The Keddie Cabin Murders

Keddie, California. Ever heard of it? Don’t worry, most people haven’t. Tucked away in the Sierra Nevada mountains, this little slice of nowhere looks like the kind of place people move to when they want to disappear. A quiet town where the biggest drama ought to be running out of gas before you hit the next station. But in April of 1981, Keddie was ground zero for a crime so brutal, so senseless, it stained the very trees and soil around it. They call it the Keddie Cabin Murders. Sounds like the title of a paperback thriller, right? Except this was no work of fiction. Four people butchered in a tiny cabin, with questions that still scream louder than the silence left behind.

Picture this: It’s a cool spring night, the kind where the stars are so bright you could almost forgive the pitch-black forest around you. Almost. Inside Cabin 28, Glenna “Sue” Sharp and her kids were settling in for what should’ve been just another night. The Sharp family wasn’t living the dream—they were scraping by, a single mom doing her best to keep her kids afloat. But in the early hours of April 12, something happened. Something unspeakable. When the sun came up, Cabin 28 wasn’t just another rundown rental anymore. It was a crime scene so savage it would make even the most hardened investigators blanch. Blood on the walls. A knife bent from the force of the attack. And victims who never stood a chance.

You’d think a crime like this would be etched into the national memory, like JonBenét Ramsey or the Zodiac Killer. But no. The Keddie Cabin Murders have slipped through the cracks of public consciousness, like so many other rural nightmares. Maybe it’s because it happened in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe it’s because justice never came for the victims. Either way, the case remains unsolved, with only whispers of conspiracy and a trail of cold evidence left behind.

So why talk about it now? Because some stories deserve to be remembered, not just for their horror, but for what they reveal about the system meant to protect us. Because maybe, just maybe, someone out there reading this knows something. And because cases like this remind us that the darkness isn’t just in the woods—it’s in the people we trust, the neighbors we think we know, and the institutions we rely on.

Keddie may be a ghost town now, but the ghosts of Cabin 28 are still waiting for their story to be told. Let’s make sure they’re not forgotten. But fair warning: this isn’t a story for the faint of heart. Ready to take a trip back to that quiet little town in the woods? Buckle up. It’s going to get dark.

And hey, while you’re reading, tell me—what do you think drives people to do something like this? Spite? Rage? Something deeper? Drop your thoughts below. I’ll be waiting.

Setting the Stage: Keddie in the Early 1980s

To understand the Keddie Cabin Murders, you’ve got to understand Keddie itself—a place that feels more like a pause in time than an actual town. Picture this: the Sierra Nevada mountains stretch out in every direction, towering pines scraping the sky, the air so crisp it feels like a different planet from the urban sprawl of California’s big cities. But Keddie isn’t a tourist postcard. By 1981, it was more like a forgotten page in a tattered scrapbook.

Originally, Keddie was a stopover town, a place built around the railroad when trains were still the lifeblood of America. In its heyday, the Keddie Resort was a little slice of rustic charm: cabins for rent, fishing in the Feather River, families coming up to escape the grind. But by the early '80s, the resort had faded into a shadow of its former self. The railroad jobs dried up, the visitors stopped coming, and Keddie turned into a last refuge for people running low on options—folks looking for cheap rent, a second chance, or just a place to disappear.

And that’s where we meet the Sharp family. Glenna “Sue” Sharp had moved to Keddie the year before, hoping for a fresh start. She was newly single, having left an abusive marriage, and she brought her five kids with her, carving out a life in Cabin 28. It wasn’t glamorous. The cabin was small, the kind of place where you could hear every creak and groan of the old wood, but it was home. Sue took odd jobs to make ends meet while her older kids picked up chores and babysitting to help out. They were struggling, sure, but they were surviving. Keddie offered them something they hadn’t had in a long time: stability.

Or so it seemed. What Sue didn’t know—what none of the residents knew—was that Keddie wasn’t just a sleepy little town. It was a powder keg waiting for a spark. The cabins weren’t just home to struggling families. They also attracted drifters, loners, and the kind of people who didn’t ask questions about your past as long as you didn’t ask about theirs. There were whispers of drug deals, petty thefts, and other trouble simmering under the surface. Keddie might’ve looked like a peaceful mountain town, but peace is fragile, and in places like this, it can shatter overnight.

