The second half of July 2005, not far from the suburban highway, in the middle of a dense forest, an abandoned camp was found.

Two backpacks, a pot with food scraps, a burnt-out fire pit, two pairs of boots by the tent.

The shoes were different ages.

The clothes were different sizes, and there was a notebook with the names Jason Hart and Noah Hart written in it.

The family confirmed that these were their son’s belongings.

Jason was 24.

Noah was 19.

They left home on their own, telling their parents that they were going to spend 3 days in the woods south of the city along an old logging route where their father had once shown them a stream for fishing.

Before leaving, they both went to the supermarket and bought canned meat, crackers, a new lighter, and three bottles of water.

They packed their bags at home, a light colored backpack and a dark one with resin stains that belonged to Noah.

They told their parents they would be back for dinner in 3 days.

The younger brother left his cell phone with a dead battery at home, saying there would be no signal anyway.

The older brother took only his camera.

They were last seen by their neighbors both walking with backpacks to the bus for the morning ride across the highway.

Their camp was found in the forest 100 meters from the road.

The forest was old and dense with a lot of windfall and raspberry bushes.

There was a pot with leftover porridge, mugs with half-drunk tea, and a burner.

There were traces of fresh bark on one of the logs by the fire and mud near the entrance to the tent.

There were no signs of a struggle.

Only the backpacks inside the tent were open, one torn near the zipper.

Their shoes were left nearby as if they had left in a hurry.

In the tent were two jackets, pillows, and a flashlight with dead batteries.

Everything was in place except for the knife with a dark handle that Noah often carried.

The trail led deeper into the forest to an old clearing.

There were two pairs of footprints in the wet clay running parallel, then suddenly veering off toward the bushes where they disappeared into the moss and roots.

Volunteers and search dogs combed the forest for two days.

Several times the dogs picked up a scent leading to a stream, then a sharp drop off.

The scent disappeared at the water’s edge, and there were no other traces in the vicinity.

Investigators searched the stream’s banks, checking the roadside and the undergrowth, but found no clothing, no belongings, and no signs of a struggle.

They questioned the neighbors at the Dacas.

No one had seen anyone leave or help the brothers.

Their parents said that they had never run away from home, had no conflicts with their family, and usually consulted with each other about everything.

Their mother had called the older one 12 times that day, but his phone was turned off.

Officers checked all the forest cabins within a 3 km radius.

Neither the owners nor the tenants knew about the disappearance, nor had they seen any strangers.

The police questioned rangers, local carpenters, sawmill workers, and checked the lists of criminals serving sentences in that part of the state, but no new information emerged.

The brother’s friend said that the route had been chosen spontaneously.

Jason found a map of the trail on a website and decided to take the old road through the forest and come out at the forers’s base.

None of their acquaintances recognized the area in the photos found on the camera.

The last photo showed a view of the river, a backpack on a rock, and a dark strip of trees in the distance.

As days turned into weeks, the parents still hoped that their sons had simply lost contact somewhere, perhaps hidden in the forest by a private hunter or had wandered too far.

While volunteers searched for clues, the father tried to walk through the old clearings himself, but only got lost for several hours.

Despite the summer heat, showers, and thunderstorms, the brother’s tent camp remained untouched.

Only the grass under the tent had withered and rotted, the pot had corroded, and the camera had gotten wet in the rain and stopped working.

By mid-autumn of 2012, 15 years after their last contact, their parents still kept their sons jackets and papers with their trip plans.

The forest in those places was becoming increasingly overgrown.

The former trails were covered with grass and bushes and private properties, and a sawmill warehouse had sprung up nearby.

But in mid July 2010, a middle-aged man, thin with short hair, stood on the doorstep of his parents’ house in the morning.

His face was disfigured by scars and fresh scratches.

He knew his parents’ names, cried, and asked for water.

It was the younger son, Noah Hart.

The family did not recognize him at first, but his fingerprints matched and his DNA left no doubt.

He spoke quietly, almost in a whisper.

