Hikers Found Hidden Tunnel in a Cave — Led to 17 Skeletons of Teenagers Missing Since the 1970s

March 2018. Deep in the remote forests of northern Georgia, two college students stumbled upon a secret that had slept in darkness for nearly forty years—a secret that would shake the state, the nation, and the families who’d spent decades searching for answers.

Eddie Reed and James Maurice, friends and avid hikers from Georgia State University, had set out to explore the wild ridges of Chattahoochee National Forest. What began as a spring break adventure soon turned into a discovery that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.

The Discovery

After hours of hiking off-trail, Eddie and James found a cave entrance, partially revealed by a recent rockslide. What looked like a natural cavern quickly became something else—a tunnel, its walls lined with old bricks, sloping down into the earth. At the end, a heavy iron door stood bolted from their side, sealed for decades.

With trembling hands, the students broke open the rusted lock and pushed the door inward. The air was thick and stale, but the true horror lay within: scattered across the concrete floor were the skeletons of seventeen young people, each clutching yellowed letters, wallets, scraps of clothing. Each letter was a desperate message—hopeful words to families that never arrived.

The Victims

Forensic analysis revealed the truth: all seventeen were exactly eighteen years old at the time of death. They had vanished between 1968 and 1979—teenagers who had just aged out of foster care, sent to Oak Creek Rehabilitation Center, a state-run facility promising help, hope, and a path to adulthood. Instead, they were murdered, locked away, and hidden in a sealed basement room, accessible only through a tunnel that led to a cave.

Their letters—heartbreaking, hopeful, and full of plans—were never sent. Some wrote about getting better, about coming home for Christmas, about becoming an aunt or a mechanic, about making their families proud. Some wrote of fear, begging to be rescued, sensing that something was terribly wrong.

The Cover-Up

The investigation uncovered a monstrous fraud. Oak Creek’s director, Margaret Collins, and her staff continued to report these teenagers as active patients for years after their deaths, collecting government payments—over $2 million in total. The facility closed in 1982, but the fraud continued until Collins’ death in 1995. The state supervisor, Commissioner Brennan, received kickbacks and ignored desperate pleas from families, assuring them their children were “in good hands” while they lay dead in the darkness.

No one was ever prosecuted. Collins, Kelly (the maintenance supervisor), and Brennan had all died before the truth came out.

The Letters

Each family received the letters their loved ones had written decades earlier—final words of hope, apology, love. For some, it was a bittersweet closure; for others, it reopened wounds that had never healed. Dr. Lisa Brooks, the FBI agent who investigated the financial fraud, discovered that one of the victims, Teresa Brooks, was her own aunt. Teresa had written a letter to Lisa’s mother, excited to become an aunt, promising to spoil the child who would become Lisa. Teresa died three months before Lisa was born, her love and hope preserved in a letter never read until now.

Public Outrage and Memorial

The revelations sparked outrage. Protests erupted, demanding accountability and reform. The governor apologized, established a compensation fund, and promised memorial scholarships. The families chose to bury their loved ones together at the site of Oak Creek, with a monument engraved with their names and excerpts from their letters—words of hope, now carved in stone.

Every October, families, survivors, and supporters gather at the memorial. They read the letters aloud. They speak the names that were once hidden. They remember the futures stolen—but also the hope that endures.

Legacy

The Oak Creek tragedy led to new laws, stricter oversight, and a memorial book of the letters distributed to every high school in Georgia. The cave was sealed, marked with a plaque honoring the victims and the hikers who found them.

Eddie Reed became a park ranger, visiting the memorial every year. James Maurice moved to Colorado but returned for the annual service. Dr. Brooks established a foundation for foster youth in her aunt’s name. The families found a measure of peace, knowing their loved ones’ words would live on.

Forever 18. Their words live on.

What began as a hike ended as a mission—a promise that these young people, stolen but not forgotten, would be remembered not just as victims, but as voices of hope, love, and courage. Their letters, once lost in darkness, now shine for the world to see.

And the woman who tried to erase them from history, Margaret Collins, is remembered not for her crimes, but for failing to silence the hope of seventeen young souls.

If you visit the memorial, take a moment to read the letters. Let their words remind you: even in the darkest places, hope survives. Even in silence, voices endure. And even in death, love can be delivered, no matter how late.