Cabin 28 sat at the edge of the resort, near the woods. Isolated. Quiet. Perfect for a single mom trying to keep her kids safe. Or for someone with bad intentions looking for the perfect place to do something unspeakable. The thing about places like Keddie is that the isolation cuts both ways—it’s a sanctuary for some and a hunting ground for others.

And so, on that April night in 1981, the Sharp family’s little haven turned into a nightmare. The darkness in the woods wasn’t just metaphorical anymore. It came through the door of Cabin 28, and it changed everything.

Think about it: a struggling family in a forgotten town, scraping by in a cabin where you can hear the whispers of the wind through the trees. It’s the kind of setting where you’d expect horror to strike, but not like this—not in real life. Then again, reality doesn’t follow the same rules as fiction. It’s messier, crueler, and infinitely harder to understand.

Before we dive into what happened that night, I want you to consider this: Keddie wasn’t just a backdrop to this tragedy. It was part of the crime itself. A forgotten town with forgotten people makes for a perfect place to bury secrets—and maybe even a few bodies.

Do you think isolation protects people, or does it just make them easier prey? Let me know what you think. There’s more to Keddie than meets the eye, and we’re just getting started.

The Crime Scene: Horror at Cabin 28

Cabin 28 wasn’t a mansion or a hideaway for the rich. It was a simple, run-down structure, much like the rest of Keddie—functional but nothing fancy. On the morning of April 12, 1981, it became something else entirely. The word "crime scene" doesn’t do it justice. It was a slaughterhouse.

Sheila Sharp, Sue’s eldest daughter, was the one who discovered the aftermath. Imagine being just 14 years old, coming home from a sleepover, stepping through the front door of what’s supposed to be your sanctuary, and walking into hell. Sheila didn’t just see death. She saw it in its most brutal, unrelenting form.

Sue Sharp, her son John, and his friend Dana Wingate were dead—tied up, beaten, stabbed. The bindings were savage: electrical cords and medical tape, pulled so tight they might as well have been shackles. John’s throat had been slit. Sue had been bludgeoned with a claw hammer. Dana—just 17 years old—had been strangled and bludgeoned so hard it left his skull fractured. Blood was everywhere: on the walls, on the furniture, even on the ceiling. This wasn’t a clean kill. Whoever did this wanted it to be messy. They wanted it to hurt.

And then there was Tina—gone. At first, no one realized it. Her younger brothers, Rick and Greg, along with their friend Justin, had slept through the entire massacre in the adjacent bedroom. But Tina, just 12 years old, had vanished into the night. It would take years before her remains were found, discarded like garbage miles away. Whoever came to Cabin 28 that night didn’t just want to kill. They wanted to destroy.

The murder weapons—at least the ones that were left behind—added another layer of chaos. A steak knife, bent from the force of the attack, lay on the floor. A hammer and another knife, covered in blood, sat nearby. The scene was brutal, primal. It wasn’t the work of a professional hitman. This was rage, or fear, or maybe both.

But what makes this crime scene so haunting isn’t just the violence—it’s the silence. Rick, Greg, and Justin were asleep in the next room. They didn’t wake up, or if they did, they didn’t say anything. Three little boys, oblivious or too terrified to cry out while their family was torn apart just a few feet away. Why weren’t they killed? Did the killers not notice them? Did they think leaving witnesses that young wouldn’t matter? Or was it something else—a deliberate choice to spare the youngest, to leave them with the horror burned into their memories? I don’t have the answer. Maybe no one does.

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Here’s another thing that’ll keep you up at night: this wasn’t a "sneak in, kill, and sneak out" kind of crime. No, the killers—plural, because it’s almost impossible to imagine one person doing this alone—stayed for a while. They had to. They had time to tie up their victims, to attack them with unrelenting fury, to abduct Tina. This wasn’t fast. It wasn’t clean. And yet, no one heard a thing.

Keddie wasn’t a city. It wasn’t some anonymous concrete jungle where screams could blend into the background noise of sirens and traffic. This was a tiny mountain community. Neighbors weren’t just close; they were right there. People knew each other’s business whether they wanted to or not. And still, no one saw anything. No one heard anything. Just silence. Deafening silence.

