For more than twenty years, no one knew what had happened to them. It was one of the town’s biggest mysteries. Then the awful truth came out. People in the community assumed they knew each other’s secrets. Mill Creek, Oregon, was a tranquil place. The sawmills made a faint noise during the day, and the high school football field was far away. But in the summer of 1995, the town’s rhythm changed. Rachel Holloway, Emily Carter, Jessica Morales, and Dana Whitmore were four females who came into the last days of their junior year with a secret that was heavier than their books. They were all going to have babies.
The
In a community where gossip spread faster than the mail, rumors circulated swiftly. Teachers scowled, people in church muttered, and males who used to fight for their attention now turned away. The girls held on to each other tightly, making a weak circle of support. In the diner booth, they spoke to each other and left their milkshakes untouched while they made preliminary plans for futures they hadn’t selected.
They
There were many theories going around in Mill Creek for weeks. Some people indicated they would flee to avoid disgrace. Others speculated about harsher things that could happen, like kidnapping or worse. Search teams went through forests and rivers, and dogs smelled through fields, while helicopters looked down from above. Nothing. As summer moved into October, posters of them with brilliant eyes and big smiles faded from store windows.
The case got cold, and the community moved on like towns do. Parents concealed their sadness in everyday life, and peers graduated without them. But the murmurs didn’t stop. People who had lived through “The Vanished Girls of Mill Creek” relayed the story to younger kids as a warning. It was a disturbing recollection for those who had lived it.
In 1995, no one could have guessed that the truth—messy, sad, and human—would ultimately come to light twenty years later…
June 12, 2018, in Mill Creek, Oregon.
The first shovel hit something hard before the sun had even burned off the mist in the valley.
The construction crew was working on the new highway bypass, which went across the perimeter of the old train depot lot. No one had been there in decades. The depot had long since rotted away, and its wooden bones were falling apart beneath the weight of rain and moss.
When Foreman Dale Rourke heard metal hitting metal, he swore under his breath. He waved over a worker and mumbled, “Probably another damn oil drum.” The thing under the shovel wasn’t round, either. It was rectangular.
The object was a small, rectangular box. Corroded. Tightly closed.
It wasn’t much to look at; it was approximately the size of a shoebox, with rusted corners and a thin red ribbon still hanging from one hinge. Someone had taken care of it once. Someone had carefully buried it.
One of the younger workers said, “Looks like a time capsule,” half-jokingly. “You know, like kids used to do in school.”
Dale grunted. “Call it in.” This whole region is county property, and procedure says we have to report anything that is sealed.
The sheriff’s cruiser pulled up in a cloud of dust by lunchtime. Sheriff Colton Myers got out. He was the same guy who had led the first search in 1995, but the years had changed him, making his hair silver and his jaw softer. He looked at the box covered in mud for a long time before stating, in a low voice,
“Mark the site.” We start it at the station.
The box was under brilliant fluorescent light in the cool hum of the evidence room. Dale and two cops stood behind glass while Myers cut through the latch, which was rusty.
The lid made a noise as it opened.
There were four Polaroids inside, arranged nicely.
Each one featured Rachel, Emily, Jessica, and Dana sitting next to each other on a wooden bench. The picture was taken on July 18, 1995, three days after they went missing.
They appeared older than 17. I’m tired. Light. But still alive.
And in the blurry backdrop of the picture, there was something that made the sheriff’s stomach drop.
The shape of a sign.
White letters that read “Welcome to Mill Creek Church Camp” were peeling off the sign.
Myers said softly, “That camp has been closed since ’92…”
The deputy gave him a look. “You mean before they disappeared?”
Myers nodded slowly. As he reached for the last thing in the box, a folded piece of paper that was discolored with age, his hand shook.
In unsteady handwriting, it said:
“We did what we had to do. Please don’t dig. — R.”
As the sheriff drove home that night through the forested road into the mountains, he heard a voice crackle over the radio.
“Come back, Sheriff.” There is something else under the site.
Static took the rest, but Myers heard three words loud and clear over the noise:
