When Ethan Hail appeared at the entrance to the Ranger Station near Cheyenne Crossing in late October 2023, he was almost unrecognizable, barefoot, emaciated, with a beard reaching his chest and draped in tattered scraps of hunting clothing instead of his usual attire.

The man had gone missing 7 years earlier along with his best friend in one of the most remote and inaccessible wilderness areas of the Black Hills.

A man long presumed dead.

But the most terrifying part wasn’t his appearance.

The most terrifying part was what he said about those seven years, about what had happened to his companion, and about the things that still existed deep beneath the mountain.

Before diving deeper into the story, don’t forget to subscribe to the channel and hit the notification bell so you don’t miss the latest cases.

In late October 2016, Black Hills National Forest was enveloped in the characteristic dry cold of the late hunting season.

The sky still held a faint golden hue from the early morning when Ethan Hail, 28, and his best friend of over 10 years, Mark Kesler, 31, parked their pickup truck at the Elk Creek trail head.

It was a hunting trip they had planned weeks in advance as a personal tradition each fall, pick a clear day, check their rifles, backpacks, binoculars, and head into the forest while mist still lingered lightly on the pine canopies.

The weather that day was cold but stable with no forecast for strong winds or snowstorms, making the trip even more favorable.

Before turning onto the trail, the two paused for a few seconds in front of the ranger camera mounted at the entrance.

Mark waved.

Ethan smiled in response, a moment that seemed utterly ordinary, but would later become the last recorded image of them.

Throughout the afternoon, their families assumed everything was proceeding as usual.

Ethan and Mark often hunted all day, sometimes not returning until dusk.

But they always checked in early if they found a camping spot or if plans changed.

But by 6:00 p.m., neither family had received any messages or calls.

The first phone calls went unanswered.

By 8:00 p.m., worry had turned into a bad premonition.

The Black Hills are famously beautiful, but also full of slippery slopes, dark rock crevices, and trails that are easy to lose in the dark.

By 1000 p.m., both phones were unreachable.

The Hail and Kesler families began calling each other frantically, trying to guess what could have prevented two experienced hunters from making contact.

Near midnight, unable to wait any longer, they drove to the Elk Creek trail head, where Ethan and Mark’s pickup truck sat ominously still in the cold, dark parking lot.

There were no signs they had returned to the vehicle, no fresh footprints on the frozen ground, no flickering flashlight beams between the trails, no sounds echoing from the deep forest, only a thick silence enveloping the entire Elk Creek trail head.

When the bad feeling could no longer be ignored, at exactly 11:47 p.m.

that night, the first emergency call was made to the Pennington County Sheriff’s Office.

Less than 30 minutes later, Pennington County search and rescue team arrived at the scene, vehicle lights piercing the darkness as the late October cold wind howled strongly through the tall pine canopies, forcing the teams to prepare for an immediate nighttime deployment.

In the hurried sweeps of flashlights, Ethan and Mark’s pickup truck appeared untouched in the parking lot, covered in a thin layer of frost and showing no signs of movement, confirming that the two had entered the forest that morning and never returned.

Sarah deployed in standard procedure for wilderness missing persons cases.

The K-9 unit was released first to track their initial direction.

Drones with infrared cameras flew along the main trail.

Helicopters scanned the wider area from Deadman Gulch, extending down the ravines leading to Rapid Creek.

Beams from flashlights and headlamps moved like small streaks of light through the darkness, but the nighttime forest remained completely silent with no signal from the two men.

By dawn, the K9 unit tracked a segment of footprints about a mile from the trail head.

The prints matched the hiking boots Ethan usually wore, but the trail was interrupted in sections due to dry ground mixed with thin snow erased by wind.

Additionally, Sear noted an unusual long drag mark, unclear if it was from a backpack, an animal carcass, or something heavier.

However, a strong wind gust sweeping through the forest around 3:00 a.m.

nearly erased most of the traces.

Near the drag mark, the search team discovered a dropped bullet lying among the fallen pine needles.

The metal slightly tarnished, but clearly not there for long.

No one in the group could determine if it belonged to Ethan or Mark, or if it was just something left from a previous hunt.

Sear marked the bullet’s location, but couldn’t yet consider its specific evidence.

Throughout the first morning of the search, drones checked the basin area near Elk Creek, but detected no movement or heat sources.

Helicopters continued scanning from above along the cliffs, but everything was submerged in the deep green of the pine forest and the gray white of thin snow.

There were no signs of a temporary camp, no fire, no smoke, no abandoned gear.

The fact that no deer, the intended target of Ethan and Mark’s hunt, was found, was also noted, but the search team didn’t rush to conclusions.

In the Black Hills, coming back empty-handed after a day of hunting isn’t unusual.

Many hunters returned with nothing.

By the afternoon of the first day, the search radius expanded three more miles in two likely directions.

They might have gone, one down to the creek bed, one up the high rocky slope.

But the results were only scattered footprint segments mixed with countless animal tracks.

The second night fell amid heavy family anxiety.

The SR team paused at 1000 p.m.

to avoid risks to the searchers themselves.

When the sun rose the next day, the air was colder and snow began falling sporadically, significantly reducing the chances of finding new traces.

The K9 units were deployed again in search grids, but the scent was too faint.

partly carried away by wind and the rest covered by snow.

The absence of any camping signs, no fire, no tent setup marks, no gear left behind made everything even more ambiguous.

If they were just lost, they should have left signs trying to find their way back.

If injured, there should be dropped items.

If attacked by wildlife, there should be signs of struggle.

But the forest showed nothing beyond lightly disturbed ground and snow, erasing all clues.

By the end of the third day, the sheriff concluded there wasn’t enough evidence to classify it as a crime.

What they had was just two hunters who vanished, a vehicle intact at the trail head, some erased traces, and a bullet of unknown origin.

Search teams continued returning to the scene in the following days, but the scale and frequency had to be reduced as no new signs of Ethan or Mark were discovered.

The Black Hills forest gradually returned to its inherent silence.

A place that records lost hikers every year, but rarely leaves a disappearance as empty as this.

With almost no traces to follow, after 10 days of continuous searching with no clear results, SAR was forced to narrow operations and officially shift the case to missing persons, presumed dead, a temporary conclusion.

Not because they were certain Ethan and Mark had died, but because all viable traces had been erased by the harsh mountain weather, leaving no practical foothold for continued tracking.

At the Pennington County Sheriff’s Office, the final report of the initial search was closed with a short but chilling sentence.

No persons found, no drop point, no final direction of travel determined.

For the investigators, it marked the end of a difficult mission, but for the Hail and Kesler families, it was the beginning of a painful void they never imagined facing.

Ethan’s family set up a temporary altar at home, placing photos of him smiling while fishing and the Black Hills maps he always carried on trips.

Mark’s parents left his room unchanged, as if he was just away for a while and would return.

Family conversations became more cautious, each trying to hold on to hope, but no one brave enough to say outright that the chances of finding the two alive were virtually zero.

in the community, especially among those living around Spearfish and Deadwood.

The disappearance quickly became a topic whenever anyone mentioned the Black Hills Forest, a vast, beautiful, but treacherous land that had swallowed many in history, now with two more names added.

When the official search paused, a group of Ethan and Mark’s friends organized their own hikes into the forest in the following weeks, hoping to find something Sar missed, but everything remained silent.

No clothing left behind, no fresh shell casings, no camping signs.

It was as if Ethan and Mark had vanished from the forest surface in just a few afternoon hours, leaving nothing to explain what happened.

By December, when thick snow covered the trails, the official search stopped.

The families were invited to the sheriff’s office for the final announcement.

The case remained an unexplained disappearance, but due to the elapsed time and harsh natural conditions, the two victims were temporarily classified as presumed dead.

No one in the room cried out loud, but the prolonged silence afterward was heavier than any sobs.

The following spring, a small wooden memorial plaque was placed at Spearfish Canyon on a trail section they often stopped at each year.

It bore the names Ethan Hail and Mark Kesler with a short inscription lost to the Black Hills 2016.

Locals occasionally stopped to leave wild flowers while tourists saw it as just another sad story among the many about these mountains.

Occasionally on the anniversary of the disappearance, the families would go there to light candles, standing for a long time, gazing into the distant smoky forest as if hoping for some small movement in response.

But the forest just stood still, silent as the day the two vanished.

Seven years passed in a slow, cruel way.

Thick winter snows, sun-drenched summers, trails changing over time, but the disappearance of Ethan and Mark gradually faded from the daily stories of local residents.

No more mentions in the news, no more volunteer search groups, no new rumors, only the small memorial plaque in Spearfish Canyon.

and the two families still quietly holding on to faint hope that one day, even a tiny trace, the truth would be found in the vast Black Hills forest.

7 years after Ethan Hail and Mark Kesler vanished in the Black Hills forest, what seemed like an ordinary June morning at Cheyenne Crossing kicked off an event no one in the area could have anticipated.

As the sun hadn’t fully risen above the horizon, the owner of a small roadside diner, a spot where hikers and hunters often stopped for coffee before heading into the forest, saw a man staggering along the shoulder of the road, his gate unsteady as if he might collapse at any moment.

He looked emaciated to the point where his cheekbones protruded sharply under shallow greenish skin, his clothes tattered and covered in dirt and dried mud.

The diner owner initially thought he was just a homeless person or someone who had an accident on a long trek.

But as the man got closer, he realized something was off.

His eyes weren’t looking directly at anyone but fixed on the ground, and his body was shaking violently, even though June weather wasn’t that cold.

When the owner stepped closer, the man suddenly stopped, breathing heavily, as if fleeing from something invisible.

His voice was choked as if it took great effort to speak, but the words that came out were clear enough to send chills down the owner’s spine.

“Don’t go near the shafts.

It’s still down there.” Before the owner could ask what shafts, the man collapsed beside the highway 85 mi marker, his body curling up as if terrified of a sound only he could hear.

The witness ran inside to call 911.

And minutes later, the first Lawrence County patrol car arrived.

The deputy got out and tried to talk to the man, but he just shook his head, muttering fragmented, “Please not to take him back to somewhere in the forest.” Paramedics arrived, placed him on a stretcher, and only when his arm accidentally slipped from the thermal blanket did everyone notice the faint long scars running around his bony wrists.

circular marks as if something had tightly bound them for years.

But what drew even more attention was the man’s expression as he was loaded into the ambulance.

He kept turning his head toward the forest.

His eyes panicked as if expecting something to follow.

As the ambulance left Cheyenne Crossing, headed for Lead Deadwood Regional Hospital.

One of the paramedics asked the final question for the records.

What’s your name? The man was silent for so long that everyone thought he had complete amnesia.

But then he slightly opened his mouth.

His voice shattered as if those syllables had been buried too long.

Ethan.

Ethan Hail.

That name made the escorting officer freeze in place.

Ethan Hail.

The man missing for 7 years, the one the entire Black Hills community had assumed died with his friend in the deep forest.

