She begged the staff: “Please don’t lift my supervision—I know I’ll run if you do.” Just TWO DAYS later, on that fateful Super Bowl Sunday, 9-year-old Serenity Dennard vanished into the freezing Black Hills wilderness like she never existed.

10:45 AM: She’s in the gym at Black Hills Children’s Home, playing with other kids under staff watch. One child causes a distraction inside… and Serenity bolts out the door—no coat, just a gray long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and snow boots. She sprints barefoot in the snow according to some sightings, her gray clothes melting into the trees.

A couple chopping wood nearby spots her at around 10:47 AM—a tiny barefoot girl dashing through the drifts. They see facility staff already searching the woods, calling her name… so they assume it’s handled. They don’t call 911.

Meanwhile, staff walk the grounds, shouting for her. Vehicles patrol. But still—no 911.

Snow falls harder. Temps drop below freezing. Wind bites. An entire hour ticks by.

12:26 PM—one hour and 41 minutes after she ran—someone finally dials emergency. The dispatcher’s first words cut like ice: “Why are you just calling now?”

By then, Serenity has a massive 101-minute head start into one of America’s harshest landscapes: 1.2 million acres of dense forest, ravines, caves, abandoned mines. Footprints trail only half a mile before disappearing forever.

What followed was unprecedented: Over 1,500 searchers. Dogs on her scent. Helicopters with thermal cameras. Drones. Ground teams scouring 6,000+ miles. Two full years of relentless effort. They found… nothing. Not a scrap of clothing. Not a single new print. No body. No signs of struggle.

In the rugged expanse of South Dakota’s Black Hills, where dense forests meet unforgiving winter terrain, a child’s sudden vanishing has lingered as one of the state’s most baffling unsolved cases. On February 3, 2019—a crisp Super Bowl Sunday—9-year-old Serenity June Dennard slipped away from the Black Hills Children’s Home in Rockerville, a residential treatment facility for youth with behavioral challenges. What began as a routine morning in the gym escalated into a massive search operation involving over 1,500 volunteers and professionals, spanning thousands of miles. Yet, despite exhaustive efforts, no conclusive evidence of her fate has ever surfaced. As the years pass, the case continues to evoke questions about institutional oversight, search protocols, and the harsh realities of the wilderness.

Serenity Dennard was born on May 29, 2009, into a turbulent family situation. Her biological parents, struggling with instability, placed her up for adoption early in her life. She was adopted by Chad Dennard and his then-wife, Darcie Gentry, who provided a home in Sturgis, South Dakota. However, Serenity’s childhood was marked by significant emotional and behavioral difficulties. Diagnosed with severe reactive attachment disorder (RAD), disruptive mood dysregulation disorder, and other psychological issues, she exhibited behaviors that included frequent attempts to run away, relational instability, and potential self-harm risks. These challenges strained family dynamics, leading to multiple interventions.

By July 2018, Serenity’s adoptive parents, now including Chad’s new wife KaSandra after his divorce from Darcie, sought more intensive help. They placed her at the Black Hills Children’s Home Society (BHCH), a locked facility designed to support children overcoming trauma. The home, nestled in a remote area off South Rockerville Road near Rapid City, offered structured therapy and education in a secure environment. Staff described Serenity as precocious and mischievous, with a history of escape attempts. Just seven days before her disappearance, she had tried to flee, prompting the implementation of “arm’s length only” supervision—a protocol requiring constant physical proximity to prevent runaways.

Mysteriously, this heightened supervision was lifted one or two days prior to February 3. According to staff statements to investigators, they believed Serenity was “doing better” and showing signs of improvement. However, her medical records painted a more concerning picture, highlighting her diagnoses and a propensity for bolting at the first opportunity. This decision to reduce monitoring would later become a focal point of scrutiny, raising questions about whether the facility adequately assessed her risks.

The morning of February 3 unfolded like many others at BHCH. Around 10:45 a.m., Serenity was in the gymnasium with three other children, under the watch of two staff members. A distraction arose when one child caused a commotion inside the building. As one staffer pursued that child, Serenity seized the moment and darted outside. The remaining supervisor, prioritizing the safety of the two other children, called for assistance but did not immediately follow. Serenity, dressed in a long-sleeved gray shirt with floral patterns, blue jeans, and snow boots—but notably without a coat—ran into the sub-zero temperatures. The weather that day was brutal: light snow falling, with highs barely reaching the low 20s Fahrenheit and wind chills dipping below zero.

Eyewitness accounts provided the last confirmed sightings. A couple chopping wood nearby spotted a barefoot child—though official reports confirm she had boots—running through the snow, her gray clothing camouflaging her against the wintry landscape. Assuming the situation was under control, perhaps by facility staff they saw searching nearby, the couple did not alert authorities. Meanwhile, BHCH employees began an internal search, walking the woods and calling her name. They scoured the grounds for over an hour, but as snow intensified and temperatures plummeted, the gravity of the situation escalated.