But here’s the kicker: the crime scene wasn’t just gruesome—it was mishandled. When police finally arrived, the chaos continued. Evidence was either overlooked or ignored. Investigators didn’t secure the area properly. Too many people were allowed to trample through Cabin 28 before it could be processed. In a town as small as Keddie, the line between cops and community was blurred, and that line may have cost the victims their justice.

Let’s talk about evidence for a second. Blood was everywhere. There were shoeprints, fingerprints, fibers—but forensics in 1981 wasn’t what it is today. DNA wasn’t an option yet, and the police didn’t seem equipped to handle something this big. And then there were the things that should have been there but weren’t. A hammer, believed to be one of the weapons, went missing. Years later, it was found in a pond nearby, but by then, it was too late to make much of it.

So, let me ask you: What kind of person—or people—can do something like this and leave behind so little evidence that leads anywhere? Were they professionals? Or were they just lucky? Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Here’s the part that sticks with me: whoever did this didn’t just kill the Sharps and their friend Dana—they annihilated them. They made it personal. This wasn’t just about ending lives. It was about sending a message. But to who? And why?

I’ll leave you with this for now: The killers didn’t just leave bodies behind. They left a hole in the heart of a family, a community, and a system that was supposed to protect them. So, what do you think? Was this a random act of violence, or was there something deeper—a secret hidden in those blood-soaked walls? Drop your theories below. Cabin 28 isn’t talking, but maybe someone out there still knows the truth.

The Investigation: A Maze of Mistakes

If the crime scene at Cabin 28 was a horror show, the investigation that followed was its dark comedy sequel—except no one was laughing. What should’ve been the beginning of justice turned into a maze of missteps, bad calls, and questions that still don’t have answers. If justice is supposed to be blind, then in Keddie, it felt like she was wearing a blindfold soaked in gasoline.

The Plumas County Sheriff’s Office was small. Think "Mayberry" but with fewer resources and a lot less charm. When faced with a quadruple homicide (because make no mistake, Tina’s abduction was as much a part of this massacre as the bodies left behind), the department was in way over its head. But instead of calling for immediate backup from more equipped agencies, they fumbled. And fumbled hard.

Let’s start with the basics: securing the crime scene. That didn’t happen. The cabin was a revolving door of deputies, curious neighbors, and even family members, all traipsing through what should’ve been locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Every footprint, every touch, every extra minute of contamination turned potential evidence into a forensic dead end. It’s the kind of thing that makes crime scene investigators today cringe so hard they dislocate something.

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Then there was the evidence itself. Sure, they collected a lot—blood samples, fingerprints, shoe prints, fibers—but the problem wasn’t just gathering it. It was what came after. Or more accurately, what didn’t. Crucial items went missing or were mishandled, like the missing hammer that was later found years later in a nearby pond. By the time it was recovered, whatever secrets it might’ve held had long since washed away.

But the real kicker? The sheriff’s office didn’t seem all that interested in solving the case. It felt like they were more concerned with wrapping it up and moving on than actually finding answers. Witnesses were questioned, sure, but not thoroughly. Suspects were identified, but follow-ups were spotty at best. It’s like they were ticking boxes on a checklist, not hunting a killer.

And speaking of suspects, let’s talk about the two names that keep coming up: Martin Smartt and Bo Boubede. Martin was a neighbor, a guy with a temper and a history of domestic violence. He’d reportedly been angry at Sue for supposedly advising his wife to leave him—a motive, if you’re looking for one. Then there’s Bo, Martin’s buddy and a convicted felon with ties to organized crime. The two were seen together on the night of the murders, and Smartt even allegedly confessed to his therapist that he’d been involved.

But here’s where it gets weird. Despite this so-called confession, neither Martin nor Bo were ever charged. In fact, Martin’s wife later claimed that he and Bo had been allowed to leave town shortly after the murders without so much as a thorough interrogation. Why? Good question. One that leads straight to whispers of corruption and cover-ups. Martin was reportedly friends with the sheriff, which raises the possibility that favors were called in and leads conveniently ignored.

And it doesn’t stop there. Tina’s disappearance adds another layer to this twisted puzzle. For years, no one knew what had happened to her. Then, in 1984, her skull and a few bones were found in Feather Falls, over 50 miles away from Keddie. A call had been made to the sheriff’s office in 1981, just after the murders, tipping them off to look in that area, but the tip was ignored. Why? Was it incompetence, or something more sinister? By the time her remains were discovered, any clues they might’ve held were long gone.