The information was relayed to the Pennington County Sheriff’s Office within minutes.

Only when Ethan was brought into the ER and admitted did police proceed with the crucial verification step, fingerprint check.

A handheld scanner was brought in, and in seconds, the NCIC system returned a perfect match with the record of Ethan Hail, missing since October 2016.

In the stark white hospital room, Ethan lay still like a log, eyes tightly shut, his gaunt face startling any patient who saw it.

When the doctor tried to check reflexes with a pen light, Ethan recoiled, hands shooting up to cover his face in a clear fear response, as if the light caused him pain.

Not only was his body wasted, skin and bones, legs atrophied like someone bedridden for years, but his mind had been worn down to bear fragility.

Ethan avoided all loud noises.

Even the sound of the room door opening made him flinch and turn instinctively in defense.

The identity confirmation sent the entire hospital into chaos.

No one had ever thought one of the two from the most famous Black Hills missing person’s case could return after 7 years in a form almost unrecognizable.

The Pennington County Sheriff arrived at the hospital immediately.

Though Ethan couldn’t yet answer questions clearly, authorities that very night officially updated the case status from presumed dead to active investigation.

Victim returned.

Every line in the old case file was reopened, as if the seven years had never passed, and the Black Hills forest, which had been quiet since the day they vanished, suddenly became the center of obsession, and the biggest question once more.

How had Ethan Hail survived? And what in the forest had made him return in a state like someone who had stepped out from the depths of hell? But what was even more unforgettable was the sentence he uttered upon appearing, “Don’t go near the shafts.

It’s still down there.

That sentence alone was enough to reopen the entire case file that had been dormant for 7 years in an instant, marking the moment Ethan became the strangest surviving victim in Black Hills history.

The morning after, when Ethan had just woken up following a night of IV fluids and light sedation, a special investigation team from Pennington County and an FBI agent from the Rapid City office were already waiting in the hallway outside his hospital room.

None of them truly believed Ethan would be able to speak right away, but his condition, trembling lucid in bursts, and the fragmented words he’d uttered the night before, made it impossible for them to wait any longer.

They knew that the first hours after a surviving victim was found were often when memories surfaced most vividly before the brain locked them away due to trauma.

When the door opened, Ethan immediately curled up like a small animal backed into a corner.

The light from the hallway spilled in only faintly, but he still raised his hands to shield his face, his entire body tense.

Agent Taylor was the first to speak softly in reassurance.

Ethan, we’re not here to scare you.

We just want to hear you say anything, whatever you remember.

But Ethan’s first reflex was to turn his face away, avoiding their gaze, as if the presence of strangers caused him actual pain.

One officer started to pull back the curtains for more light.

But Ethan immediately jerked upright, hands over his eyes, a choked sound escaping his throat.

That was almost a plea.

They had to close the curtains again, keeping the room at the lowest possible light level.

Only without bright light did Ethan begin to breathe more evenly.

The doctor quietly noted that this was a common reaction in people held for long periods in low light environments, but to the investigation team, it only made the atmosphere heavier.

Taylor sat down in the chair beside the bed, keeping enough distance so Ethan wouldn’t feel pressured.

He tried the simplest question.

Ethan, do you know where you are? After a few seconds of silence, Ethan nodded slightly, then bowed his head as if afraid someone might overhear.

Hospital, he whispered.

His voice like vocal cords that had been neglected for far too long.

Taylor continued.

Ethan, can you tell us what happened? That moment made everyone in the room hold their breath.

Ethan didn’t answer right away.

He raised a hand to his temple, but it shook so badly he could barely touch his skin.

Then suddenly he whispered as if speaking to himself.

“Metal sounds? Always metal sounds?” Taylor asked softly.

“What sounds?” Ethan swallowed, his eyes fixed on some indefinite point in the air.

“Sounds dragging steel pipes echoing between stone.” The group exchanged glances.

Repetitive sounds in a victim’s memory were often one of the first clues about the confinement environment.

But Ethan wasn’t finished.

He furrowed his brow as if struggling to recall something very distant.

Then whispered again.

So dark.

Always dark.

I didn’t know day from night.

Just heard him coming.

Smell.

Machine oil smell.

Taylor scribbled quickly, the pen scratching loudly against the paper.

Machine oil smell.

Steel pipes.

Total darkness.

These details weren’t enough to pinpoint a location, but they were too specific to be hallucinations.

It felt like Ethan was describing a real confinement space, one where metal and stone intertwined, where echoes lingered as if underground.

Taylor shifted his tone more cautious.

Ethan, do you remember where you were? Ethan shook his head, his expression a mix of pain and effort.

Then he briefly closed his eyes as if fighting a wave of dizziness before blurting out a single word clear enough to shock everyone in the room.

Lower shaft.

The FBI agent looked up immediately.

The accompanying officer straightened instinctively.

Lower shaft didn’t sound like a specific place name, but it closely resembled terminology from old mineral mines in the Black Hills.

Taylor barely managed to ask, “Where did you hear that?” or “Did someone say it to you?” Ethan opened his eyes, glancing at Taylor for the first time.

That look held unconcealed fear.

He called it that.

Then Ethan broke into a violent cough, his body doubling over as if kicked from inside.

The doctor stepped forward to check him and Taylor backed off.

But astonishment was clear in his eyes.

He meaning there was another person, a living person, someone who knew about lower shaft.

Once Ethan stabilized, Taylor continued as slowly as possible.

Ethan, what about Mark? Do you remember anything? Ethan didn’t respond.

The air in the room thickened.

Taylor was about to change the question when Ethan suddenly spoke.

His voice thin as if about to break.

Mark.

Mark was alive.

At first, he paused for a long time as if each word dragged a chain of heavy memories.

In the first 24 hours, I heard him.

He called out to me.

But after that, Ethan didn’t continue.

He turned his face to the wall, his body curling up as if to escape the surging memories.

The doctor signaled to stop the questioning as Ethan’s heart rate was spiking.

But in just those fragmented sentences, the investigation team had something they hadn’t had in 7 years.

Clear evidence that Ethan and Mark hadn’t been in an accident.

They had been attacked.

Ethan hadn’t gotten lost.

He had been abducted.

There was a man, he who had held them in a dark sealed place with metal, machine oil smells, and steel pipes echoing in stone.

And most importantly, Ethan remembered the name the perpetrator used for it, lower shaft.

Taylor stood up, took a deep breath, and looked at the accompanying officer.

No further discussion was needed from just those initial scattered memories.

The direction of the investigation had completely shifted.

This was no longer a missing person’s case due to accident.

This was an abduction.

And for the first time in 7 years, they finally had something to go on.

The official medical report was signed at 3:14 p.m.

2 days after Ethan Hail was found on the roadside near Cheyenne Crossing.

And when the chief physician presented the file to the investigation team, the room fell into a heavy silence so profound that everyone could hear the sound of each page turning.

None of them could cling to the lost and miraculously survived hypothesis anymore after what emerged in the nearly 100page conclusion.

Because every line pointed to a chilling truth, Ethan hadn’t just been missing for 7 years.

He had been in prison for 7 years.

The first diagnosis that stunned the doctors was severe vitamin D deficiency unlike anything seen in a living adult.

Ethan’s blood 25 hydroxy vitamin D level was so low that the lab ran the test three times thinking the machine was faulty before confirming that his body had had almost no exposure to sunlight for an extremely prolonged period.

One doctor used the term near zero exposure, a level typically seen in prisoners held for years underground or victims confined in windowless environments.

For Ethan, bone density scan showed mineral loss to the point where bone edges were paper thin, especially in the forearms and lower legs.

This couldn’t happen in a few months.

It could only result from years lived in darkness, lacking sunlight, exercise, fresh air, lacking everything a human body needs.

The second equally serious conclusion was lower limb muscle atrophy.

When doctors first asked Ethan to try standing, his legs trembled so badly they couldn’t support his body weight.

Within seconds, his knees buckled, and a nurse had to catch him before he collapsed entirely.

MSRI scan showed clear atrophy in the thigh and calf muscles with thin, fragmented fibers due to prolonged lack of movement.

Doctors confirmed that Ethan had been unable to walk normally for years, and there were even signs of movement restriction by restraints.

This wasn’t the condition of someone wandering in the wilderness.

These were the marks of someone confined, bound, held in a cramped space for an extended time, similar to patterns seen in sealed basements or underground rooms.

But the detail that gave the investigation team goosebumps was in the description of wrist injuries.

When the forensic doctor used ultraviolet light on Ethan’s skin, two faint gray circular scars appeared clearly, like the imprint of shackles.

The scars were arc-shaped, depressed in the center with rough edges as if from repeated friction over a long period.

The doctor noted lesions compatible with prolonged restraint by metal cuffs.

The scars weren’t from rope, not nylon ties or duct tape, metal scars.

Ethan had been cuffed repeatedly for a long time.

On his wrists were also tiny parallel scratches as if from the edge of cuffs or a metal lock rubbing when he tried to twist free or loosen them.

Experts said this type of injury was common in victims chained to walls, posts or metal bed frames.

Combined with the muscle atrophy, the doctors reached the highest conclusion.

Ethan had been severely restricted in movement for the entire seven years.

Not just confined, but restrained.

No one in the room said it aloud, but everyone understood this meant Mark Kesler might have endured the exact same thing.

The subsequent biological findings only darkened the picture further.

Chest CT scans showed Ethan had subaccute hystoppplasmosis, a lung fungus common in people living long-term in damp sealed environments with accumulated soil dust and poor ventilation, a hallmark of old minds in the Black Hills region, where bat and bird droppings had deposited fungal spores over decades.

Ethan coughed violently whenever he tried to speak at length, and his lung fluid had an abnormally high spore density.

No one on the investigation team overlooked this because it perfectly matched what Ethan had uttered in the earlier questioning.

Darkness, machine oil smell, echoing metal sounds, old mine, abandoned shaft, or some kind of mining tunnel all became possibilities.

The medical report didn’t stop there.

Full body X-rays revealed two left ribs that had fractured but healed crookedly.

Signs of blunt trauma, typically from being kicked, punched hard, or slammed into metal, bone callous formation, indicated the injuries occurred about three knob 5 years before Ethan was found.

Meaning during captivity, he had suffered significant abuse.

A small crack in the lower lumbar spine had also healed, but unusually, it suggested impact from behind in a confined space.

Injuries like these couldn’t be self-inflicted from a simple fall.

They were external force, and the level of intentional violence was almost certain.

The forensic doctor also found numerous small scars across the back and shoulders, some like mild burns from hot metal, others like abrasions from constant rubbing against rough surfaces.

A scar on the right arm, nearly 13 cm long, had sharp edges, as if cut by a thin metal object, but not deep enough for heavy bleeding.

The kind of wound often caused by the edge of a metal table or old machinery casing.

When reading that section, one investigator muttered, “Like being locked in an underground machine shop.

No one corrected him.

They didn’t need to.

Everyone was thinking the same thing.” What made the team pause for a long time before turning the next page was the overall assessment from the chief forensic doctor.