It wasn’t until 12:26 p.m.—one hour and 41 minutes after her escape—that a staff member finally dialed 911. The dispatcher’s pointed question, “Why are you just calling now?” underscored the delay, which would prompt investigations by the South Dakota Department of Social Services and Department of Health. Both probes concluded that law enforcement should have been notified immediately upon losing sight of Serenity, criticizing the initial response as “disorganized.” Footprints in the snow led searchers about half a mile from the facility before vanishing, suggesting she may have ventured deeper into the forest.

The response from authorities was swift and massive once mobilized. The Pennington County Sheriff’s Office (PCSO), led by Sheriff Kevin Thom, coordinated what is believed to be South Dakota’s largest search effort ever. Over the following days and weeks, more than 1,500 trained searchers—including local deputies, Pennington County Search and Rescue, Custer County teams, Rockerville Volunteer Fire Department, Rapid City Fire Department, and even the Civil Air Patrol—combed the area. They covered approximately 4,500 to 6,000 miles of terrain on foot, utilizing K-9 units, helicopters equipped with thermal imaging, drones, and ground-penetrating radar. Caves, ravines, abandoned mines, and dense underbrush were meticulously inspected.

Despite the scale, no physical evidence emerged. No clothing fragments, no additional footprints, no signs of struggle. The Black Hills’ landscape—spanning over 1.2 million acres of national forest with steep cliffs, thick pine groves, and hidden crevices—posed immense challenges. Harsh weather compounded the issue: heavy snowfall blanketed the area shortly after, potentially erasing tracks or concealing a small body. Search dogs picked up scents initially but lost them amid the elements. Thermal scans from aircraft detected wildlife but nothing human-sized.

As days turned to weeks, the operation shifted from rescue to recovery mode. Volunteers from across the state and beyond joined, driven by community outrage and empathy. The National Center for Missing & Exploited Children (NCMEC) issued alerts, circulating age-progressed images of Serenity, who would now be 16 years old. Billboards, social media campaigns, and a dedicated Facebook page, “Find Serenity Dennard Missing From Rockerville, South Dakota,” kept her face in the public eye. Tips poured in—over 220 leads investigated, with 465 interviews conducted—but none panned out.

Investigators explored multiple theories. The leading hypothesis, supported by PCSO, is that Serenity succumbed to hypothermia in the wilderness. Her father, Chad Dennard, echoed this in interviews, suggesting she might have hidden during the search, playing an unwitting game of hide-and-seek that turned fatal. Given the sub-freezing conditions and her lack of protective clothing, survival beyond a few hours was improbable. Experts note that children in distress often seek shelter in tight spaces, like tree hollows or rock formations, which could explain why remains were never found—the Black Hills’ vastness and wildlife could have scattered any evidence.

Foul play has not been ruled out, though it’s considered unlikely. Authorities interviewed facility staff, family members, and locals, clearing no one definitively but finding no evidence of abduction. Serenity’s biological parents were investigated, but no connections surfaced. Theories of trafficking or a stranger kidnapping were probed, including checks on registered sex offenders in the area, but surveillance footage from nearby roads showed no suspicious vehicles. One visitor arriving at BHCH around 11:00 a.m. reported seeing her near a cattle gate, but that was the final sighting.

The emotional toll on Serenity’s family has been profound. Chad and KaSandra Dennard have spoken publicly about their grief, with Chad expressing regret over placing her in the home. Darcie Gentry, her biological mother, has shared her anguish in NCMEC blogs, stating, “I would travel to the ends of the earth to pick her up and to see her again.” The family grapples with guilt, wondering if different decisions could have altered the outcome. Serenity’s case also highlighted systemic issues: a 2020 lawsuit by her adoptive parents against BHCH alleged negligence in supervision and delayed reporting, though it was settled out of court. The facility faced state scrutiny, leading to policy changes on runaway protocols.

Seven years later, the investigation remains active, though scaled back. PCSO periodically reviews tips and employs new technologies, like advanced drone mapping. In 2024, on the fifth anniversary, Sheriff Thom reiterated commitment: “We haven’t given up.” Community vigils continue, and podcasts like “The Vanished” have revisited the story, keeping hope alive. Yet, the Black Hills hold their secrets tight. Serenity’s disappearance serves as a stark reminder of vulnerability in institutional care and the perils of nature. As her would-be teenage years unfold in absence, the question persists: How does a child vanish so utterly in a searched landscape? Until answers emerge, Serenity remains a poignant ghost in South Dakota’s lore.