In the fall of 1980, four nuns from a small village vanished without a clue, casting their devoted community into a haze of sorrow and uneasy rumors

Complete waste of your time. The officers methodically searched the building, which did indeed contain an assortment of tools, lawn equipment, and gardening supplies. The space was dusty and appeared seldom used, with cobwebs in the corners and a musty odor that one officer commented on.

As the search was nearing completion, there was a sudden noise. One of the officers had dropped a heavy wrench, which landed on the wooden floor with an unexpectedly hollow sound. The camera panned down to show Deputy Reynolds kneeling, tapping experimentally on the floorboards.

This section sounds different, he observed, removing his flashlight to examine the area more closely. These boards look newer than the others. Despite Redwood’s renewed protests, the officers began to remove the suspicious floorboards.

Beneath them they discovered a stone staircase descending into darkness. Mr. Redwood, Deputy Williams said, his voice carrying clearly through the body camera’s microphone. Would you care to explain this? Redwood’s face had gone pale, his earlier bluster replaced by tense silence.

When he refused to comment, Williams instructed several officers to remain with him while he and Deputy Reynolds prepared to descend the staircase. Switching to tactical lights, Williams narrated, as he activated a powerful flashlight. We’re proceeding into the underground passageway.

The camera showed a narrow stone staircase that appeared to have been carved directly into the bedrock. The steps were worn in the center, suggesting regular use over a period of years. At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy wooden door blocked further progress.

Locked, Reynolds reported, examining the ancient-looking iron mechanism. Mr. Redwood, we need the key to this door. From above, Redwood’s voice called down, still defiant.

I don’t know anything about any door. This must have been here when I bought the property. The officers exchanged skeptical glances, and Williams instructed his colleagues to search for a key.

One of them noticed a small hollow in the wall beside the staircase, partially concealed by shadow. Inside was an iron key, green with age, but apparently functional. Found a key, the officer reported, handing it to Williams.

The deputy inserted the key into the lock, which turned with a loud metallic groan. The door swung inward, revealing a dark tunnel beyond. We’re entering what appears to be a man-made tunnel, Williams narrated, his voice now hushed and tense.

Approximately six feet high, three feet wide. Walls are stone and earth, supported by wooden beams at regular intervals. Evidence of relatively recent construction, despite attempts to make it appear older.

The officers proceeded cautiously through the tunnel, which extended for what appeared to be several hundred feet. The passage curved slightly, and Father Elias realized with a jolt that it must lead in the direction of the former chapel site. After a few minutes of walking, the tunnel widened into a small chamber.

The camera’s light revealed crude furnishings, a thin mattress on the floor, a bucket in the corner, a small table with the remains of what looked like food, and then from the shadows came a whispered voice. Help? Is someone there? Deputy Williams directed his light toward the sound, and the camera revealed a frail elderly woman lying on the mattress. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sunken, but alert.

Her gray hair was closely cropped, and she clutched what appeared to be a hand-carved wooden rosary. Ma’am, Williams said gently, approaching slowly to avoid frightening her. I’m Deputy Williams from the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department.

We’re here to help you. Can you tell me your name? The woman’s cracked lips moved, forming words with visible effort. Sister.

Therese. Therese Moreau. In Harold’s car, Father Elias gasped, his hand flying to his mouth.

Tears sprang to his eyes as he whispered, My sister. It’s my sister. Harold placed a steadying hand on his arm, his own expression one of shock and disbelief.

Through the body camera, they could see that the small chamber was lined with religious carvings, crosses, saints, biblical scenes, all apparently created from scraps of wood and stone. A single candle stood on the makeshift table, long since burnt out. On one wall, a large cross had been meticulously etched into the stone…