The bolded line read, “All medical indicators strongly support prolonged confinement lasting approximately 7 years.

Every medical confirmed Ethan had been confined for about 7 years.

No deviation, no coincidence, no room left for accident or lost in the woods theories.

no way to explain his disappearance and return without the hand of a perpetrator.

Ethan hadn’t survived in the wilderness.

He had been abducted, bound, confined, beaten, deprived of light, forced to live in dampness, machine oil, and soil dust in a place deep underground.

Very likely the exact lower shaft he had mentioned.

When Agent Taylor closed the report, no one in the room said anything more.

They didn’t need to.

The medical file had just confirmed what Ethan couldn’t fully articulate.

He had been imprisoned for seven full years.

And if he had survived and returned, it meant the place that held him still existed somewhere in the Black Hills along with the person who had controlled that entire hell.

And they knew that from here, the official investigation truly began.

The psychological evaluation conducted after the medical file confirmed Ethan Hail had been confined for years became the second turning point in the investigation because it not only described the mental state of someone who had just escaped an underground hell, but inadvertently revealed the first clue about the structure of the confinement site, a clue that couldn’t be obtained from fragmented statements.

As soon as the team of psychologists from Rapid City and a specialist in complex trauma arrived, they requested the assessment be done in a darkened room with low light and temporary soundproofing.

Because according to the treating doctor, Ethan curled up every time the door clicked open, and even footsteps in the hallway made him tremble in waves.

The first test occurred in the morning when a specialist tried to open the hospital room door just a few inches.

Ethan immediately sat bolt upright, hands raised instinctively to shield his head, eyes wide with terror, breathing ragged as if he had just heard his sound.

Everyone froze for a few seconds, fully aware this wasn’t ordinary panic.

The specialist called it captivity trigger, activation from captivity memories, a hallmark of captivity trauma syndrome, typically seen only in long-term sealed confinement victims.

When they tried making a soft sound by slowly closing the door, Ethan still jerked in fear, but one detail silenced everyone.

He didn’t look toward the door, but upward at the ceiling, as if the sound evoked memories of metal echoing from above in a narrow space.

The doctor immediately noted abnormal sound direction reflex.

Victim may have been held in a space where noise transmitted from the ceiling or conduits.

This matched Ethan’s earlier words about steel pipes and lower shaft.

Next, when the psychologist suddenly let light in through the curtains, Ethan backed against the headboard, hands over his eyes, body contracting as if reacting to punishment.

The lead psychologist described that reflex as light startle reaction, severe startle from bright light exposure after prolonged absolute darkness.

For a normal person, pupils adjust in seconds.

But for Ethan, even light touching his skin was enough to nearly trigger panic.

This aligned perfectly with the extreme vitamin D deficiency noted in the medical file.

Each piece further solidified the picture of seven years lived in a place with no day.

When doctors asked Ethan about sleep, he couldn’t form full sentences.

His breathing grew rapid and he just shook his head repeatedly, hands clutching the bed sheet tightly.

Investigator Taylor, standing nearby, had to clench his jaw to control his emotions when the doctor used the term night terror loop.

a recurring nightmare cycle so intense the patient couldn’t distinguish real memories from brain recreations.

Ethan didn’t describe the nightmares specifically, but whenever asked, “What do you dream about?” His body trembled in waves, and he repeated only one phrase, barely escaping his throat, his sound right outside the door.

There was no direct description of the confinement site, but those recurring nightmares became a key psychological clue.

In Ethan’s mind, the confinement space had a clear structure, a metal door, a space where he stood, and metal vibrations echoing when the door moved.

On the third day of evaluation, the most unexpected discovery emerged.

In a half- awake state after waking from a nightmare, Ethan unconsciously reached to the bedside table and began drawing with his finger.

No pen, no paper, just tracing on the wood surface, each shaky but purposeful stroke.

A nurse managed to record it.

At first glance, it was just scribbles.

But when psychologists reviewed it, they realized Ethan was repeatedly drawing a shape like a straight passageway leading to a small square, then extending into a rectangle.

No one understood the meaning until the doctor asked, “Ethan, what is this?” Ethan didn’t answer.

He just stared at the invisible drawing on the table, his trembling hand tracing the lines, then whispered, “Room, corridor, gate.” single English words, but enough to stun the group.

A psychologist specializing in underground confinement victims immediately suggested this was very likely the layout of the cell that Ethan’s brain had recorded over years and that memory was surfacing automatically whenever he unconsciously recreated his surroundings.

No prompting, no effort to recall.

This was raw memory, undistorted, unprocessed.

When they gave Ethan pen and paper, he hesitated for a few seconds, then slowly redrew it.

His hand shook so much that straight lines became zigzags, but the structure was clear.

A long narrow corridor ending in a small square room.

The room was marked with a thick black square and a horizontal line.

When asked, Ethan whispered, “Door.” Then, as if struck by a powerful memory, he added a few curved lines across the ceiling, the doctor asked, “What are these?” Ethan softly replied, “Pipes, always dripping, sometimes shaking pipes.

Damp vibration.

Exactly what an underground tunnel or abandoned mineshaft could produce.” When doctors analyzed the drawing, they realized what sent chills down their spines.

long corridor, low ceiling, pipes running along it, and a thick metal door leading to a small room.

All describing the structure of a secondary chamber in old gold mining tunnels from the Black Hills era.

Investigator Taylor stood behind, staring at the drawing, speechless.

They had never had a map of the confinement site.

No traces on Ethan’s body indicating coordinates, no physical evidence, no coherent testimony.

But now Ethan unconsciously was providing what they couldn’t find through any traditional investigative method.

The layout of the place where he had been held.

Not intentional memory, not spontaneous recounting, but the spatial memory of someone who had lived in that space for 7 years to the point where his brain had etched every curve of the pipes, every echo from the corridor, every position of the door.

The doctor wrote in the report, “Ethan Hail exhibits clear signs of severe captivity trauma syndrome, panic reactions to echoing metal sounds, avoidance of bright light, cyclical recurring nightmares, spatial memories surfacing unconsciously.

These manifestations are fully consistent with long-term underground confinement.

In the conclusion, the bolded line made everyone at that afternoon’s meeting look at each other gravely.

The victim does not merely remember the confinement site.

He is recreating it.

And for the first time since Ethan’s return, the investigation team realized they had a map, albeit crude, of the hell where he had lived for 7 years.

Somewhere in the Black Hills, an underground chamber was waiting to be found.

The next interrogation session took place when Ethan had stabilized a bit more, enough to speak in full sentences without pausing midway due to panic.

And it was during this session that he first clearly described the initial 24 hours after he and Mark went missing.

The hours that kicked off the entire 7-year nightmare.

The starting point, according to Ethan, was late afternoon that day when the sky over the Black Hills had turned a grayish blue, and a chill was starting to settle over the pine ridges.

He and Mark were moving along the eastern slope of Dead Man Gulch, where a steep rock face hugged a narrow trail barely wide enough for one person.

Ethan remembered the moment just before the attack vividly, because that’s when he was bending down to check fresh deer tracks.

I heard a small rock rolling like someone accidentally kicked it, he said, his voice trembling, his gaze distant as if reliving the moment.

He even thought it was Mark slipping, but just a second later, a heavy force from behind hit him so hard he didn’t have time to turn around.

Ethan described the sensation of being slammed to the ground with such force that his chest hit the rocks, leaving him gasping for breath for several seconds.

Then came the sound of hurried footsteps, a man’s breathing, and then a musty smelling hood was pulled down over his entire face.

He couldn’t see anything, but he still clearly remembered the smell of old fabric, dirt, and metal from the attacker’s hand, gripping the back of his neck, Mark yelled.

Ethan said, his voice choking.

He only managed to say Ethan before he was hit hard on the head.

I heard the impact, then silence.

Clearly, Mark was attacked almost immediately.

Investigator Taylor asked Ethan if he heard gunshots or any other noises, but he just shook his head.

No gun, just rocks, footsteps, and Mark trying to breathe.

After the hood was put on, Ethan’s arms were twisted behind his back and tightly bound with rope or nylon cord.

He wasn’t sure, only remembering the cutting sensation into his skin.

One important detail was that Ethan insisted the abductor moved extremely quickly and skillfully as if he knew the terrain intimately.

“When he tried to resist, the man drove a knee hard into his back, forcing him to his knees.

He always knew what I was about to do,” Ethan said like he’d done it many times before.

After being tied, Ethan was dragged a few meters and then hoisted straight onto the man’s shoulder.

Based on the time and the attacker’s breathing rhythm, he estimated the travel distance took no more than two to three minutes, a detail that caught the investigators intense attention as it proved the initial holding place wasn’t far from Deadman Gulch at all.

Ethan described the movement as not jolting like on a dirt road.

On the contrary, the ground was fairly level with little gravel, and the footsteps echoed very softly, as if the man was walking on a path with fine soil or a surface frequently used by humans.

He also clearly remembered the moment the temperature suddenly changed.

It was cold, then suddenly much warmer, like stepping into the earth.

The investigation team immediately understood this was the common sensation when entering an abandoned mine or old tunnel where underground air retained warmth better than the surface in cold seasons.

Ethan said that after about a few dozen steps, the wind noise disappeared.

No more rustling pines outside, replaced instead by a faint echo bouncing off the surrounding walls.

“I knew then that we were inside,” he whispered.

When asked what happened next, Ethan clutched the blanket on his bed tightly, his eyes narrowing slightly as if fighting the memory.

He dropped me, not gently.

My shoulder hit the dirt floor.

I heard him dragging something, a heavy metal bar.

Then the sound of an iron door.

Ethan used the term door scrape.

The sound of a heavy gate dragging on metal rails.

A chilling noise enough to make him shudder even years later.

Next, Ethan recounted the moment the hood was yanked off.

He was lying in the middle of a small room with absolutely no natural light, illuminated only by a low wattage LED bulb hanging loosely, its weak yellow glow casting flickering and distorted shadows over everything.

The room was no more than 3 m in each dimension with rough stone walls and a low ceiling where Ethan could almost touch the metal pipe running overhead if he stood straight.

It was damp, very damp, he described.

Not the dampness from rain, but from deep earth, from condensed moisture.

The floor was covered in fine dirt mixed with rock fragments with a faint smell of machine oil like from old equipment.

A single iron bed frame was pushed against the wall with a thin mattress covered in old gray fabric.

A metal bucket sat in the corner, emitting an unpleasant odor, and only one thick metal door bolted from the outside.

Ethan said at first he didn’t hear Mark, but not long after, about a few hours, he heard a faint sound from somewhere outside the room, like Mark groaning weakly, then the man shouting.

“The man’s voice was low, very calm, but laced with something restrained that made Ethan go instantly silent.

He didn’t yell,” Ethan said, but every word he said was like a command, like he was used to it.

When asked if he heard any names, Ethan shook his head.

No names, just footsteps and him dragging something on the floor.

