Teresa.
I never knew my aunt.
She died 3 months before I was born.
But I know her now because she left a letter.
A letter to me.
Lisa pulled out the letter.
The one she’d been carrying for 18 months.
The one she’d read a thousand times.
Dear Caroline, I’m so happy you got adopted.
You deserve a good family.
Don’t worry about me.
I’m okay here.
The doctors are helping me with my depression.
I’m learning to be happy again.
And guess what? You’re going to be an aunt.
I heard you’re pregnant.
I can’t wait to meet my niece or nephew.
I’m going to spoil them so much.
Tell them Aunt Teresa loves them already.
I’ll visit when I get out.
Maybe for Christmas.
I’m getting better everyday.
I miss you so much.
Love forever Teresa.
Lisa looked at the crowd.
I am that niece.
Teresa was excited to meet me.
She already loved me.
She wanted to spoil me.
and she died before I was born.
I grew up not knowing I had an aunt who was waiting for me.
But I know now and her words are here.
And I’m going to make sure everyone knows that Teresa Brooks loved her family, that she was hopeful, that she believed in the future, that she mattered.
The speeches continued.
15 families, 15 letters read aloud, each one hopeful, each one loving, each one heartbreaking.
When the families finished speaking, Reverend Brooks returned to the podium.
These 17 young people wrote letters full of hope.
They believed they were getting better.
They believed they had futures.
They were wrong.
Someone took that from them.
Someone murdered them and hid them and lied about them for 40 years.
Margaret Collins is dead.
Vincent Kelly is dead.
Thomas Brennan is dead.
We cannot prosecute them.
We cannot put them in prison.
We cannot make them face the families and explain why they did this.
But we can do something else.
We can make sure these 17 young people are remembered not as victims, not as statistics, but as people who had hopes and dreams and loved their families.
Their letters are carved in stone.
Anyone who visits this memorial will read their words, will hear their voices, will know who they were,” he gestured to the monument.
“To the 15 grave markers, to the letters carved in granite, Director Collins tried to erase these young people.
She failed.
Their names are here.
Their words are here.
They will outlast her memory.
They will outlast all of us.
Stolen but not forgotten.
Forever 18.
Their words live on.
The service ended with the burial.
15 caskets were lowered into the ground simultaneously.
Each family member placed a white rose on their loved ones grave.
On top of the letters carved in stone.
When it was over, people walked among the grave markers.
Reading the letters, touching the names, crying.
Eddie and James walked with them, reading each letter.
each message from an 18-year-old who never got to grow old.
Gloria Matthews approached them.
“Thank you for finding David,” she said.
“Thank you for finding his letter.
I spent 46 years not knowing what happened.
Now I know and I have his words.
” “That’s everything.
I’m sorry it took so long,” Eddie said.
“You gave him back to me.
You gave all of them back to their families.
That’s a gift.
” She hugged them both.
Then she walked back to David’s grave to read his letter again, to tell him she loved him, to promise she’d visit every year.
Eddie looked at the central monument.
At the 17 names, at the words forever 18, their words live on.
He thought about that day in March when he and James found the cave.
How they just wanted to explore.
How they’d stumbled onto something that changed everything.
17 young people who’d been hidden for 40 years.
17 families who’d waited decades for answers.
17 letters that had finally been delivered.
It wasn’t justice in the traditional sense.
Collins was dead.
Kelly was dead.
Brennan was dead.
No one would go to prison.
No one would stand trial.
But the truth was out.
The victims were named.
Their words were preserved.
The families had closure.
And maybe that was enough.
Eddie and James stayed until everyone else had left, until the sun started setting.
Until it was just them and the monuments and the letters carved in stone.
You think we did the right thing? James asked.
Going in that cave? Yeah, Eddie said.
If we hadn’t, they’d still be in that basement, still forgotten, still hidden.
Their letters would never have been read.
Now they’re home.
Now their families know they were loved.
Now their words will live forever.
Collins got away with it.
She got away with not going to prison.
