The sun hadn’t yet fully climbed over the horizon when the students of the Class of 1999 gathered in front of Red Valley High School. They were dressed in their crisp uniforms, perfectly knotted ties, and wore smiles that combined nerves and excitement. It was their last trip together, a tradition the school had maintained for decades: a three-day camping trip in the mountains before the official graduation. Parents hugged their children; some cried quietly, others laughed while taking photos. The yellow school bus gleamed in the morning light; the driver called attendance, and as the last door closed, it drove off amidst applause. It was the last time anyone saw them.
The bus never reached its destination. When evening fell without any news, the parents began calling, first to the school, then to the police. By midnight, the search was underway: helicopters circling the valleys, patrols on the highways, volunteers combing every forest trail. There were no tire tracks, no trace of an accident, no sign of braking. They had simply disappeared. For days, the news broadcast images of mothers praying in front of cameras and officers pointing at maps. Rewards were offered, theories of mass kidnapping, voluntary escape, even abduction were floated. Nothing. The investigation grew cold as the months passed, until the case was filed as an “unsolved mass disappearance.”
The years piled up. Some parents moved away, others died without knowing what had happened. The forest surrounding Red Valley gained a reputation as cursed. Hikers avoided certain areas, claiming that on moonless nights they could hear teenage voices and laughter that suddenly died away. Some claimed to have seen lights between the trees, as if a bus were still running in the distance. Ghost stories, said the skeptics. For the families, however, the silence was more unbearable than any legend.
Twenty-two years later, the silence was broken. A lone hiker, searching for mushrooms in a remote area that had been closed for years due to fire risk, found something impossible: an abandoned school bus, covered in rust and vines, in the middle of the forest. The serial number was still legible and matched that of the vehicle that disappeared in 1999. The man backed away, frightened, but curiosity was stronger. He pushed the door, which creaked as if someone had opened it for the last time yesterday. The interior was a time capsule: backpacks hung from the seats, half-full water bottles, and neatly folded school jackets. On the floor, an open notebook bore the date June 13, 1999 , with a sentence written in smudged ink: “It’s not the same forest. It’s not the same sky.”
The discovery mobilized the state police. They cordoned off the area, set up spotlights, and began documenting every nook and cranny. However, what they found in the back of the bus was never revealed to the public. Some officers who participated in the operation asked to be reassigned immediately. One of them leaked to the press that “there were no bodies, but there were signs that someone had been there until recently.” There were traces of fire, a rope hanging from the ceiling, and something else that no one would describe.
Theories multiplied. How could a bus have remained undiscovered in the middle of the forest for decades? Mapping experts claimed the site had been revisited several times during the initial searches. It was as if the bus had appeared there recently, or as if the forest had deliberately hidden it. Some of the students’ relatives visited the site and reported feeling “a presence,” as if their children were still nearby.
The night the towing work began, a thunderstorm suddenly hit the area. The generators failed, and the camp was plunged into darkness. Witnesses report hearing metallic bangs coming from inside the bus, as if something was trying to escape. When the lights came back on, the back door was open and one of the backpacks was gone. No one could explain how.
Since then, the bus has been moved to an evidence warehouse in the capital, but the rumors continue. Workers at the warehouse say they hear muffled laughter at night and that the seats are found rearranged every morning. Official investigators are keeping the case secret, but the families insist the results be made public.
In Red Valley’s main square, the old mural with student photos has been restored. Lit candles burn day and night. On social media, the hashtag #ClassOf1999 went viral again, accompanied by theories ranging from secret cults to failed government experiments. The only certainty is that the discovery didn’t bring peace, but rather new questions.
Where were the students during those twenty-two years? Why did they stop writing in their notebooks that very day? Who—or what—opened the bus door in the middle of the storm? The answers seem more distant than ever, and yet those who have been there assure us that the forest hasn’t finished speaking. As night falls, the fireflies seem to align themselves as if tracing a path to the place where it all began.
They say if you listen closely, you can still hear the bus engine starting in the dark.