The psychologist asked, “The trip into the mine? You’re sure it was short?” Ethan nodded firmly.

“Very short.

If it was far, I’d have heard a vehicle, but no, no vehicle, no engine, just footsteps and the wind stopping.” This reinforced the suspicion that the first holding cell was in or near an entrance to an abandoned mine around Dead Man Gulch, an area known for dozens of tunnels dug in the 1890s, most now sealed or lost in deep forest.

When asked to describe more about the room, Ethan said what haunted him most wasn’t the cramped space, but the absolute silence, the kind of silence deep underground, where even the smallest sound was absorbed by the stone walls and echoed back like a distant voice.

I could hear my heartbeat as loud as someone else approaching, he said.

And I understood we weren’t lost.

We were taken.

And he knew exactly what he was doing.

Those statements, though fragmented, for the first time, piece together a coherent picture, a deliberate ambush, transport into a nearby abandoned mine, a cramped cell, metal sounds, machine oil smell, all eerily matching what Ethan had unconsciously drawn earlier.

And most importantly, Mark was still alive in those first 24 hours.

The investigation from here was no longer just seeking the truth.

It became a race to uncover what remained of a mystery buried for 7 years beneath the Black Hills.

The fifth interrogation session took place in an atmosphere far heavier than the previous ones because the investigators knew that to decode what happened during the seven years.

Ethan was held underground, they had to let him confront memories of Mark for the first time.

The companion who vanished with him and never returned.

The psychologist sat close by to monitor his heart rate, ready to intervene if Ethan slipped into a panic attack while Agent Taylor turned on the recorder and asked in the lowest voice possible, “Ethan, we need to know what happened to Mark.

If you can say anything, anything at all, please tell us.” Ethan sat motionless for a long time, hands gripping the edge of the blanket, trembling slightly as if fighting an internal chill.

Then he began to speak.

his voice barely escaping his throat.

In the first year, I never saw his face, not once.

That statement brought absolute silence to the room.

He, the man who abducted them, continued to be described as an invisible shadow.

Ethan said that throughout the first 12 months, the perpetrator never showed his face, never spoke more than a single sentence, and always used extremely dim light that kept his features in darkness.

Just the sound of boots, breathing, and keys, Ethan whispered, his fingers unconsciously tapping three times on the bed.

The rhythm that according to him, the perpetrator, always knocked on the metal door before entering, like a cold ritual.

He appeared on an irregular cycle, but never more than 4 days apart.

Sometimes 2 days, sometimes three, but never later than four.

like he had a schedule.

A schedule that never changed.

Ethan said in the early visits, he only opened the door to deliver food.

A cold metal tray with thin soup, hard bread, and murky water.

No words, no reactions, no beatings, but also no allowance for any noise beyond what he permitted.

“If Mark coughed too loudly, he would slam the door hard,” Ethan recounted, his voice shaking violently.

The metal vibration made my whole body go numb.

The investigator asked, “Did you ever see his face or guess his age?” Ethan shook his head.

“No.” Throughout the first year, he always turned off the light before opening the door.

That made the psychologist shudder.

This was a sign of an abductor who understood victim control procedures and had experience.

Ethan continued, “Mark, at first he was still strong.

He tried to stay alert, tried to keep his spirits up, but the brutality began right from the first month.

Mark was taken out of the holding room, which Ethan called cell A.

For short periods of 10 to 20 minutes, usually on days the man came after a 3 4 day cycle.

When Mark was dragged out, Ethan heard nothing but struggling footsteps and Mark trying to keep his balance.

But when Mark was dragged back, his body was noticeably weaker, breathing labored, sometimes with faint bruises on his shoulders or arms.

Mark never said what was done to him outside.

But the fear in his eyes said it all.

Mark told me not to ask, Ethan recounted.

He said, “If you ask, hell hear.

That statement shocked the psychologists.

It suggested the mind might have a listening system or simply that Mark absolutely believed even the stone walls could hear.

Mark suffered the worst abuse in the eighth month when he attempted his first escape.

Ethan described that moment while trembling.

He left the door open a bit, probably a trap or a mistake.

Mark lunged.

I couldn’t stop him.

Ethan heard metal clanging and pained groans.

Then the man dragging Mark farther than ever before.

That time, Mark returned with his shoulder completely dislocated, his left arm immobile, and three long but shallow cuts down his back.

Ethan shook as he recalled.

I tried to stop the bleeding with my shirt, but he saw he snatched the shirt from my hands and threw it on the ground.

The second escape attempt happened a few months later when Mark, exhausted but still trying, lunged when the man opened the door for food.

The result was even worse.

Mark was dragged away for nearly half an hour.

And when he returned, his side was covered in bruises, breathing ragged, and his lower right ribs showed signs of cracking.

Ethan trembled slightly as he said.

Mark stopped smiling.

He just looked at me and said, “Don’t try.

Never.” But the third and final escape attempt was what plunged the entire room into a terrifying silence.

Ethan spoke as if struggling not to sob.

Mark heard dripping water from a pipe behind.

He thought there was a gap.

He tried again.

Ethan didn’t know what happened after that.

The man dragged Mark away for the longest time yet, nearly an hour.

When he brought Mark back, Ethan said he barely recognized his friend.

Mark lay curled on the dirt floor, breathing shallow breaths that seemed about to fade into the air.

Blood trickled from his left cheek.

One leg was dragged without sensation.

Ethan held Mark silently in his arms while the man closed the iron door with a heavy clang like an execution shot.

When Taylor asked Ethan, “Did you hear him say anything that time?” Ethan shook his head.

“No, but Mark,” Mark said.

He paused for a very long time.

His breathing shook.

A tear fell onto his hand.

He whispered in my ear very softly.

Hawthorne number three.

In the interrogation room, everyone looked up at once.

Investigator Taylor repeated.

Hawthorne number three.

Ethan nodded.

I didn’t understand.

Mark said it.

And then then he didn’t open his eyes anymore.

The room fell into prolonged silence.

Ethan sobbed softly, pressing his hands to his eyes.

I called his name many times.

He didn’t come back for days.

I knew Mark was was he couldn’t continue.

The psychologist had to signal a pause in the session to prevent Ethan from falling into acute panic disorder.

But for the investigation team, the most crucial part had been revealed.

Hawthorne number three like a cry of pain.

Not meaningless last words, but a message intentional, purposeful, and possibly the only clue Mark Kesler left before dying in the mine.

The name Hawthorne and the number three.

As Ethan was taken back to bed, Agent Taylor looked at his notes and said, almost whispering, Mark was trying to tell us the location of the mine.

And for the first time in seven years, they had a real keyword.

Hawthorne 3, a clue that could change the entire investigation.

Ethan’s mention of Hawthorne number three immediately shifted the entire investigation team’s focus to abandoned mines named Hawthorne in the Black Hills area.

And within 24 hours, geological maps of Kuster County and Lawrence County were spread out on the conference table in the sheriff’s office.

The Hawthorne named tunnels were once part of small-scale gold and silver mining operations from the 1930s to 1970s.

Most closed due to collapses or depleted reserves.

When the satellite records department cross-referenced Dead Man Gulch’s location with the list of old mines, one name stood out above all.

Hawthorne Hash3.

A mine opened in 1938, closed in 1974 after a minor collapse incident, recorded as unstable, entry sealed, unfit for public access.

But the most noteworthy detail wasn’t the closure date, but a small, hard to see note in the scanned original map.

The entrance had been reinforced in 1989 to prevent local trespassing.

1989, nearly 15 years after closure, who reinforced it? For what reason? No additional records, no reports, no engineers name.

The entrance was marked sealed, but without detailed material description, only a vague symbol indicating wooden reinforcement.

This immediately struck the team as unusual.

Why use wood to seal an unused mine entrance? Why was the documentation so sparse? and why did this site not appear at all in the 2016 SR search reports? The coincidence was impossible to ignore.

Ethan insisted the transport took only a few minutes from the ambush site at Dead Man Gulch and Hawthorne Hash3 was less than 900 m away as the crow flies.

So as soon as they had the coordinates, Agent Taylor requested deployment of a specialized reconnaissance drone team equipped with thermal sensors and steep terrain scanning capabilities.

The drone was launched from the southern slope of Dead Man Gulch in early winter cold with strong winds causing signal interference multiple times.

But on the third pass, the control screen displayed an image that made the entire team hold their breath.

a broken art-shaped rock face where geological maps marked the mouth of Hawthorne Hash 3, but covered completely by new wooden planks, far too new for a structure sealed since the 70s.

Those planks were nailed in a non-professional but extremely sturdy way, forming an almost airtight barrier, leaving small gaps at the bottom, just enough to see the wood hadn’t weathered like 40, 50year-old exposed timber.

The tech team immediately zoomed in.

The grain was still sharp.

Many spots showed fresh saw marks, dark wood color, only possible with boards replaced within a few years or even months recently.

One investigator muttered, “No way.

No way wood from 1974 could look like this.” “I didn’t stop there.

Right in front of the covered entrance, under a thin layer of snow, the drone camera detected parallel shallow grooves, signs of something heavy being dragged across the surface.

The technician adjusted infrared lighting.

The drag marks became clearer.

These couldn’t be animal tracks.

They were too straight, too directional, and the snow compression indicated they occurred in winter.

Winter meaning someone had been here while Ethan was still captive.

Investigator Taylor asked quickly, “Any footprints?” The drone lowered altitude.

On the left edge of the entrance area, a series of small, even depressions appeared, stretching about 5 m before wind and snow erased them.

The SR expert confirmed adult human footprints.

What chilled everyone even more was the drone detecting several patches of disturbed soil at the rock face edge.

Relatively fresh digging marks not recorded in any geological inventory documents, meaning someone had tried to access or expand the area near the entrance recently.

A Forest Service investigator frowned while viewing the images.

No one has authority to dig here since 1980.

If there are new dig marks, it means someone came back.

Not hikers, not hunters, someone who knew exactly what they were looking for.

Taylor said nothing, but in his mind, one thought dominated.

He returned to Hawthorne Hash three many times.

The drone was directed toward the gap under the wooden barrier.

The camera couldn’t fit inside, but thermal sensors recorded unusually low stable temperatures typical of high humidity underground spaces.

No signs of living creatures, but the rock structure indicated a natural tunnel or man-made shaft leading deep into the mountain behind the planks.

The geology team was asked for quick measurements estimated 12 20 m before branching.

Matching Ethan’s description of a corridor, a long hallway.

One officer watching the photos lowered his voice, not just superficially sealed, but concealed.

Someone didn’t want this place found.

Immediately, Hawthorne Hash3 was moved to the top of the urgent search list, ahead of over 40 other abandoned mines in the area.

And the decisive factor wasn’t just the proximity to where Ethan and Mark were ambushed, but the drone proof that this site had human activity during Ethan’s captivity and even signs that person returned repeatedly over the years.

As Agent Taylor closed his laptop and looked at the map, he voiced what everyone was thinking.