Then there’s the tape. Decades later, audio recordings from the original investigation surfaced, including a tape of that 1981 anonymous tip about Tina’s body. The question is: why was this evidence buried for so long? Was it sheer ineptitude, or was someone trying to keep it out of the light?

Theories about the Keddie murders are as plentiful as the pine trees surrounding the town. Some think it was a crime of passion, a personal vendetta against Sue. Others point to a drug deal gone wrong, with Dana or John as the intended targets. And then there are the conspiracy theories—cover-ups involving local law enforcement, connections to organized crime, even the possibility of a shadowy figure pulling strings from behind the scenes.

But here’s the harsh truth: the investigation was so botched that we may never know what really happened. Every mistake, every piece of lost evidence, every lead that wasn’t followed—it all adds up to a case that’s as cold as the mountain air in Keddie.

So, let me ask you: What do you think went wrong here? Was it simple incompetence? Corruption? Or something darker, something deeper? Drop your thoughts in the comments. I’d love to hear your take because, let’s face it, this case is as much a riddle now as it was in 1981. Maybe someone out there holds a piece of the puzzle that’s been missing for far too long.

The Suspects: Familiar Faces in the Shadows

Every murder case has its cast of characters. In Keddie, the suspects weren’t faceless boogeymen lurking in the woods—they were neighbors. People who lived just down the road. People you’d nod at in passing, maybe share a cup of coffee with. But the thing about shadows is that they don’t need to be far away to stay hidden.

The names Martin Smartt and Bo Boubede have been whispered around this case for decades, and for good reason. Let’s start with Martin, or “Marty” if you want to make him sound more like the guy who mows your lawn than someone who may have slaughtered a family. Marty lived in Cabin 26, just a stone’s throw from the Sharps. He wasn’t what you’d call a model citizen. By all accounts, Marty had a temper that flared as often as a cheap lighter. He was a former cook at the Keddie Resort and the kind of guy who could turn a friendly conversation into a screaming match without much effort.

Marty’s home life was a mess. His wife, Marilyn, had confided in Sue Sharp about their marriage problems—problems that included Marty’s violent tendencies. Marilyn later claimed that Sue had encouraged her to leave Marty. Think about that for a second. If true, it puts Sue squarely in Marty’s crosshairs, doesn’t it? The guy’s already volatile, and now someone’s threatening his fragile control over his home life. It doesn’t take a genius to connect those dots.

And then there’s Bo Boubede, Marty’s houseguest. Bo wasn’t just some drifter crashing on a friend’s couch. He was an ex-con with a record as long as a roll of duct tape and ties to organized crime. What exactly brought Bo to sleepy little Keddie remains one of those unanswered questions. Was it just a pit stop for him, or was there something—or someone—that drew him to this tiny mountain town? Either way, Bo wasn’t the kind of guy you’d bring to a church picnic.

Here’s where things get interesting: On the night of the murders, Marty and Bo were reportedly at the Keddie Back Door Bar, drinking and arguing with the staff. Marty was supposedly upset with Sue for sticking her nose in his marriage, a story corroborated by Marilyn. After the murders, Marty allegedly told Marilyn that he hated Sue and had to “get rid of her.” Not exactly subtle, is it?

But it doesn’t stop there. Marty later confessed to a therapist that he’d been involved in the murders. His exact words were never officially documented, but the gist was clear: he admitted to the crime, albeit in a way that couldn’t be used against him in court. The confession was conveniently brushed aside by law enforcement, possibly because Marty was reportedly friends with Sheriff Doug Thomas. Small-town politics, meet small-town murder.

Bo’s behavior after the murders wasn’t exactly squeaky clean, either. Despite being a prime suspect, he was allowed to leave Keddie without much of a fuss. No extended interrogations, no follow-up investigations. Just a free pass to vanish into the ether. For a guy with a criminal record, that’s... unusual. It raises the question: Was someone protecting him, and if so, why?

But let’s not put all our eggs in the Marty-and-Bo basket just yet. There are other theories. Some point to Dana Wingate’s rumored involvement in drug activity, suggesting the murders could’ve been a message gone horribly wrong. Others believe Tina’s abduction was the real motive, with the rest of the carnage being a cover-up for her kidnapping. And then there’s the theory that someone within the Keddie community—a person no one suspected—was pulling the strings all along.