He said, “I was kept in chains for 5 years.

Jason was killed.

I’ll show you where he was buried.” Noah was taken to the hospital immediately after he appeared at his parents’ house.

Doctors noted exhaustion, dehydration, multiple scars on his wrists and ankles, and marks from metal shackles.

There were old scars from blows on his back and signs of improperly healed fractures on his ribs.

He weighed 52 kg and was 176 cm tall.

His teeth were in poor condition.

Several had fallen out and his gums were inflamed.

His psychological state was assessed as critical.

Noah was afraid of loud noises, flinched when people approached him, and couldn’t sleep without the light on.

The investigator arrived at the hospital on the second day.

Noah agreed to talk, but asked that there be only one person in the room.

The conversation was recorded on a dictaphone.

Noah spoke slowly, paused, and sometimes closed his eyes.

He began with that day in the forest 5 years ago.

He and his brother set up camp around in the afternoon.

They chose a spot not far from a stream in a small clearing.

They pitched a tent, built a fire, and cooked food.

In the evening, they sat by the fire and talked.

Jason took pictures of the forest, and Noah wrote something in his notebook.

Around in the evening, they decided to go to sleep.

They took off their shoes at the entrance to the tent and lay down in their sleeping bags.

They woke up to a noise.

Someone was walking near the tent.

Heavy footsteps, the crackling of branches.

Jason looked outside and said he couldn’t see anyone.

But the sounds continued.

Then the tent was suddenly jerked and the zipper broke.

Noah saw a hand grabbed Jason by his jacket and drag him outside.

Jason screamed and tried to break free.

Noah jumped out after him, but was hit on the head with something heavy.

He fell and lost consciousness.

He woke up in the dark.

His hands were tied with rope.

His mouth was gagged with a rag.

He was lying on a metal floor, feeling vibrations and hearing the noise of an engine.

He realized he was being transported in a car.

Jason was lying next to him, also tied up.

His eyes were open.

He looked at Noah, tried to say something, but couldn’t.

They drove for a long time, maybe an hour or more.

Then the car stopped.

They were pulled out and dragged along the ground.

Noah could only see darkness and the silhouette of a tall man.

He was large with broad shoulders, but Noah couldn’t make out his face.

The man dragged them out one by one.

First Jason, then Noah.

The smell of earth, dampness, cold.

They went down some steps into some kind of underground room.

concrete walls, low ceiling, a single light bulb hanging from a wire.

They were chained to the wall.

The chains were attached to thick bolts embedded in the concrete.

Heavy rusty metal bracelets were on their wrists.

The chains were about 2 m long, so they could sit or lie down, but they couldn’t reach the door.

There was a bucket in the corner, nothing else.

The floor was cold, concrete.

The man said nothing.

He removed the rags from their mouths and untied their legs, but left their hands in handcuffs attached to the chains.

Then he left, locking the door behind him.

They were left alone.

Jason asked where they were.

Noah didn’t know.

They tried to shout for help, but no one answered.

The walls were thick, and the sound didn’t carry outside.

The man returned a few hours later.

He brought two plastic bottles of water and a piece of bread.

He put them on the floor, turned around, and left without saying a word.

Jason tried to talk to him, asked what he wanted.

The man didn’t answer, just slammed the door.

That’s how the first day passed.

Then the second, the third.

The man came once a day bringing water and food.

sometimes bread, sometimes canned food, which they ate with their hands because there were no spoons.

He never spoke.

Noah tried to remember his face, but the lighting was poor.

He was tall, maybe 2 m, short hair, dark clothes, work boots.

Age about 40 or 50.

Jason tried to free himself.

He pulled at the chains, tried to unscrew the bolts, but they were driven in deep.

He tried to break the lock on the bracelets, but the metal was thick.

After a week, Jason’s hands were covered with abrasions and bruises.

Noah tried too, but to no avail.

Time passed slowly.

There were no windows, so it was impossible to tell whether it was day or night.

They slept when they were tired and ate when food was brought to them.