If Mark’s dying words were Hawthorne number three, then this isn’t a hypothesis anymore.

This is the site.

For 7 years, no one found the entrance.

For 7 years, the perpetrator came and went from Hawthorne Hash3 undetected.

And now, for the first time, the investigation finally had a clear location to dig into the darkness.

The investigation team entered Hawthorne 3 on the morning of the third day after the drone confirmed abnormal signs.

And the moment the last wooden plank was removed from the entrance, a blast of cold, damp air hit them straight in the face, causing everyone to pause for a few seconds.

A chill utterly different from the Black Hills weather, thicker, heavier, as if it had been trapped underground for far too long.

As flashlight beams swept into the main corridor, fine rock dust rose in the yellowish light, forming a thin haze, and the field log immediately recorded the first detail.

footprints.

These weren’t from the investigation team.

The tread patterns, depth, and direction of movement all indicated they were pre-existing, dried and hardened at the edges, but still moist in the center, proving they weren’t too old, perhaps only a few months.

The prints were large, work boot style, but smaller than standard mining employee boots.

The trace evidence specialist breathed heavily and whispered, “This size, it almost exactly matches the description Ethan gave of the guy’s build.

Not too big, but very steady steps.” As they moved deeper, the next thing that appeared made the entire team stop.

A canned food tin tossed into a corner wall covered in thick dust, but with the lid edge still shiny, completely inconsistent with anything that could have been left in the mine.

Since the 1970s, when the technician picked it up with metal tongs and shown a light on it, the printed date on the bottom of the can became clear, 2021.

Undeniable.

Someone had been in here within the last 2 years.

Meaning during the time Ethan was still imprisoned, 7 m farther, another can appeared, this one smaller, a cheap brand of canned meat with an expiration date of 2023.

Everyone fell silent for a long moment before Taylor said softly, almost in disbelief, “He lived here.

He really lived here.” The team looked up when they heard a strange sound, a very faint hum, almost like the breathing of an old pipe.

They approached the first corridor junction and looked left.

A rudimentary ventilation system consisting of a roughly 10-in metal duct bolted in place with new bolts connected to a small battery powered fan crudely mounted into the rock wall.

What sent a chill through them was that the fan was still running, vibrating lightly, and emitting a steady hum like breathing.

The technician checked and confirmed the fan battery was at 40% and had been replaced no more than 6 months earlier.

The presence of a ventilation system meant this place was used regularly, and whoever maintained it knew exactly how to keep the tunnel from collapsing or filling with toxic gas, something only someone with experience in mining environments or machine shops would understand.

When flashlight beams swept across the adjacent wall, they saw fresh scraping marks.

Someone had chiseled away protruding rock to widen the passage.

The rock fragments underfoot that hadn’t yet accumulated dust were evidence that this had happened quite recently.

One specialist whispered, “He didn’t just come here.

He maintained this place.” But what fully validated Ethan’s panicked description of his 7 years of captivity was when the investigation team reached the second narrow corridor section.

The smell of machine oil hit them.

Thick, pungent, familiar enough that everyone stopped immediately.

It was the smell Ethan had mentioned throughout multiple interrogations.

Old oil soaked into the rock, permeating the air, a smell that couldn’t be faked or occur naturally.

And right at the base of the wall, a brownish black streak about 40 cm long, clearly dried machine oil.

The forensics team took samples immediately.

The sense of an underground machine shop became too obvious to deny.

They moved a few more meters and discovered an object that left the group stunned.

Part of an old machinery turntable, the kind used in mines to rotate tool barrels or mini drills propped up on two rocks.

It was partially rusted, but fresh scratches on the edges showed someone had tried to turn it recently.

Nearby was an old rubber insulated electrical cable that had been cut short.

Taylor crouched down and lightly touched the strip section.

Someone tried to repair or replace it.

He kept everything running.

The deeper they went, the thicker the heavy, damp smell became.

Moisture rose from rock crevices, clinging to the team’s jackets like thick fog.

One specialist wearing an air sensor mask read quickly.

Humidity 78%.

Matches exactly the lung mold levels in Ethan’s medical file.

Every detail echoed something Ethan had said.

The dampness, the echoing from pipes, the machine oil smell, the small room.

No one mentioned it, but everyone knew they were walking into the hell Ethan had lived in for 7 years.

When they turned the final corner, where the geological map noted the tunnel narrowed, flashlights illuminated a scene that left the entire group in absolute silence.

a single metal chair.

Its legs sunk deep into the ground, covered in a thin layer of dust, but with faint handprints on the armrests, not too old.

Behind the chair was a long scratch mark on the wall, as if someone had leaned back, or something had scraped hard repeatedly.

In the farthest corner was a small wooden frame, like a shelf for a storage box, with a remnant gray cloth still on it, worn, but not rotted.

One specialist picked it up and whispered, “The material matches the type Ethan described on the bed.” That removed any remaining doubt from the team.

Right person, right time, right place of captivity.

But the biggest sign appeared when they shown lights on the ceiling, metal ducks running along the corridor exactly as Ethan had described.

Even one of them was dripping with a soft tick sound, echoing in the enclosed space, just as he had recounted.

One drop, then another.

The entire team stood motionless.

This was no longer an abandoned mine, no longer a forgotten entrance, no longer a hypothesis.

This was the actual captivity site.

And more importantly, every trace showed someone had used it for a very long time, very frequently, very deliberately.

As the technician documented the entire space, special agent Taylor took a deep breath.

The machine oil smells still thick, then said in a voice heavy as stone.

No doubt about it.

This isn’t an abandoned place.

This is where he lived, where he returned and where he held them for 7 years.

And the manhunt changed in nature from searching for a location to pursuing a human being who had lived right in the darkness of Hawthorne Hash3.

Immediately after determining that the deepest area of Hawthorne Hash3 showed signs of having been used as living quarters, the investigation team began expanding the search area to locate the cell Ethan had described.

And it took less than 10 minutes after turning into the narrow right-hand corridor before they found a low metal door, partially rusted, but with strangely new hinges.

The heavy door required two people to push open.

And the moment the space inside was revealed, everyone froze.

Cell number one, or more accurately, the first room where Ethan had been held, was deep in the mine like a scar frozen in time.

Flashlight beams made floating rock dust sparkle like dead gold particles.

The room was smaller than they had imagined, only about 3 m on each side, exactly the size Ethan had drawn in a trance-like state.

Low ceiling, ventilation pipe running across, and right in the center of the right stone wall.

The forensics team saw something that sent a chill through their entire bodies.

A metal anchor point drilled deep into the rock, rusted at the edges, but with the hook ring still new, and on the ground, a length of iron chain about 1 and 1/2 m long, the end secured with an industrial padlock.

The forensic specialist crouched to measure the exact height from the anchor to the floor, 68 CM, then compared it to Ethan’s medical file.

The scar tissue on his left wrist aligned perfectly with the position that would result from being chained to this anchor.

The match was too perfect for any remaining doubt.

This was where Ethan had been held in the early years.

The forensics team found scrape marks running downward from the anchor, forming parallel lines matching the thin scars on Ethan’s skin, as if he had tried twisting his wrist to loosen the metal cuff.

The area beneath the anchor also had a layer of disturbed dust, indicating that at some point the victim had knelt or been forced to kneel on the stone floor to relieve pressure on his wrists.

No one said it aloud, but everyone understood.

Every mark here was physical evidence of the pain Ethan had endured for seven consecutive years.

Continuing the examination, one specialist discovered small faint carvings on the wall opposite the door, many eroded by time.

But when light was shown at an angle, the marks became clearer.

Dates.

Single tally marks grouped into sets of five, like the way imprisoned people marked time.

Three vertical lines, then a diagonal cross.

Four straight lines, then the fifth crossing them.

More than two dozen such groups spread across the Greystone wall, some interrupted, some stretching hundreds of days.

One investigator quietly counted, then stopped, face tense.

If these are Ethans, he carved over 1,500 days, then stopped midway.

At the bottom of the wall was a short time frame, only a few marks ending abruptly, likely the point when Ethan was moved to another cell.

One forensic specialist said very quietly, “This is the time signature of a captive.

It can’t be faked.” But the most crucial piece of evidence didn’t appear until they lifted the thin faded mattress on the iron bed.

Beneath, among dust and rock fragments, was a dark brown leather work glove.

The heavyduty kind, still holding its shape, but covered in a layer of dust not too thick, meaning it hadn’t been there for many years.

Forensics immediately collected and sealed it, sending it to the mobile lab set up outside the mine.

The preliminary results left the entire team stunned.

DNA recovered from the inside of the glove belonged to a male, not Ethan, not Mark, and did not match any record of rescue personnel who had ever entered the mine.

An hour later, when the main lab officially ran the Cotus comparison, a name appeared.

Caleb Branson, male, 42 years old, formerly a mechanic for a small mining company in Newcastle, Wyoming.

Branson’s criminal record, showed no serious violent offenses, only minor charges related to property damage and public disturbance.

However, the part that sent chills down the investigators spines was in the personnel notes.

Branson had worked in underground machine repair and had experience maintaining old ventilation systems.

Moreover, records showed he was fired in 2014 after a mysterious incident involving unauthorized entry into sealed mine areas.

Every investigator understood the implication, a person with underground work experience, knowledgeable in old machinery, capable of maintaining rudimentary ventilation, living close enough for easy travel to the Black Hills, and with a history of illegal mine entry, was the person who left DNA in Ethan’s cell.

Special Agent Taylor looked at the glove sealed in the evidence bag, fingers clenched.

“We’ve got our first suspect,” he said.

But none of them knew that the name Caleb Branson was only the surface of something far deeper, something lying beneath Hawthorne Hash3, where two hunters vanished, and only one returned.

The second cell was found in the left branch of the tunnel after a narrow corridor barely wide enough for one person to pass while stooping.

And the moment the old metal door creaked with a long screech that echoed through the entire mine, everyone knew they had stepped into the darkest part of Hawthorne Hash 3.

Flashlight beams swept across damp stained rock walls down to the uneven stone strewn floor, then stopped in the center of the room, where a moss green jacket lay draped over one corner of an iron bed.

It wasn’t a jacket from some distant decade.

The fabric still had elasticity at the cuffs, only slightly faded and covered in rock dust.

One of the investigators recognized it immediately.

This is a 2016 winter hunting line.

But they didn’t need the manufacturing tag to confirm because inside the jacket pocket, they found something that left the group frozen.

A folded hunting license tag.

The owner’s name clearly printed Mark Kesler.

There was no doubt left.

This was Mark’s cell.

One investigator took a deep breath, trying to stay calm in the thick underground air.

They continued shining lights into the room’s corner where a metallic glint caught their eye.

A forensic specialist crouched and picked it up with tongs, a Buck 119 hunting knife, black handle, sharp steel blade, but dulled by time.

Lightly engraved on the handle were the initials MK.

No long comparison was needed because photos of Mark hunting with this exact knife had been provided in the missing person’s file by his family.