But she didn’t get away with it.
Everyone knows what she did.
Her name is destroyed.
And these kids have their names back, their words back, their dignity back.
That’s something.
They walked back to their car.
As they drove away, Eddie looked in the rearview mirror.
The memorial was getting smaller, but he could still see the central monument.
still see the gold lettering catching the last rays of sunlight.
Forever 18.
Their words live on.
That was the promise.
That was the mission.
That was what Eddie and James had helped make possible.
Two years later, Eddie graduated from Georgia State with a degree in environmental science.
He went on to graduate school, started working for the National Park Service, became a park ranger.
Every October 7th, he visited the memorial, placed flowers on the graves, read the letters carved in stone, made sure the site was clean and well-maintained.
James graduated 6 months after Eddie got a job with the US Geological Survey, moved to Colorado, but he visited the memorial, too.
Every year, always in October.
Dr.
Lisa Brooks continued working for the FBI, but she also established a foundation in her aunt’s name, the Terresa Brooks Foundation for young adults aging out of foster care.
It provided support, resources, and oversight for transition programs.
Gloria Matthews lived three more years after the memorial service.
She died in 2022 at age 74.
She was buried next to her brother, David.
her headstone read.
Finally, together again, Reverend Isaiah Brooks continued his ministry.
He spoke frequently about Oak Creek, about the importance of protecting vulnerable young adults, about the power of words, about the letters that had waited 40 years to be delivered.
He became a voice for reform, a voice for accountability.
The state of Georgia followed through on its commitments.
The $5 million settlement was distributed.
The scholarships were established.
The memorial book containing all 17 letters was published and distributed to every high school in Georgia.
The governor signed the Oak Creek Act into law in 20120.
It mandated strict independent oversight of all state contracted care facilities and increased funding for transition programs for youth aging out of foster care.
The memorial site became a destination.
School groups visited, reading the letters, learning about the 17 young people who’d been stolen, understanding what happens when systems fail to protect the vulnerable.
The National Park Service installed informationational signs.
They explained the history of Oak Creek, the murders, the fraud, the cover up, the discovery.
They didn’t sugarcoat anything.
They told the truth.
And carved into the monuments visible to everyone who visited were 17 letters, 17 voices, 17 messages of hope from young people who never got to grow old.
Each letter was a life, a family, a dream cut short.
Each letter was a reminder that words matter, that hope matters, that even in death, these young people could still speak.
Margaret Collins died believing she’d gotten away with it.
She died with nearly $2 million in the bank.
She died thinking her secrets were safe.
She was wrong.
Her name is now synonymous with bureaucratic evil.
Her crimes are documented in books, articles, documentaries.
Her legacy is shame.
The young people she murdered are remembered as voices, as writers, as people who loved their families and believed in the future.
Their letters are carved in stone.
Their words will outlast any memory of the woman who killed them.
On March 15th, 2024, 6 years after the discovery, Eddie returned to the cave entrance where it all began.
The National Park Service had sealed it permanently, filled it with concrete, marked it with a plaque.
This cave system, discovered in March 2018 by Eddie Reed and James Maurice, led to the revelation of 17 murdered young adults from Oak Creek Rehabilitation Center.
The victims, hidden from 1968 to 1979, left behind letters to their families that were never sent.
Those letters have now been delivered.
This site serves as a reminder of the power of words, the importance of hope, and the need to protect vulnerable young people.
Eddie stood there for a long time thinking about that day, about what he and James had found, about the 17 letters that had been waiting in the dark.
They weren’t waiting anymore.
They were read.
They were honored.
They were carved in stone.
And that, Eddie thought, was the only justice possible.
When the killers were dead, the truth had won.
The victims had won.
Their words would live forever.
Forever 18.
But their voices eternal.
Stolen but not forgotten.
Their words living on.
That was the promise.
That was the reality.
17 young people had been murdered, but 17 letters were now immortal.
And Margaret Collins, the woman who tried to erase them from history, had instead ensured they would never be forgotten.