They talked to keep themselves from going crazy.

Jason said that people would look for them, that their parents would not abandon them.

Noah believed him.

A month later, maybe more, Noah had lost count of the days, the man brought a bucket of water and a rag.

He gestured that they should wash themselves.

They took turns washing with cold water without soap.

The man took away the dirty bucket they had been using as a toilet and brought a clean one.

He left again without a word.

Jason began to weaken.

There was little food and little water.

He lost weight.

His skin became pale and dark circles appeared under his eyes.

Noah tried to give him part of his portion, but Jason refused.

He said that Noah was younger and needed his strength.

They argued about this every day.

Several months passed.

Noah didn’t know exactly how many, maybe three, maybe six.

One day, the man came in with a wrench in his hand.

It was large, heavy, and made of metal.

He looked at them silently, then put the wrench on the floor by the door and left.

Jason said it was a trap, that the man wanted to see if they would try to take the wrench and use it as a weapon.

The wrench lay there for 2 days.

Then the man came back, picked it up, and left without saying a word.

A year passed, maybe more.

Noah began to lose track of time.

The days merged into one gray blur.

Jason began to speak less and less.

Sometimes he would sit for hours staring at the wall, not answering any questions.

Noah tried to talk to him, distract him, remind him of home, his parents, his friends.

Sometimes it helped, sometimes it didn’t.

Once Jason tried to attack the man.

When he brought food, Jason jerked the chain sharply and tried to kick him.

The man recoiled and dropped the water bottle.

Then he left and returned with a wrench.

That same wrench.

He hit Jason on the head once hard.

Jason fell, blood running down his face.

Noah screamed and rushed to his brother, but the chain prevented him from reaching him.

The man stood over Jason, looking at him.

Then he hit him again and again.

Jason stopped moving.

Noah screamed and tugged at the chains, but there was nothing he could do.

The man threw away the wrench, wiped his hands on his pants, and left.

Jason was dead.

Noah sat next to him as far as the chain would allow, looking at his brother.

Blood spread across the floor, dark and thick.

Noah cried, calling Jason’s name, but there was no answer.

A few hours later, the man returned.

He opened the bracelet on Jason’s wrist and freed the body from the chain.

He dragged him to the door.

Noah asked what he was going to do.

The man did not answer.

He pulled the body outside and the door closed.

Noah was left alone.

For several days, he hardly ate or drank.

He lay on the floor staring at the ceiling.

He thought about death, about how it would soon be his turn.

But the man continued to come, bringing food and water.

Nothing had changed except that now Noah was alone in this room.

Years passed.

Noah didn’t know how many.

He counted the man’s visits, tried to keep track of the days, but lost count.

Sometimes the man didn’t come for 2 days.

Sometimes he came twice a day.

It was impossible to understand the pattern.

Noah got used to the darkness, the cold, the smell of dampness.

He got used to the chain on his wrist, to the metal bracelet that rubbed his skin raw.

He got used to loneliness.

He talked to himself, remembered stories from his childhood, repeated his parents’ names so he wouldn’t forget them.

One day, the man came in with the door open.

He didn’t close it behind him.

He put the food on the floor, turned around, and left, leaving the door a jar.

Noah stared at the crack of light, not understanding.

Was it a trap or a mistake? He waited for several hours.

The man did not return.

Noah pulled on the chain, trying to reach the door.

He was a meter short.

He tried to remove the bracelet.

His hands were thin, the skin on his wrists worn away from constant friction.

He clenched his fist and tried to pull his hand through the bracelet.

The pain was unbearable, but he continued.

His skin tore, blood flowed, but his hand began to pass through.

After a few minutes, his hand was free.

Noah stood up and went to the door.

He pushed it.

It opened.

Behind the door was a staircase leading upstairs.

Dim light filtered in from above.

Noah climbed the steps, holding on to the wall.

There was a door upstairs.

It wasn’t locked.

He opened it and went out.

A room, an old house, shabby walls, dirty windows.

