The class of ’99 disappeared during their senior trip, and now, 22 years later, a shocking find comes to light…

They were twenty-seven teenagers, full of life, headed for one last adventure before adulthood. Then, they vanished, without a trace. No calls.

No bodies. Just silence. For twenty-two years, the story of the class of ninety-nine was nothing more than a terrifying urban legend.

A cautionary tale whispered around campfires. That is, until a hiker stumbled upon a rusted school bus in the woods, swallowed by moss, filled with moldy yearbooks, and something else. Something no one was prepared for.

June 3rd, 2021. Oregon’s rogue River Siskiyou National Forest. A seasoned hiker, off his usual trail, catches sight of a strange yellow object through the trees.

Thinking it might be old equipment or a ranger outpost, he gets closer, only to find the shattered shell of a school bus, half consumed by the forest. The number on the side is almost unreadable. Inside, it looks like time just stopped.

Dusty backpacks still strapped to seats. Faded Polaroids. A cassette player lying on the floor, warped by moisture.

Pages from a yearbook stuck together from mold. But in the very back seat, a pile of clothing. And beneath it, what was unmistakably a human jawbone.

When investigators arrived, they immediately connected the bus to one of the most chilling cold cases in Oregon history. The disappearance of Forest Grove High School senior class, class of 1999, during their graduation trip. But the deeper they looked, the more impossible it all became.

There was no record of the bus ever being rented. No trail cameras had picked up its no road nearby. And inside, personal items belonging to nearly every single missing student.

Some of the belongings were intact, but others were arranged deliberately, like a message or a ritual. What happened on that bus wasn’t an accident. And what the forest kept hidden for over two decades was more than a tragedy.

It was a secret no one was meant to find. The halls of Forest Grove High School buzzed with the electric energy of seniors on the brink of freedom. Locker doors slammed, laughter echoed down corridors, and teachers wore the weary smiles of people counting down the days.

It was May 1999, and for the class of 99, graduation was just around the corner. Among the sea of navy caps and gowns being prepped for the big day, 26 students stood out. Not because they were extraordinary, but because they were close.

A tight-knit group, grown together over the years through shared classrooms, heartbreaks, inside jokes, and Friday night games. Lacey Monroe walked the hall with effortless grace, a folder clutched to her chest. She was everything her parents hoped for, valedictorian, student council president, future Ivy Leaguer.

Her father, Mayor Thomas Monroe, never missed a chance to mention her achievements during city speeches. But those who knew Lacey closely saw the pressure behind her polished smile, the late night study sessions, the panic attacks hidden behind bathroom stalls. Not far behind, Jared Fields darted into the AV room, camera in hand, narrating his own mockumentary of high school life.

Jared was the class clown, bold, relentless, occasionally obnoxious, but his eyes carried a sharpness few noticed. He planned to turn the camping trip into his final project, a time capsule of their last week together. Gonna be my Blair Witch, but funnier, he’d joke.

Tyrese Hall towered over most of his classmates, shoulder pads long since replaced with the proud weight of a full-ride football scholarship to Oregon State. Everyone expected big things from Tyrese. Coaches, classmates, his mom especially.

But with every scholarship offer came a growing fear. What if he failed? What if the best years of his life were already behind him? Then there was Emily Tran, the girl whose presence was often marked only by the soft scrape of pencil on paper. Her sketchbook never left her side.

Filled with portraits of classmates who never knew they’d been drawn in forest scenes, she claimed came to her in dreams. She rarely spoke unless spoken to, but when she did, it lingered. Emily wasn’t exactly part of the group, but somehow they all trusted her.

As the final bell rang on a Friday afternoon, the school was alive with celebration. Someone blasted Green Day’s Good Riddance from their car stereo. Teachers handed out final permission slips, and talk of the upcoming trip to the Rogue River Wilderness dominated every conversation.

June 5, 1999. It was supposed to be a celebration. 27 seniors from Forest Grove High School had been planning their graduation trip for months.

After finals, college acceptance letters, and years of small-town monotony, this trip was their moment of freedom. The destination, a remote campground nestled deep within Oregon’s rogue River Siskiyou National Forest. Isolated, scenic, and far away from parents, curfews, and rules.

They left that Saturday morning in a yellow school bus driven by Mr. Harold Griggs, a substitute driver filling in for the usual one who had called out sick the night before. Departure was cheerful. Students waved to their families, backpacks stuffed with snacks and sleeping bags.

A few parents captured grainy camcorder footage, laughter, cheers, and a group photo just before boarding. That was the last anyone would ever see of them. That evening, one of the parents, Mrs. Elsie McClure, received a voicemail at 6.41 p.m. It was from her daughter, Rachel.

In the background, muffled laughter, someone yelling, turn that off, then a pause, and silence. No goodbye, no hang up, just static. When the bus failed to check in at the campground that night, it was first assumed they’d gotten delayed.

The weather had turned foggy. Roads in the forest were narrow, barely paved, and lined with sheer drop-offs. Parents called, but no one answered…