What’s frustrating—infuriating, really—is how much about Marty and Bo’s involvement feels... unfinished. There were too many loose ends, too many missed opportunities to dig deeper. Marty’s alleged confession should’ve been a goldmine for investigators, but it wasn’t. Bo’s criminal connections should’ve been a red flag, but they weren’t. It’s like someone was holding a flashlight but decided to keep it off, leaving the whole case in the dark.

So here’s the big question: Were Marty and Bo guilty? Did they orchestrate this brutal crime, fueled by Marty’s rage and Bo’s cold-blooded expertise? Or were they just convenient scapegoats for a community desperate for answers? Maybe the real killer—or killers—was someone no one even suspected, someone who blended in so well they became invisible.

What do you think? Do Marty and Bo seem like the right suspects, or do you think the police stopped looking too soon? And if they’re not the culprits, who else in Keddie had the motive, means, and sheer savagery to commit such a crime? The shadows in this case are deep, but maybe it’s time we started shining some light where no one thought to look.

Theories and Twists: A Mystery with No End

Every unsolved murder eventually morphs into something bigger than itself. The facts start to twist into folklore, the evidence corrodes under the weight of time, and every armchair detective becomes a prophet with their own gospel truth. The Keddie Cabin Murders are no exception. What started as a brutal crime in a forgotten mountain town has turned into a maze of theories—some chillingly plausible, others so outlandish they make Bigfoot sightings sound credible.

Let’s start with the simplest explanation: a crime of passion. Marty Smartt hated Sue Sharp. She had, allegedly, encouraged his wife Marilyn to leave him. In Marty’s mind, Sue wasn’t just an interfering neighbor—she was a threat to his crumbling sense of control. Add alcohol, Bo Boubede’s dangerous influence, and Marty’s notoriously short fuse, and you’ve got a recipe for rage-fueled violence. But does that explain the scale of the crime? Four people attacked, Tina abducted, and a scene so over-the-top brutal it feels more like a massacre than a targeted killing. It’s messy, chaotic, and driven by emotions that feel bigger than just one man’s grudge.

Then there’s the drug angle, a theory that pulls the focus away from Sue and shines it on Dana Wingate and John Sharp. The two teens were known to hitchhike around the area, a risky habit in the best of times. Some locals have speculated that they got involved with the wrong crowd—maybe they owed money, maybe they saw something they shouldn’t have. The murders, in this version of events, were a message. Except, if that’s true, why take Tina? Why leave the younger Sharp boys alive? And why attack Sue with such savagery if the teens were the targets? A drug deal gone bad doesn’t explain the full picture—it just trades one set of questions for another.

Now let’s veer into darker territory: Tina as the target. The theory here is that Tina, just 12 years old, was the real reason for the attack. Some believe she was abducted for sinister purposes, with the murders serving as a smokescreen to cover the true crime. It’s chilling to think about, but it would explain why her body wasn’t found with the others. It might also explain why the killers didn’t harm the younger boys—because their mission was specific, focused. The discovery of Tina’s remains three years later, scattered in the wilderness over 50 miles away, only adds to the eerie weight of this theory.

And then there’s the conspiracy angle, the theory that refuses to die no matter how many times it’s swatted down. At its core, this theory points fingers at local law enforcement. Marty Smartt, as it turns out, had ties to Sheriff Doug Thomas. And Bo Boubede? His connections to organized crime raise the possibility that the investigation wasn’t just bungled—it was deliberately sabotaged. The missing evidence, the ignored leads, the fact that Marty and Bo were allowed to leave town so easily—it all feels too convenient. Did someone in power turn a blind eye? Or worse, were they actively protecting the killers?

But the twists don’t stop there. Over the years, amateur sleuths and true-crime junkies have unearthed other bizarre details. There’s the mysterious anonymous tip in 1984 that led to the discovery of Tina’s remains—a tip that wasn’t acted on until it was too late. There’s the bent steak knife, left behind at the scene, suggesting a level of rage so intense it literally warped the weapon. And there’s the fact that multiple people must have been involved—there’s no way one person could control four victims while committing such a frenzied attack. Yet despite this, the killers managed to leave behind almost nothing that pointed directly to them.