The picture became clearer and more painful.

Mark had been held separately in a room completely isolated from Ethan.

Continuing the examination, near the foot of the bed, among rock fragments, a specialist discovered a small object resembling gray white porcelain.

When they picked it up, the entire room fell into absolute silence.

It was a human bone fragment about the size of a finger joint with uneven broken edges, surface showing natural wear and scratches from long contact with the stone floor.

Forensics immediately sealed it in an evidence bag, labeling it bone fragment, possible human.

When taken for rapid analysis on the mobile equipment in the mine, the DNA reader showed a positive result.

About half an hour later, the report confirmed beyond doubt DNA matched 99.78% with Mark Kesler’s biometric profile.

No one on the team said it aloud, but everyone understood what this meant for the truth.

Mark’s family had feared for seven years.

Mark had died in the mine exactly as Ethan had described.

Dying after the third escape attempt, leaving only a bone fragment accidentally behind in the cell.

The air in the cell became oppressively heavy and the hardest decision of the day was made when they considered whether to let Ethan view this evidence.

Initially, the experts objected, citing severe trauma risk.

But when Ethan was informed they had found Mark cell, he said only one sentence, voice trembling but resolute.

I have to see.

Ethan was supported into the mine by two investigators and an accompanying psychologist.

The moment he crossed the threshold of cell number two, his body convulsed as if hit by a physical wave of memory.

He stared at the jacket for the first few seconds.

Then, as if all breath was yanked from his chest at once, he collapsed.

Trembling fingers touched the fabric edge.

“I told him not to try again,” Ethan whispered, his voice blending with the dripping sounds around the room.

When his eyes landed on the Buck 119 knife, his lips quivered into sound.

He reached out, touching the air just above it, not daring to touch the actual blade.

Mark kept it until the end, he said, as if speaking directly to Mark.

But what truly broke Ethan’s endurance was the moment the forensic specialist showed him the sealed bag containing the bone fragment.

They didn’t bring it too close, didn’t force him to look, but Ethan had already seen the 99.78% match figure on the corner of the analysis sheet.

His entire body froze.

Then he crumpled to the cold stone floor, not loud crying, but choked sobs and waves, heavy, stifled by the years he had listened to his best friend being tortured through the steel door.

The psychologist immediately escorted Ethan out of the cell.

But that image, Ethan collapsed near the door, hands shaking, breathing ragged as if unable to draw air, proved to the investigation team that Ethan’s 7-year story was not vague memory, but truth carved into stone.

When Ethan was brought back to the surface, special agent Taylor stood in cell number two, looking at the jacket, the knife, and the sealed bag containing the bone fragment.

He understood that the missing person’s case had officially become kidnapping plus murder.

No longer searching for survivors, no longer tracing a simple abduction.

This was a prolonged murder carried out systematically, deliberately, and certainly not accidental.

The evidence in cell number two had turned truth into something undeniable.

Mark Kesler had died in Hawthorne H3.

And the perpetrator, the one who entered the mine every 3 days, who tortured Mark to death, who left DNA on the glove, was out there still alive and now aware that this place had been discovered.

When the name Caleb Branson appeared in the DNA results from the glove found in cell number one, the entire direction of the investigation immediately shifted to gathering records on this man.

And the deeper they dug, the more terrifying the overlaps became between Branson’s past and what had happened to Ethan and Mark.

Caleb Branson was born in 1981 in Newcastle, Wyoming, and had worked as an underground mine mechanic for a small mining company specializing in maintaining old tunnels.

His employment record spanned nearly 12 years, and throughout that time, Branson worked primarily underground, repairing ventilation systems, welding pipes, maintaining machinery in abandoned tunnels, and especially proficient with mine structures from the 1930s to the 1970s.

In 2014, he was fired after an incident that was not clearly explained, recorded only in a few cold lines, unauthorized entry into sealed shafts.

Those sealed shafts, the blocked off tunnels, were exactly the type of place Ethan described and particularly similar to Hawthorne Hash3.

After being fired, Branson essentially disappeared from social life.

He moved to Roford, an almost isolated small town in the heart of the Black Hills, where population was sparse, forest road networks dense, and abandoned mines scattered within a radius of dozens of miles.

Branson’s home, according to local tax records, was on the edge of the forest with no specific address, accessible only by a narrow dirt track.

Neighbors described him as reclusive, uncommunicative, and often leaving home in the middle of the night or early morning.

One woman living about 2 mi away said she had seen him return with clothes caked in mud, as if he had just come up from a mine, even though there were no irrigation ditches or streams near his home that would cause that kind of soil buildup.

But what particularly caught the investigation team’s attention was not just Branson’s eccentric personality, but his minor criminal record.

Three times the Roford police had recorded him for stalking hikers or following forestgoers for too long.

One of the reports stated clearly subtle pursuit, maintains distance, watches from treeine.

Those descriptions made investigator Taylor frown immediately because they matched in a chilling way the ambush style Ethan described at dead man Gulch.

When the FBI began reviewing scattered forest camera footage from 2016, the year Ethan and Mark disappeared, they found a grainy 12-second clip from a Ranger camera about 0.4 mi from the Elk Creek trail head.

In the noisy footage on the morning Ethan and Mark entered the forest, an old brown Ford Bronco could be seen driving slowly on the trail behind the trail heading toward dead man Gulch.

The vehicle didn’t stop, but the speed was unusually slow.

When they ran the license plate through automated analysis, the result was clear.

The vehicle was registered to Caleb Branson.

This was the first evidence placing Branson near the scene on the exact day the two hunters disappeared.

Combined with the DNA on the glove, the suspect profile became increasingly complete.

However, one more detail sent chills through everyone.

Branson’s occupational health record.

A 2013 medical report showed he had mild inner ear damage, leading to sensitivity to metallic vibrations, explaining why, in Ethan’s account, the captor always knocked three times on the door before entering as a habit to warn his own ears against sudden sounds in the echoing mine environment.

A seemingly small detail, but it matched the perpetrators behavior in the cell perfectly.

The more information gathered on Branson, the clearer it became that he didn’t just fit.

He was practically molded exactly to the profile of the person who had held Ethan.

Knowledge of mines, yes.

Experience with old machinery, yes.

Ability to maintain underground ventilation, yes.

History of entering sealed mines illegally, yes.

Habit of stalking hikers, yes.

Present near the location where Ethan and Mark disappeared on the day of the ambush.

Yes.

and most crucially his DNA in Ethan’s cell.

When the compiled report was presented to the Pennington County judge, special agent Taylor said, “Only one short sentence.

If we need a suspect capable of maintaining Hawthorne 3 for 7 years, no one fits better than Branson.” The judge reviewed it in under 30 minutes and signed the search warrant authorizing the FBI and sheriff’s office to enter Caleb Branson’s property in Roford, search vehicles, residents, surrounding forest land, and any underground structures that might exist within a 3m radius.

The order had just been issued.

Units immediately deployed.

And just 2 hours later, the convoy of FBI vehicles, Pennington County Sheriff’s deputies, and the Rapid City SWAT team moved into the forested area leading to where Caleb Branson lived.

Caleb’s home, a weathered wooden cabin deep in the Roford Forest, had no specific address, identifiable only by GPS coordinates.

Stepping through damp soil and thick layers of pine needles, the agents advanced in a dispersed formation.

But when they were still about 50 m from the door, an investigator whispered over the radio, eyes at the window.

He knows we’re coming.

Less than 4 seconds later, the cabin door burst open and Caleb Branson bolted out, sprinting into the woods behind with astonishing speed and skill.

He didn’t shout, didn’t resist directly.

He simply vanished into the trees like a man who had spent his entire life in this forest.

That immediately made the SWAT team realize for Caleb this wasn’t unfamiliar territory.

This was his home turf.

The pursuit instantly shifted to a dangerous mountain forest chase.

Caleb’s footprints were imprinted in the mud, still wet from the previous night’s rain.

But after just a few hundred meters, he began using evasion techniques, gliding over roots, leaping onto rocks, walking along streams to erase his tracks.

Investigator Taylor gritted his teeth.

He knows how to clean his trail like a minor knows how to walk on dust.

Exactly 12 minutes after Caleb fled, a drone operator launched a small UAV into the air.

The drone scanned the canopy, but couldn’t penetrate fully due to the dense terrain.

At the same time, the K9 unit was released toward the stream.

The tracking dogs picked up the scent quickly.

A strange but familiar mix of machine oil and human odor to anyone who had examined Hawthorne Hash 3.

The chase was on.

Caleb led them into stretches of forest so thick that sunlight only filtered down in patches.

He slipped through rock crevices like someone who had done it hundreds of times, guiding the pursuit team in circles around small hills, over fallen trees, and disappearing from sight in an instant whenever he changed direction.

He wasn’t running frantically.

He was running strategically like someone who had prepared for this.

But what he hadn’t anticipated was that the pursuit team had an advantage.

He lacked a second drone.

Deployed from the eastern airspace, caught a small glint on the ground.

light reflecting off metal on his backpack.

The operator relayed coordinates over the radio bearing 122° moving toward the large rock slope.

The agents began tightening the noose.

After 90 minutes of pursuit, the Roford morning was tense as a drawn bow string.

One officer examined the footprints and said he’s heading for the old hunter’s cabin.

This cabin, once a hunter shelter from the 1980s, now abandoned, sat in a completely isolated part of the wilderness.

It was an ideal spot for Caleb to hide temporarily or retrieve items he had stashed.

As the SWAT team approached the cabin at 40 m, they saw thin smoke rising from the rear door crack.

Caleb was inside.

An agent raised a hand signal.

Two flanked left silently, two flanked right, stepping lightly on the dry leaves.

The rear door of the cabin was slightly a jar, then closed as if he was checking if anyone was close behind, Taylor whispered over the radio.

“Don’t let him slip away again.” One moment of laxity and Caleb could sneak out a window and vanish into the forest, but this time the team gave him no chance.

When the signal was given with a shoulder tap, they breached.

The door flew open and amid swirling wood dust, they saw Caleb bent over his backpack, trying to pull something out.

An agent shouted, “Banson, hands on the ground.” But Caleb didn’t run, didn’t resist.

He simply stood up straight, his pale blue eyes, staring at them blankly, as if he had anticipated this.

A paracord still dangled from his hand.

No screaming, no struggle.

He raised his hands, not quickly, not slowly, like a man who knew the game was over.

Caleb Branson was handcuffed on the spot.

The evidence in the cabin chilled everyone more than the underground cell, a fake deer call device, the kind that mimics deer sounds to lure hunters.

The tool that may have been used to draw Ethan and Mark away from safety, making them believe a large animal was nearby.

A stack of old maps covered in markings of mine shafts around Dead Man Gulch with Hawthorne hash three circled three times and other branches crossed out in red ink as if he had scouted each one to select the perfect location for captivity.

But the heaviest legal evidence was in the backpack he hadn’t managed to fully open, a jacket stained with Ethan’s DNA.