The furniture was covered in dust, and there was trash on the floor.

Noah went to the window and looked outside.

A forest, trees, bushes, a path.

No one was in sight.

He went to the exit door.

It was locked.

He tried to open the window.

It was locked too.

He found a knife in the kitchen and broke the window.

He climbed out and fell to the ground.

He got up and ran into the forest.

He ran for a long time without looking back.

His legs were weak.

His breathing was uneven, but he kept going.

He made his way to the road.

He stopped a passing car.

The driver was frightened when he saw him, dirty, bloodied, in rags.

But he still drove him to the nearest town.

Noah asked to be taken home.

He gave his parents’ address.

The investigator listened and took notes.

When Noah finished, he asked if he remembered where the house was.

Noah said no, that he had run at random and hadn’t memorized the road, but he described the house.

One story, wooden, old, gray, small windows, a roof covered with rusty metal, a crooked shed nearby, thick forest all around, a path leading deep into it.

The investigator asked about the man.

Noah described him again.

Tall, large, short, dark hair, maybe gray.

Age 50 or older, rough face, wrinkles, work clothes, jeans, flannel shirt, boots.

Noah didn’t notice any distinguishing marks, tattoos, or scars.

He asked if the man had said anything in all these years.

Noah said no, not once, not a word.

The investigator asked about Jason, where he was buried.

Noah said he hadn’t seen it, but he had heard the sounds.

The man had pulled out the body.

Then there were sounds of digging.

Maybe in the yard, maybe in the woods, not far from the house because the sounds could be heard.

Under a tree, probably.

Noah didn’t know for sure.

The next day, the search for Jason’s house and body began.

The police pulled up maps of the area where they found the brother’s camp.

They checked all the old houses within a 50 km radius.

The list was long.

Dozens of abandoned buildings, old farms, hunting lodges.

They began to drive around each one.

Noah was taken with them, but not right away.

The doctors said he needed rest, that his psychological state was unstable.

A week later, he agreed to go with the police to try to find the place.

They drove for 2 days, visiting 20 houses.

Noah looked, shook his head.

Not here, not the place.

On the third day, they drove up to a house on the edge of the forest.

Wooden, gray, small windows, rusty roof, a crooked shed.

Noah got out of the car, looked, nodded.

This is it.

The police cordoned off the area.

The house stood on a plot of about a hectare surrounded by forest with the nearest neighbors 3 km away.

The driveway was overgrown with grass, the tire tracks old and blurred by rain.

They checked the property registration.

The house belonged to a man named Walter Griffin, 63 years old, a lumberjack who had lived alone for the last 20 years after his wife’s death.

Neighbors said he was reclusive, hardly socialized with anyone, and came to town once a month for groceries.

The officers approached the front door and knocked.

No one answered.

They tried to open it, but it was locked.

They obtained a search warrant 2 hours later.

They broke down the door.

Inside, there was a smell of mold and stale air.

The furniture was old.

There were dirty dishes in the kitchen and a dust-covered TV in the living room.

They found the door to the basement.

They went down.

The basement was exactly as Noah had described it.

Concrete walls, low ceiling, a light bulb on a wire.

Against the wall was a bolt with a chain and a bracelet.

There were dark spots on the floor, old blood, a bucket in the corner, the smell of dampness and urine.

The forensic team began their work, collecting samples and photographing every detail.

They began searching for Jason’s body in the yard.

They used ground penetrating radar and scanned the entire area.

Under a large oak tree 30 meters from the house, the device showed an anomaly.

They began digging.

A meter away, they found remains.

A skeleton, partially preserved clothing.

A rusty wrench lay nearby.

The medical examiner confirmed that the skull had multiple fractures characteristic of blows with a blunt object.

Teeth and DNA identified the body as Jason Hart, but Walter Griffin was not at home.

The police began a search.

They checked his bank accounts.

The last withdrawal was a week ago in a town 50 km away.

They requested the ATM camera recordings.

Walter was alone, looked calm, and withdrew $300.