Maybe the most frustrating part of the Keddie murders is that every theory feels incomplete. Marty and Bo look guilty as hell, but the circumstantial evidence against them never quite seals the deal. The drug angle fits some of the facts but leaves huge gaps. Tina as the target explains the abduction, but not the overkill. And the conspiracy theory? Well, it’s tantalizing, but proving it is a different matter entirely. It’s like trying to solve a puzzle where half the pieces have been eaten by the dog and the other half were swapped out for pieces from a completely different puzzle.

And let’s not forget the timeline. Advances in forensic technology could potentially shed new light on old evidence, but here’s the problem: what evidence is left? Decades of mishandling, missing records, and the simple erosion of time have left investigators—and the public—grasping at shadows.

So where does that leave us? Back at the beginning, staring into the woods around Cabin 28, hoping to spot something everyone else missed. Theories pile up like dead leaves, but the truth remains elusive. It’s maddening, isn’t it? That feeling of being so close to an answer you can almost taste it, only to have it slip through your fingers like smoke.

Here’s the thing: cases like this are more than just stories. They’re mirrors. They reflect not just the darkness in the killers but the cracks in the systems meant to catch them. They show us how fragile justice really is, how easily it can be derailed by incompetence, corruption, or just plain bad luck. And they remind us of the victims—the people whose lives were stolen, whose stories were cut short.

So what do you think? Which theory makes the most sense to you? Or do you have your own take, some angle no one else has considered? Drop your thoughts below. Because here’s the truth: the Keddie Cabin Murders are still waiting for a resolution. And maybe, just maybe, the final piece of the puzzle is out there, waiting to be found.

'I'll Be Gone in the Dark' by Michelle McNamara is a a must-read for true crime enthusiasts exploring unresolved cases.

Legacy of the Case: Echoes of Cabin 28

Legacies aren’t just for the rich and famous. They’re for places, for people, for stories that refuse to die, no matter how many times the world tries to bury them. The Keddie Cabin Murders didn’t just scar a tiny mountain town—they left an echo that still haunts the air, lingering like the smell of smoke long after the fire’s gone out.

Start with Keddie itself. In the early '80s, it was already struggling—a town that time had no use for. After the murders, what little sense of security Keddie had was gone. Fear replaced it. Neighbors started looking at each other differently. That casual nod to a stranger? Gone. The easy trust of small-town life? Cracked like the broken windows in an abandoned house. Keddie never really recovered. By the late '80s, the resort was mostly shut down, the cabins left to rot like the bones of a forgotten dream. Today, it’s a ghost town in every sense of the word. But Cabin 28—well, that’s a different kind of ghost story.

For years, Cabin 28 stood there, empty and rotting, a grim monument to the horrors that unfolded inside. It became a magnet for the morbidly curious, the kind of people who see tragedy as a roadside attraction. Urban legends sprang up around it, each one more outlandish than the last. They said the cabin was cursed. Haunted. That you could hear screams if you stood outside at night. In 2004, the owners finally had it torn down, as if erasing the building could erase the memory. But you can’t bulldoze history, and the shadow of Cabin 28 still hangs over Keddie like a shroud.

Then there’s the cultural footprint. The Keddie murders have inspired documentaries, podcasts, and even horror films. You might’ve seen The Strangers or Cabin 28, both loosely (and I mean loosely) inspired by the case. Hollywood loves a good home invasion story, but what they don’t capture is the sheer brutality of this one. The violence wasn’t just random—it was intimate. Up close and personal. You can stage as many jump scares as you want, but nothing compares to the real thing.

But the legacy of the Keddie murders isn’t just about what happened in that cabin—it’s about what didn’t happen afterward. Justice. Closure. Accountability. The investigation remains a textbook example of what not to do. Evidence went missing. Leads weren’t followed. Suspects slipped through the cracks. It’s a case that’s been reopened more times than an old wound, but every time it seems like progress is being made, the trail goes cold again.

And then there’s Tina. Her disappearance—and the discovery of her remains years later—has left a hole in the heart of this case that can’t be filled. Was she the target all along, or just collateral damage in someone else’s rage? We may never know, and that uncertainty is part of what makes this case so haunting. It’s not just a whodunit. It’s a "why" and a "how" and a "what if."

What’s worse is that the legacy of the Keddie murders doesn’t just belong to the past. It’s here, right now, in every family left shattered by an unsolved crime, in every small town that’s learned to lock its doors and trust no one. The failures of this case echo through the years, a reminder that justice isn’t inevitable—it’s something you have to fight for, and even then, it’s not guaranteed.

