“CHILD from OREGON Spoke of a ‘TALL FRIEND in the WOODS’ — A Month Later, He VANISHED Without a Trace and Left Only Nightmares Behind”

On August 7th, 1997, the forests of Douglas County, Oregon, swallowed an 8-year-old boy named Ethan Hullbrook. His disappearance became one of the most chilling, unsolved mysteries in the Pacific Northwest—a story so strange and disturbing that it still haunts the region decades later.

The search for Ethan was massive. More than 200 volunteers, police, helicopters, and trained dogs combed the dense Cascade woods for days. But all they found were his Nike sneakers, neatly placed side by side beneath a giant oak tree, and a child’s drawing scratched into the bark—a tall, faceless figure with impossibly long arms holding a small child’s hand.

But the nightmare began months before.

In June 1997, Deborah Hullbrook, a single mother, moved to a quiet house on the edge of Jimqua National Forest, hoping to start over after a painful divorce. Ethan, skinny and shy, missed his father and friends in Portland. He spent his days with the elderly McKenzies, neighbors who watched him while Deborah worked.

Ethan was withdrawn—until mid-June, when he began exploring the woods behind their house. He returned with flushed cheeks and muddy knees, talking about a “tall friend” in the forest.

“He doesn’t speak,” Ethan told his mother at dinner. “But he shows me beautiful places. Mossy glades, big rocks, streams.”

Deborah was alarmed at the thought of a stranger lurking in the woods. But neighbor Tom McKenzie, a retired ranger, found no sign of anyone—no trash, no campfires, no trails but Ethan’s own. He reassured Deborah: “Kids invent imaginary friends, especially after trauma.”

Then, on June 23rd, Deborah found Ethan’s sketchbook. Twenty pages showed the same thing—a towering, faceless figure, arms dangling below its knees, standing among the trees or reaching for Ethan. In one, the figure held Ethan’s hand, leading him into the forest.

“Why doesn’t he have a face?” Deborah asked.

“He really doesn’t have one,” Ethan replied calmly. “But I can see him anyway.”

Deborah forbade Ethan from going into the woods. He broke down in sobs, insisting his friend was real and showed him secret places. The psychologist at the hospital dismissed her fears: “Imaginary friends are normal. Let him play.”

A compromise was reached: Ethan could go into the woods, but only within a mile of the house and had to return every two hours. Tom McKenzie marked the safe boundary with orange ribbons. Ethan promised not to cross them.

July came, and Ethan kept his promise, but grew quieter, more distant. His sketchbook filled with more drawings of the faceless figure.

On July 15th, Ethan came home with a strange, straight scratch on his forehead—not jagged, but as if made by something sharp. He said he’d tripped on a root. Deborah assumed it was a branch.

On July 22nd, Ethan failed to return for dinner. Deborah and Tom searched the woods, calling his name. An hour later, Ethan emerged, pale and trembling. He’d gotten lost, he said. “My friend showed me a huge oak tree, the biggest I’ve ever seen.” He promised not to go beyond the boundary again, but his eyes seemed far away, as if part of him was still in the forest.

August 7th was hot and humid. Deborah made Ethan breakfast, kissed him goodbye, and told him to be home for lunch. Margaret McKenzie saw him leave around 9:30 a.m., waving as he disappeared among the trees with his backpack.

At 11:00, Margaret rang the bell to call Ethan home. He didn’t come. She searched the orange boundary, calling his name. Only silence answered—no birds, no wind, just the endless hush of the woods.

By 1:00 p.m., police arrived. Six officers fanned out, calling, whistling, tapping trees. By evening, 87 people were searching. Dogs followed Ethan’s trail deep into the woods, past the orange ribbons, north into the thicket.

A mile from the house, where pines gave way to broadleaf trees, the dogs stopped at the base of a massive oak. There, Ethan’s sneakers lay side by side, laces tied, toes pointing into the forest. Not scattered or torn as if by force—placed carefully, as if Ethan had removed them himself.

Forensic investigators found barefoot prints leading into the woods. The tracks were clear for 15 meters, then vanished—no fading, no confusion, just gone. The final print was sharp in the damp soil. Beyond it, nothing. The dogs lost the scent at the same spot.

On the trunk of the oak, 12 feet up, was a drawing scratched with a stick or stone—a tall, faceless figure holding a child’s hand. It matched Ethan’s sketchbook perfectly.

Deborah arrived, saw the sneakers in a bag, and collapsed. When she saw the drawing, she let out a cry of grief that echoed through the forest.

She told investigators about Ethan’s “tall friend,” the faceless giant who showed him places. She admitted she’d thought it was imaginary, just a child coping with divorce.

But the sheriff felt a chill. Thirty years of service had taught him to recognize ordinary disappearances—and this was not one. Disappearing footprints, neatly placed shoes, a strange drawing, and a faceless friend in the woods. None of it made sense.

The search continued all night and the next day. Helicopters with thermal imaging, hundreds of volunteers, every building, cave, and mine checked. Roads were blocked, sex offenders interviewed, rivers searched. Nothing.

By August 8th, the case was handed to the FBI. Agents set up headquarters in a local school, mapping every inch of forest. They ruled out all likely scenarios:

Deborah’s alibi was ironclad.
Ethan’s father was in Portland.
No suspicious neighbors or acquaintances.
No evidence of abduction, animal attack, or accident.

Forensic experts examined the sketchbook. The repeated image of the faceless figure was obsessive, but spontaneous—not copied, not influenced by media. They suggested Ethan had experienced something powerful in the woods, whether real or imagined.

The sneakers showed no sign of violence, blood, or foreign DNA. The footprints matched Ethan’s size, left between 9:30 and 11:00 a.m. The drawing on the oak matched his height and style.

The most disturbing detail was the abrupt end of the tracks and scent. Theories included abduction, climbing a tree, falling into a cave—but none fit. No scent, no evidence, no voids in the ground.

The story spread nationwide. The FBI hotline was flooded with tips, all false. After two weeks, the search was called off. Ethan Hullbrook had vanished.

For Deborah, life became a nightmare. She moved back to Portland, unable to bear the forest’s whispers. Every year, she returned to the oak tree with flowers and a teddy bear, tracing her son’s drawing as it faded.

Locals kept the story alive. They whispered that other children had seen the tall figure but were too scared to tell. Hunters found deer carcasses hanging from branches too high for any predator. Native Americans called the forest cursed, and lumberjacks refused to work near the oak, claiming an inexplicable presence.

In 2003, Ethan was declared legally dead. Deborah created a fund for missing children, dedicating her life to helping other families. Every August 7th, she held a memorial in Roseberg, drawing parents from across the country.

In 2012, a mushroom picker found a child’s backpack five miles from where Ethan vanished. Inside was his sketchbook, initials written by Deborah, and a half-full water bottle. The last drawing showed Ethan walking hand-in-hand with the faceless figure into a blank white space.

The forest was searched again with drones and radar. Nothing. No remains, no clues. How could a barefoot eight-year-old travel five miles? Why abandon his backpack?

Deborah died in 2020, her ashes scattered near the oak tree where Ethan’s shoes were found.

No one knows what happened to Ethan Hullbrook. Maybe he got lost and died, his body hidden by the woods. Maybe he was kidnapped. Maybe he fell into a crevice.

Or maybe something happened that reason refuses to accept.

A child spoke of a tall friend in the woods. A month later, he vanished. And the forest still keeps its secrets.