Rapid testing confirmed the biological traces matched Ethan Hail, proving Caleb had direct contact with the victim during Ethan’s captivity.

There was no room left for alternative theories.

As Caleb was loaded into the prisoner transport, he said nothing, asked nothing, offered no resistance.

He just stared out the window toward the forest as if assessing whether there was any escape route he hadn’t yet exploited.

Investigator Taylor watched the vehicle drive away, dust rising in the cold air.

The 48-hour manhunt was over.

Caleb Branson was in custody and transferred to Rapid City for holding pending interrogation.

Deep beneath Hawthorne Hash3, part of the truth had been uncovered.

Now, the rest would depend on whether Caleb opened his mouth or whether the investigators had to pry every piece of truth from the evidence he had left in the darkness over the past 7 years.

The first interrogation of Caleb Branson took place in a highse security room in Rapid City.

But from the moment he was seated, hands still cuffed in front of him, everyone in the room knew this would be unlike any other interrogation.

Caleb sat motionless, back straight, gazing blankly as if observing empty space rather than the people across from him.

When Agent Taylor spoke, “Caleb, we want to talk about Hawthorne number three.” He didn’t blink, showed no expression, just tilted his head slightly as if trying to hear a distant sound.

He displayed no fear, no surprise at his arrest.

That to Taylor was more unsettling than outright defiance.

But the FBI didn’t rely on feelings.

They relied on evidence, and the evidence was laid out on the table, one piece at a time, in the exact sequence the team had spent days linking into a complete chain.

Caleb offered no response.

didn’t request a lawyer in the first hour, just stared at the stainless steel table.

When Taylor played the first audio recording, the one where Ethan was asked to listen to Caleb’s voice, and immediately, almost instinctively, said, “That’s him.” Caleb moved for the first time, a slight twitch in his jaw, then his back stiffened slightly, not panic, but a reflex upon realizing someone had survived and could testify against him, Taylor explained slowly.

Ethan Hail heard your voice and he recognized it instantly.

The statement didn’t make Caleb speak, but his eyes shifted ever so slightly, a flicker of irritation quick enough that only someone watching closely like Taylor noticed.

The interrogation moved to physical evidence.

First, the bootprints images from the floor of Hawthorne Hash3 placed in front of Caleb.

Size 10 and a half, Taylor said.

Industrial Soul Pattern Timberline Mining Series 2012 model.

He remained silent.

Taylor slid forward the second photo.

Prince in the mud outside the hunter’s cabin where he was captured.

Same size, same sole pattern, same wear on the left heel edge, indicating the wearer favors their right side slightly.

At that, Caleb glanced down at his own feet where the seized boots now sat in an evidence bag on the table.

The match was perfect, Taylor continued.

The offset wear also matches the blow to Ethan’s head.

Caleb looked up.

You know, Taylor said evenly.

Ethan’s skull has an old fracture on the left side from a downward strike from the right consistent with someone about 5’11.

Your height.

No shouting, no emphasis, just facts laid out.

Caleb pressed two fingers against the edge of his cuffs, but said nothing.

Next, Taylor placed the sealed bag containing the leather glove, the key piece of evidence.

We tested the DNA, Taylor said.

Not once, three times.

Same result.

He set the lab report in front of him.

Match 99.99%.

Caleb Branson, another agent standing behind Taylor, added, “No contamination.

No match to anyone else who ever entered the mine.

No mistake.” Caleb’s face shifted from blank to a tense, unreadable expression, as if he knew the game was no longer reversible.

Taylor went on, “We found this glove under the iron bed where Ethan was chained.

Inside, your sweat.

Outside, rock dust matching the minerals in Hawthorne Hash 3.” But what left no room for denial was the next piece Taylor presented.

The jacket with Ethan’s DNA found in the cabin where Caleb hid.

Taylor placed it on the table inside a clear bag.

Caleb’s gaze lingered longer there, as if realizing his last escape route was gone.

“You wore this jacket out of Hawthorne,” Taylor said, “and never washed it.

The match was so complete that even the legal observer in the room stayed silent.

But the interrogation wasn’t just about physical evidence.

It was about the survivor’s testimony.” When Ethan was brought in for voice identification 3 days after Caleb’s arrest, hearing just the words, “Sit down” from Caleb on jail footage, Ethan immediately shook violently and blurted, “That’s him.

No mistake.” That reaction wasn’t ordinary testimony.

It was trauma reflex, the kind that comes from the deepest memory, impossible to fake or act.

In the psychological report, the doctor wrote, “Victim exhibits strong startle response to Caleb Branson’s voice level consistent with conditioned trauma response only occurs in those subjected to prolonged control by the individual with that voice.” This meant Ethan hadn’t just heard Caleb’s voice.

He had heard it hundreds, even thousands of times over seven years of captivity.

Back in the interrogation room, Taylor presented Ethan’s behavioral profile of the perpetrator, especially the habit of knocking three times on the door before entering.

Your knocking habit, Taylor said, matches your occupational health record, noting sensitivity to metal echo sounds.

You once reported to Mine Medical that you needed to signal sounds in advance to avoid ear pain.

It wasn’t coincidence.

Caleb narrowed his eyes slightly.

Other evidence was equally decisive.

From rope marks on the wall matching his arm height to mining tools found in his cabin, small wood saws, bolts, ventilation shaft tools, all consistent with someone who had kept Hawthorne Hash three operational for 7 years.

But the final blow to any denial came from an unexpected source.

Ethan.

When Caleb was escorted past the hallway where Ethan was being treated, though they couldn’t see each other, Caleb said, “Move him to his escort because the path was narrow.” Ethan, standing in a soundproof room with the door slightly open, hear it, and his immediate reaction was a choked sob and collapsing, curling into the exact fearful posture seen in his trauma records.

When the doctor rushed to help Ethan, he could only utter one word, him.

No direct visual identification needed.

Just the tone of that voice was enough to trigger the memory.

In investigative psychology, that’s called a trauma recognition cue.

One of the strongest forms of identification, nearly impossible to fake.

It was all captured on hospital camera.

When the footage was shown to the investigative panel, no one had any doubts left.

Caleb Branson wasn’t someone who knew part of the case.

Not someone who passed by Hawthorne.

Not someone who accidentally left DNA.

He was the one who lived in the mine.

The one who imprisoned Ethan, the one who killed Mark.

Taylor, looking straight into Caleb’s eyes, delivered the final line of the session.

You’re not just a suspect.

Every piece of evidence, DNA, bootprints, physical items, voice, behavior, height, strike pattern matches 100%.

And for the first time since his arrest, Caleb blinked.

Slowly but clearly, Taylor gathered the files, stood up, and concluded, “Caleb Branson, you are the sole perpetrator in this kidnapping and murder.” Caleb didn’t respond, didn’t refute, didn’t immediately request a lawyer.

He just looked down at his cuffed hands.

The hands that had once tightened chains, pulled Mark from his cell, knocked three times on the heavy steel door, and everyone in the room understood that his silence was the first unofficial admission.

The trial of Caleb Branson began in early September 2024 at the federal courthouse in Rapid City under unusually high security for a case in such a remote mountain region.

From the opening statements, the prosecutor made it clear to the jury that they would reconstruct seven years of darkness, seven years in which Ethan Hail was held underground, every breath, sleep, and bite of food controlled.

And those seven years had only one person responsible, Caleb Branson.

The courtroom was packed, half national press, half locals who had once thought the two hunters disappearance was just a forest accident.

Evidence from prior investigations was solid enough to charge Caleb with three counts.

Kidnapping, prolonged false imprisonment, and first-degree murder.

However, the prosecution knew that for a case with no body for Mark and no camera footage of the crime, they needed to rebuild the entire chain of events so the jury could see every link, every action, every deliberate choice by the defendant.

First witness, Ethan Hail.

He was brought into the courtroom with a doctor accompanying him, eyes always avoiding bright light.

A reflex developed after years in darkness.

When he took the stand, Ethan took a few seconds to steady his breathing before looking directly at the jury.

The prosecutor asked Ethan to recount from beginning to end what you remember.

Ethan started with the ambush moment at dead man Gulch, describing clearly the heavy oilscented cloth bag pulled over his head, the hands dragging him across the ground, the blow to the head that made his ears ring and left only echoing metal sounds.

His voice trembled but didn’t break.

And whenever he mentioned Mark, Ethan’s hands clenched together as if holding on to what little remained in his memory.

Ethan continued about the early days in cell number one.

No light, no windows, only the sound of ventilation fans and footsteps whenever the captor appeared.

He described the musty smell of lung mold, the patter of falling rock dust from the ceiling, and how Caleb used different flashlights depending on the time, both to illuminate and to torment his hearing.

When the prosecutor asked, “Can you swear the person who held you was Caleb Branson?” Ethan didn’t answer immediately.

He turned toward the defendant.

Caleb sat motionless, face cold, as if none of this concerned him.

The courtroom fell dead silent.

Ethan said softly but clearly.

I heard his voice for 7 years.

I couldn’t be wrong.

That moment made several jurors look down, clearly deeply affected by that unshakable certainty.

After Ethan’s testimony, the prosecution moved to the mine geology experts called to assess the complexity of maintaining an abandoned underground mine for years.

Mine engineering expert Harold McNeely explained that the ventilation system in Hawthorne Hash3 couldn’t have operated on its own.

Someone repaired it, replaced bearings, added new wiring.

This requires deep knowledge of mine structures and specialized tools.

When asked if an ordinary person could maintain such a system continuously for seven years, McNeely answered directly, “No, this is the fingerprint of an experienced mine engineer, and the defendant’s occupational history matches exactly the repairs we found.” This made Caleb frown slightly the first time during the trial.

The prosecution continued building the timeline with a 3D map simulating the route from Elk Creek trail head to Hawthorne Hash3, combining bootprint data, drone footage, 2016 Blizzard records, and analysis of canned goods from 2020 2021 in the cell.

The entire sequence was projected on a large screen.

October 29th, 2016, Ethan and Mark ambushed at dead man Gulch.

The two separated into different cells.

2016 2017 Caleb concealed the mine entrance with new wood panels.

2018 2021 he maintained ventilation, supplied food, replaced technical parts.

April 2017, Mark died after his third escape attempt.

2023 Ethan escaped after a rotted wood wall collapsed.

The jury followed each marker, satellite images, and recovered items from the mine.

Everything matched Ethan’s testimony, and was absolutely consistent with Caleb’s traces.

When the defense took the floor, they couldn’t refute the physical evidence, all lab tested DNA, and solid forensics.

They shifted to attacking Ethan’s psychological trauma.

They claimed Ethan suffered misidentification disorder, that memories were distorted by the horror, that hearing Caleb’s voice in interrogation video wasn’t enough.

The defense even tried to cast doubt on Mark, saying Hawthorne number three, suggesting Ethan might have retroactively pieced together the memory years after escaping.