After that, the trail went cold.

They checked his pickup truck, an old Ford registered in his name.

They found it in an abandoned parking lot near the forest, 100 km from his home.

The car was empty, the keys in the ignition.

No personal belongings, no signs of a struggle.

Walter had simply left the car and walked away.

The search continued for 2 weeks.

They combed the woods, checked bus stations, and questioned drivers.

No one had seen a man matching the description.

Walter’s photo was sent to all precincts in the state and neighboring states.

A warrant was issued for his arrest.

A month later, a hunter found a body in the woods 10 km from the parking lot where the pickup truck had been parked.

The man was hanging from a tree tied to a thick branch with a rope.

His clothes matched the description.

There were no documents on him, but photographs and fingerprints confirmed that it was Walter Griffin.

The medical examiner determined that death had occurred approximately 3 weeks earlier.

Suicide.

The case was closed.

Walter Griffin was the only suspect and now he was dead.

The investigation reconstructed the chain of events.

5 years ago, he had kidnapped two brothers from their camp in the woods and kept them chained in the basement of his house.

He killed the older brother with a wrench and buried him in the yard.

The younger brother escaped when Walter left the door open.

Accidentally or intentionally, it is unknown.

Walter realized that he would be found, left his house, drove away, nothing to anyone.

The neighbors knew nothing about his past except that his wife had died of cancer 20 years ago and they had no children.

He had worked all his life, had no criminal record, and had never been prosecuted.

A psychiatric examination of the case file revealed a possible personality disorder, but it was impossible to make an accurate diagnosis.

Noah spent another 2 months in the hospital.

Psychologists worked with him daily.

He was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, depression, and anxiety disorder.

He underwent therapy and took medication.

His parents visited him every day and his sister came from another state.

When he was discharged, he returned home.

But he couldn’t live in his old house.

Every sound frightened him.

Every closed door caused panic.

His parents rented a separate apartment for him and helped him settle in.

He began seeing a psychologist twice a week.

Gradually, his condition improved, but the nightmares continued.

Jason was buried in the city cemetery next to his grandparents’ graves.

More than a hundred people came to the funeral, relatives, friends, former classmates.

Noah stood by the coffin, not crying, just staring.

His parents held his hands.

His mother couldn’t stop crying while his father stood silently, his jaw clenched.

6 months later, Noah gave an interview to a local newspaper.

He told his story, describing his years in captivity and his brother’s death.

He said that he still didn’t understand why Walter had done it, why he kept them in the basement, fed them, but didn’t let them go, why he killed Jason when he tried to defend himself, why he left the door open at the end, giving Noah a chance to escape.

The reporter asked if Noah blamed himself for surviving and his brother didn’t.

Noah replied, “Every day, but Jason would have wanted me to live.

He always protected me.

Even there in the basement, he gave me his food and told me I had to survive.

I’m living for both of us.” Walter Griffin’s house was demolished a year after his death.

The city authorities decided that the building was dangerous and a reminder of the tragedy.

The plot was put up for sale, but no buyers were found.

The land is overgrown with grass and bushes, and the oak tree under which Jason was buried still stands.

Local residents avoid this place.

Noah Hart now lives in another state.

He moved to a different city, started working remotely, and tries to stay out of the public eye.

His parents visit him several times a year.

He is still in therapy and taking medication.

He says he wants to write a book about his experiences someday, but he is not ready yet.

The story of the Hart brothers has become one of the most shocking in the state’s history.

5 years in captivity, one survived, the other died.

The kidnapper killed himself without explaining his motives.

Questions remain unanswered.

Why these two? What made Walter keep them for so many years? Why did he kill Jason but not Noah? Why did he leave the door open? No one will ever know the truth.

Walter took it with him to that noose on the tree.

Noah lives with these questions every day, trying to find meaning in what happened.

But there is no meaning.

There are only facts.

They went into the woods.

They were kidnapped.

One died.

The other returned 5 years later to tell the terrible truth.