But maybe the most enduring legacy of the Keddie murders is their power to fascinate, to pull us in and make us ask questions. How could this happen? Why wasn’t it solved? Who got away with it? Cases like this linger because they make us confront the uncomfortable truth: the world is a messy, dangerous place, and sometimes, the bad guys win.

Still, we keep digging. We keep theorizing, questioning, hoping. Maybe it’s human nature to want to make sense of the senseless. Maybe it’s our way of honoring the victims, of saying, "You mattered. We haven’t forgotten you." And maybe, just maybe, someone reading this knows something. Someone who’s stayed silent all these years, carrying a secret they’re too scared—or too guilty—to share.

So, what will the legacy of Cabin 28 be, in the end? A cautionary tale about a botched investigation? A cold case that refuses to thaw? Or the story of a community—and a nation—that finally found the answers it’s been searching for? That part hasn’t been written yet.

But here’s your chance to add to the story. What do you think the legacy of the Keddie murders is? What does this case say about justice, about humanity, about the dark places we’d rather not look? Share your thoughts. Let’s keep the conversation going. Because the worst thing we can do is let the echo fade into silence.

It is said that 'The Strangers' (2008)' was created based loosely on these murders.

Your Turn to Investigate

Every unsolved murder carries a weight, a kind of unfinished business that hangs in the air. The Keddie Cabin Murders are no different. But here’s the thing: they don’t just belong to the past. They’re alive in the questions we still ask, in the theories that refuse to die, in the echoes of lives cut short. And now, they belong to you.

That’s right—you’re part of this now. You’ve spent the last few minutes reading about Keddie, diving into the horror, the heartbreak, the failures, and the mysteries. So here’s my question for you: What do you think happened? Who walked into Cabin 28 that night with murder on their mind? Why Tina? Why leave some alive and others brutally killed? Why does this case still feel like it’s hiding something—something we can’t quite put our finger on?

Maybe you think Marty Smartt and Bo Boubede did it—driven by rage, drunkenness, and whatever demons followed them up into those mountains. Maybe you think it was something darker, a conspiracy stretching into the corridors of law enforcement, where friends protect friends and killers walk free. Or maybe you think the truth is even stranger than the theories, something no one’s even considered yet.

Here’s the deal: you don’t have to be a detective to make a difference. You don’t need a badge or a law degree to help keep the story alive. Cold cases like this one depend on people like you—readers, thinkers, question-askers—who won’t let the victims be forgotten. So, let’s dig. Let’s go beyond the headlines, beyond the theories that have already been passed around, and start asking the hard questions.

Here’s where you can start:

1. Who was Tina Sharp to her killers?
   Think about it. A 12-year-old girl, abducted in the chaos of a brutal slaughter, only to be found years later, discarded like an afterthought. Was she the real target? Or was she taken as part of something else entirely? If she was the key to this case, what does that say about the motive?

2. Why was the crime scene so chaotic?
   The sheer brutality of the murders feels personal—like someone had a deep, festering grudge. But the way the crime scene was left—the bent knife, the blood-soaked walls—raises questions. Was this a deliberate attempt to create confusion? Or was it the work of amateurs who let their emotions take over?

3. What’s the deal with the police investigation?
   Let’s not mince words: the handling of this case was a disaster. Evidence lost, leads ignored, suspects walking free—it’s enough to make anyone suspicious. Was this small-town incompetence, or was there something more sinister at play? Did someone in power make sure the truth stayed buried?

4. What’s missing from the story?
   Cold cases are like puzzles with half the pieces gone. So, what’s not being talked about here? What details didn’t make it into the reports, the documentaries, the podcasts? What questions aren’t being asked? Sometimes, the key to solving a mystery isn’t in what’s there—it’s in what’s missing.

Now, I want to hear from you. What’s your theory? What stood out to you in the details we’ve explored? Do you think Marty Smartt was the killer? Or is the real culprit someone we’ve all overlooked? Maybe you think this case is a symptom of something bigger—corruption, failure, or the way justice tends to bend for the rich and powerful.

