Young Cousins Vanished on a Picnic Day in 1993 — 20 Years Later A Nearby Farmer Saw Shocking… | HO

SLOAN SPRINGS, NEVADA — On a bright June morning in 1993, 11 cousins—aged 10 to 16—piled into a white family van for what was supposed to be an ordinary picnic outside this small Nevada town. By nightfall, that day would become the start of one of the most chilling and enduring mysteries in American history. The children vanished without a trace, leaving behind only an abandoned van, a sketchbook, and the unanswered silence of the desert.

For two decades, the disappearance of the “Sloan Canyon 11” haunted the families and the community. There were no footprints, no ransom notes, no suspects. Theories ranged from abduction and cults to mass runaway, but none fit the facts. Then, in the summer of 2013, a local farmer made a discovery that reignited the case—and exposed disturbing new clues that challenged everything investigators thought they knew.

The Day Everything Changed

June 19, 1993, began with the kind of excitement only children know. Four families—Sanders, Cooper, Beck, and Larson—gathered for their annual picnic at a canyon edge near Sloan Springs. The parents, eight in total, drove behind the van in separate cars, loaded with food and supplies. The kids, armed with games, maps, and a boom box, tumbled out into the sun-drenched desert.

By all accounts, the day was peaceful. The cousins—Michael, Jenna, Ryan, Ellie, Brandon, Sophie, Kyle, Tina, Josh, Liam, and Grace—explored the dunes, played games, and drew pictures. Around 1:45 p.m., they ate lunch. Some returned to the sand, others lingered at the van. At 2:30 p.m., when parents called for the children, there was no answer. At first, it seemed like a game. But as minutes ticked by, panic set in.

A frantic search began. Within an hour, the sheriff was called. By sunset, law enforcement and volunteers combed the canyon with dogs, horses, and helicopters. But there was nothing—no signs of struggle, no footprints, no tire tracks. Just the van, a static-filled walkie-talkie, Ellie’s sketchbook opened to a haunting drawing of the cousins with a faceless shadow behind them, and silence.

A Cold Case That Wouldn’t Die

The days turned into weeks. The FBI joined the search, led by Agent Mark Coleman, a methodical investigator who reviewed every item left behind. He found oddities: the van’s doors were ajar, but no sign of forced entry; the sketchbook’s last page bore the word “Listen”; and the only clue in the sand was a pink shoe, found weeks later, half a mile from the site.

Despite exhaustive searches, including heat-mapping drones and satellite imagery, no trace of the children was found. Tips poured in from across the country, but each led to a dead end. The families returned year after year to the canyon, leaving flowers and notes at a memorial of 11 stones. The van, returned to the Sanders family, was covered and left untouched for years.

A Shocking Discovery in the Desert

The case remained unsolved until July 2013, when Frank Delaney, a local farmer, noticed a rusted curve of metal poking from the sand at the edge of his property. Digging deeper, he realized it was a van—white, faded, and half-buried by time. Authorities confirmed it was the same van the cousins had driven that fateful day.

Inside, the desert had preserved a time capsule: a melted flashlight, a dusty sketchbook, a child’s backpack, and a cassette tape labeled “June 93.” In the glove compartment, a photograph: the 11 cousins huddled together, eyes wide, some glancing past the camera—expressions not of joy, but of fear. No one remembered taking the photo, and no camera was ever found.

Forensic analysis revealed something chilling: a blurred, tall figure reflected in the window behind the children. The timestamp on the back read 2:18 p.m.—just minutes before the children vanished.

The Evidence Speaks

The cassette tape, played on old equipment, sent chills down the spines of investigators. Static, faint breathing, shuffling, a child’s scream, and then a whisper: “They’re coming.” Experts debated the words, but the fear was unmistakable.

The sketchbook contained increasingly frantic drawings: eyes, twisted trees, the van’s darkened interior, and a final image of the van with blackened windows. The word “Listen” was scrawled above it.

Agent Coleman, now semi-retired, was called back to lead the renewed investigation. He reviewed old files and found a name: Earl Haskins, a handyman who had lived near the canyon and exhibited strange behavior before vanishing himself in 1995. Searching Haskins’ abandoned trailer, agents found a hidden bunker filled with newspaper clippings, erratic notes, and Polaroids—including one of the van dated weeks after the disappearance.

Beneath the trailer, a makeshift cellar revealed more: a notebook with the chilling line, “They went willingly. The girl in pink held her sketchbook. The boy with glasses turned back once. But they didn’t run. They went willingly.”

A Pattern Emerges

As the investigation widened, Coleman uncovered similar cases: clusters of missing children across the Southwest, always in remote areas, always leaving behind strange clues—drawings, tapes, or photos. Each case ended in silence.

A new witness, Julia Ruiz, came forward. She’d seen the cousins walking in a line across a ridge that day, followed by a tall, faceless figure. “It didn’t have a face—just space,” she recalled. Her account matched the drawing in Ellie’s sketchbook and the reflection in the recovered photograph.

Evidence mounted: a duffel bag buried near a dried creek, containing walkie-talkies, a note (“Still listening. Still here. Don’t answer if it calls your name”), and another Polaroid of four cousins huddled in the van. A pink shoe, found months later, held a scrap of Ellie’s sketchbook—a flower drawn in pencil.

Final Clues and Heartbreak

Forensic teams, using drone and satellite technology, found a cave near Echo Point. Inside: a crayon, a juice pouch ring, a carved heart with 11 tally marks, and a Polaroid of the children in the cave—Michael at the front, arms spread protectively. No camera was ever found.

Jenna’s journal, long overlooked, was enhanced to reveal her final entry: “Michael says to stay close… Grace wouldn’t stop crying. She said it looked like it used to be someone but forgot how. I hear something walking. We’re locking the doors now.”

In early 2014, a retired ranger revealed he’d seen the children and a tall, thin figure on a ridge two days after the disappearance. A cave nearby contained more evidence: blankets, burned-out flashlights, and the last journal entry: “We’re together. That’s what matters. Don’t let it find more.”

Traces of blood and clothing fibers confirmed the children spent their final hours there. No full remains were found—only the story of a group that stayed together until the end.

A Legacy of Courage

The Sloan Canyon 11 were never found, but their story became legend—a testament to unity, courage, and the enduring power of memory. A bronze memorial now stands in Sloan Springs: 11 children, hand in hand, eyes closed, heads bowed. At its center, the words from Jenna’s journal: “We’re together. That’s what matters.”

Their families gather each June 19th, not to mourn, but to remember. The wind through the canyon still carries their names, not as a whisper, but as a promise: together.

The case may never be fully solved. But the evidence—photos, drawings, tapes, and journal entries—ensures the cousins will never be forgotten. Their bravery in the face of the unknown, their refusal to abandon one another, and their final messages left for the world stand as a haunting reminder: even in the deepest silence, love endures.