But the prosecution simply stood and countered with one line, “If the victim’s memory is unreliable, look at the DNA.” Then they presented the glove with Caleb’s sweat, the jacket with Ethan’s DNA in the cabin, matching bootprints, 2016 phone location history, and even distinctive Hawthorne 3 rock dust found in Caleb’s home.

This isn’t memory, this is science, the prosecutor said.

The courtroom fell silent.

In the final rebuttal, the defense tried to argue Ethan might have been held by someone else and Caleb was coincidentally involved due to working in the area, but the prosecution responded with a series of direct questions.

Someone else with a voice identical to Caleb’s.

Someone else wearing boots worn offset exactly like Caleb’s.

Someone else leaving DNA in the glove under Ethan’s bed.

Someone else owning a jacket with Ethan’s DNA in his private cabin.

Someone else knowing details about Hawthorne Hash3 and appearing near Elk Creek.

On the exact day the victims vanished.

Each question delivered slowly and firmly.

The jury exchanged glances, needing no further explanation.

In the trial’s closing phase, the prosecution called Ethan back to the stand, not to answer questions, but for direct confrontation with Caleb, a powerful psychological strategy.

Ethan turned and looked straight at the defendant.

Caleb maintained his stone face, but his hands gripped the chair arms, knuckles white.

Ethan said only one thing.

He knew I’d remember his voice, but he didn’t think I’d survive.

The entire courtroom was utterly silent until the prosecutor closed with final words.

7 years, 7 years underground, one dead, one survivor, and only one person with the ability, motive, and traces on every centimeter of the scene.

Caleb Branson.

As Ethan was helped out of the courtroom, the jury watched with eyes full of anger and compassion.

They had heard enough.

And the moment deciding Caleb Branson’s fate was now only hours away.

The sentencing hearing for Caleb Branson took place on the morning of October 18th, 2024, just 3 days after the jury delivered a unanimous guilty verdict on all charges against him.

The courtroom was still packed with people, but instead of the tense atmosphere of previous sessions, it was quieter, as if everyone was waiting for the inevitable conclusion.

Caleb was brought in wearing shiny cold handcuffs, his face as expressionless as it had been throughout the weeks, but this time his eyes stayed fixed on the floor more often, avoiding eye contact with the judge as well as the victim’s families.

Ethan was not present in person due to health reasons, but his statement was read in court, a short, concise one, without heavy vengeful emotion, simply saying, “I want to live the rest of my life without having to fear him anymore.

Please ensure that he will never have the opportunity to do the same to anyone else.” Just one sentence, but it was enough to make many people in the room wipe their eyes.” The prosecutor briefly restated the charges, emphasizing that the level of cruelty and duration of the captivity far exceeded similar cases in the state’s history.

They described how Mark Kesler was killed under inhumane conditions after months of torment, and Ethan Hail was deprived of his freedom in a manner no less than wartime torture.

The prosecution requested the maximum sentence possible under South Dakota law, life imprisonment without parole for murder in the first degree, plus two counts of firstdegree kidnapping for the two victims and additional time for prolonged false imprisonment.

On the other side, the defense attorney had no further arguments to salvage their client.

They only asked the court to consider Caleb’s mental instability, but the judge immediately rejected it, stating that the defendant’s entire conduct over seven years showed careful calculation, preparation of equipment, maintenance of underground facilities, and concealment of traces, all proving high mental clarity rather than mental disorder.

When it was Caleb’s turn to speak before sentencing, he stood up, looked directly at the judge for a long moment, and then said only four words, “I didn’t do it.” No apology, no justification, no explanation.

The jury was unmoved.

Many even showed clear outrage at his brazeness.

Finally, Judge Donald Weiss read the sentence, his voice steady but resounding in the room.

Defendant Caleb Branson is convicted of murder in the first degree in the death of Mark Kesler.

Sentence life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.

Defendant is convicted of kidnapping in the first degree against Ethan Hail and Mark Kesler.

Sentence 40 years for each count to be served consecutively.

Defendant is convicted of prolonged false imprisonment.

Sentence 20 additional years.

In total, Caleb received life without parole plus 80 years, ensuring that he would never see daylight beyond prison bars again.

When the sentence was read, Caleb showed no emotion, only a slight clenching of his jaw as someone who finally understood that all paths were permanently closed.

He was escorted out of the courtroom in silence, but that silence held no sympathy.

It was the silence of a community witnessing the end of the day for the man who had swn terror in two families for seven long years.

The next day, Caleb was transferred from the Rapid City Jail to the South Dakota State Penitentiary in Sou Falls, the maximum security prison housing the state’s most dangerous inmates.

He did not resist, did not ask questions, did not request to see anyone.

Records noted that he simply sat quietly in the transport vehicle, eyes fixed on the distant gray sky.

At the prison, Caleb was placed in the supermax unit where inmates are almost completely isolated, spending 23 hours a day in a sealed concrete cell and 1 hour in a covered yard.

No one knows what he was thinking, but many guards said Caleb spoke very little, only answering required questions and showing no regret or remorse.

For the Black Hills community, the sentence brought no joy, but a sense of relief, a confirmation that the perpetrator of the disappearance had been punished and could no longer harm anyone.

For Mark’s family, the sentence could not bring him back.

But at least they knew the man who caused him to die underground had paid the price.

As for Ethan, though he did not attend the final hearing, he was informed immediately after the sentence was announced.

According to the doctor, Ethan simply let out a long breath, then said quietly, “So, it’s finally over.” And the rest of Caleb Branson’s life, beginning from that moment, consisted only of four cold walls, harsh overhead light, and the clang of iron doors.

A stark contrast to the darkness he had forced others to live in for seven years.

But this time, he was the one locked away.

No escape, no chance for redemption, no more days of freedom ahead.

After the trial, Ethan Hail officially became the rare survivor of a kind of hell that no one thought could exist beneath the Black Hills.

But escaping the mine did not mean escaping what it had left in his mind.

The recovery process began slowly, heavily, and longer than any doctor had predicted.

Ethan still woke up in the middle of the night to imagined metal sounds.

Still flinched when the hospital room door opened too quickly, and whenever the light changed suddenly, he instinctively curled up.

Doctors diagnosed severe PTSD with persistent defensive responses, recurring nightmares, and time distortion, things that would take many years to ease.

Ethan attended therapy three sessions a week in Rapid City, sometimes saying nothing the entire time, just staring down at the hands that had been chained for so long, sometimes bursting into tears upon hearing the sound of a drill from nearby construction.

But even though the wounds inside him were not yet healed, Ethan still tried to do one thing first.

Return to Spearfish Canyon to reset Mark’s memorial plaque.

The memorial had aged after 7 years of wind and snow.

The paint faded and the stones around it shifted, but Ethan picked up each stone, repositioning them exactly where Mark had liked during their early fall hunting trips.

Ethan stood there for nearly an hour, strong wind blowing through the high cliffs.

carrying the scent of pine resin and cold moisture.

He did not speak loudly, but whispered just enough for himself to hear, “I’m sorry for leaving you down there.

I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.” Passers by saw him bowing his head before the memorial without knowing that the man standing before them was part of a story that seemed to have ended 7 years earlier.

A week later, the federal technical team completed sealing Hawthorne Mine Hash3.

Not just closing the entrance, they blocked it with industrial steel, welded multiple layers, covered it with concrete, and reinforced it with earth and rock to ensure no one, even adventure seekers, could access it again.

As the final weld glowed red-hot on the mine opening, Ethan stood a short distance away, watching the steel door gradually become a permanent wall.

An engineer gently asked, “Do you want to say anything before we finish sealing it?” Ethan just shook his head.

But that calm demeanor could not hide the slight trembling in his hands.

For Ethan, sealing the mind was not a way to erase memories.

It was a way to prevent another darkness from swallowing someone else.

A few weeks later, Ethan decided to return to the Black Hills one last time before leaving South Dakota.

He chose a foggy morning, following the trail near Dead Man Gulch, where everything began and where memories still haunted like a thin layer of ash on his mind.

In Ethan’s hand was a bunch of purple wild flowers that Mark used to pick for his mother.

each first hunting season.

He placed the bouquet under an old pine canopy not far from where the ranger camera had captured the last image of the two of them.

Ethan bent down lightly touching the cold tree trunk and said in a very soft but firm voice, “If anyone hears me or passes by here, please remember if you hear metal sounds from underground, stop immediately.

Don’t try to find out what it is.” He said no more.

did not look back as he walked away because he knew the mountains and forests hold things that should never be awakened.

When Ethan left the Black Hills, the fog had not yet lifted.

The Black Rock ridges stood still as they had for thousands of years.

But now they carried an additional story, a story that locals would remind each other of every time hunting season began.

A reporter asked Ethan in his only interview after the case.

“What do you think the Black Hills took from you?” Ethan was silent for a long time before answering, “The Black Hills gave back one person and kept one.” That statement became the closing line of the entire case file engraved on the new warning sign placed near Elk Creek trail head.

And though the mountains and forest remain beautiful, still attracting explorers, those who know the truth understand, there are darknesses not only underground, but also in the memories of the only person who managed to walk out of it.

The story of Ethan Hail and Mark Kesler is not just a tragedy that occurred in the Black Hills Mountains.

It reflects issues that are still very real in American life today.

safety when exploring nature, the dangers of abandoned lands, gaps in rural community oversight, and especially the fragility of humans before those hiding on the fringes of society.

The fact that Caleb Branson, a former mine engineer living in isolation with a history of stalking hikers, operated for 7 years without anyone noticing, shows that even in a country with a strong law enforcement system, remote areas still have blind spots where communities need to be proactively vigilant.

An important lesson from the story is the importance of sharing itineraries when going into nature.

Ethan and Mark only vaguely informed others about their deer hunting plans.

This delayed the initial search efforts, causing many traces to be erased by wind and snow.

Today, with satellite phones more common, location sharing apps like Life 360 or Garmin in reach can significantly reduce risks when venturing into mountains and forests.

The existence of abandoned mines like Hawthorne 3 also serves as a reminder that old structures always pose dangers beyond imagination, not just physically, but because they can be exploited by others.

In many western US states, people often view abandoned mines as exciting exploration spots, but this story shows they can become tools for serious crimes.

The deepest lesson comes from Ethan himself.

Even after escaping the darkness, he still carries severe PTSD, flinching at lights, and fear of metal sounds.

This reminds us that psychological trauma does not end when the victim is found.

It requires long-term support from family, community, and the health care system.

The United States currently has many programs supporting veterans and violence victims, but survivors of prolonged captivity like Ethan remain a group easily overlook.

Finally, Ethan’s warning.

If you hear metal sounds from underground, stop immediately.

Applies not just to the Black Hills, but reminds everyone that peace in nature can conceal unexpected things.

Choosing safety over curiosity can be the decision that saves a life.

Thank you for following this haunting story.

If you want to join us in exploring more mysterious cases, don’t forget to subscribe so you don’t miss any episode.

See you in the next video where every story is a reminder that the truth sometimes lies right in the darkness we least