Drop your thoughts in the comments.
Don’t hold back. Maybe you’ve got a theory no one’s heard before. Maybe you’ve read something that connects a dot no one else has connected yet. Or maybe you just want to vent about how a case like this could slip through the cracks in the first place. Whatever’s on your mind, this is the place to share it.

And here’s the thing: You might think your voice doesn’t matter. You’re just one person, right? But remember this—cases like Keddie only stay cold because the world stops talking about them. The killers might think they’ve gotten away with it, but they haven’t. Not if we keep asking questions. Not if we refuse to let this story fade into the background.

So let’s hear it. Who do you think was behind the Keddie murders? What’s the motive that makes the most sense? And if you could ask one question to the people who were there that night—survivors, suspects, even the killers—what would it be? Let’s keep the conversation going, because someone out there knows the truth. And maybe, just maybe, this is the place where it finally comes to light.

Want to enjoy a fictional crime novel? Check out 'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo'. This is a great read and series.

Closing Thoughts: The Haunting Mystery of Cabin 28

Every murder leaves a scar, but some cut deeper than others. The Keddie Cabin Murders weren’t just a violent crime—they were a wound inflicted on an entire community, one that never fully healed. Forty years later, we’re still asking the same questions, still staring into the same shadows, hoping for a flicker of light. And maybe that’s the most haunting thing about this case: it feels unfinished. The killers didn’t just steal lives—they stole answers. And in doing so, they left behind a void that time hasn’t been able to fill.

Think about the people at the center of this story. Glenna “Sue” Sharp, a mother trying to piece her life together in a quiet mountain town. John and Dana, teenagers who should’ve been worrying about curfews and part-time jobs, not their own mortality. Tina, just a child, snatched away into the night. The survivors—the younger boys, Sheila—left to carry the unbearable weight of what they saw, what they lost, and what they’ll never fully understand. They weren’t just victims of a crime. They were victims of a system that failed them at every turn.

And what about the killers? They walked away from that cabin, into the cold mountain air, carrying secrets darker than the night itself. They’ve lived with those secrets every day since. Maybe they convinced themselves they got away with it, that the world moved on and left their sins behind. But here’s the thing about murder: it doesn’t just go away. It leaves a stain that no amount of time or distance can scrub clean. They know what they did. And they know we’re still talking about it.

So why does this case linger? Why do the Keddie Cabin Murders refuse to fade into obscurity like so many other cold cases? Maybe it’s the sheer brutality of the crime. Maybe it’s the failures of the investigation, the feeling that justice was never even given a fair chance. Or maybe it’s something deeper—something primal. The idea that you could go to sleep in your own home, surrounded by your family, and never wake up. The idea that the people responsible for such horror could slip away, unnoticed, unpunished, unburdened.

But here’s what I believe: as long as we keep talking about this case, it’s not over. Every time someone tells the story, every time someone asks a new question, the killers lose a little more of the safety they think they’ve earned. They may have taken lives that night, but they didn’t kill the truth. It’s still out there, waiting to be uncovered. And maybe, just maybe, someone reading this knows something that could tip the scales.

So where do we go from here? If there’s one thing the Keddie murders teach us, it’s that justice isn’t automatic. It doesn’t just happen because it’s supposed to. It takes work. It takes persistence. And sometimes, it takes an entire community refusing to let the story die. Maybe that community is you. Maybe the next break in this case comes not from some dusty file in a police station but from a conversation like this one. Maybe it comes from someone deciding, after all these years, that they’ve carried their secret long enough.

The haunting mystery of Cabin 28 isn’t just about what happened on that April night in 1981. It’s about what’s happened since—and what hasn’t. It’s about the failures that let the killers walk free. It’s about the questions that still have no answers. And it’s about the victims, whose lives were stolen but whose voices can still be heard, if we’re willing to listen.

So let me ask you this: What’s the legacy of the Keddie Cabin Murders? Is it a cautionary tale about how easily justice can slip through our fingers? Or is it something else—a reminder that the truth never stays buried forever? Drop your thoughts in the comments. Share your theories, your frustrations, your questions. Because the conversation doesn’t end here. It can’t. For the Sharps, for Dana, for Tina—for all the victims we’ve lost and all the answers we still haven’t found.

The killers may have walked away that night, but they left something behind: a story that refuses to die. It’s up to us to make sure it never does.

One additional Post Script. I am writing this post with a lot less photos than previously. Let me know if you like this style better or with more pictures.