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

He found himself recalling the numerous times he had made this same drive in the weeks following the nuns’ disappearance. Back then his car had been filled with missing-person flyers bearing Therese’s face, and his heart had been buoyed by desperate hope. Now he carried only memories and a resigned acceptance of the mystery that had shaped his life.

As the road narrowed and began to climb into the foothills, Father Elias slowed his vehicle. St. Dymphna’s chapel had been situated on a small clearing near the forest edge, accessible via a modest dirt road that branched off from the main highway. He scanned the roadside, looking for the familiar turnoff.

When he reached what he believed to be the correct location, Father Elias frowned in confusion. Instead of the simple dirt path he remembered, he found a paved private road blocked by an ornate gate. A No Trespassing sign was displayed alongside smaller notices warning of private property.

This can’t be right, he muttered, pulling his car to the side of the road. He consulted the photograph he had brought, comparing the background landscape to what he could see from his position. The mountains in the distance matched, as did the particular arrangement of taller trees on the ridgeline.

This was indeed the correct location. But where was St. Dymphna’s chapel? Father Elias exited his vehicle and approached the gate on foot. Beyond it he could see the private road stretching into the forest, but there was no sign of the white chapel building.

Instead, the area appeared to have been extensively landscaped, with ornamental trees and shrubs lining the driveway. Bewildered, he reached for his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found the number for Harold Gibbons, the long-time caretaker of St. Dymphna’s. They hadn’t spoken in years, but Father Elias hoped the man might still be in the area and able to provide some explanation.

The phone rang several times before a gruff voice answered, Hello? Harold? This is Father Elias Moreau from St. Agnes in Eldon Hollow. There was a pause, then recognition. Father Elias, it’s been quite some time.

How are you? I’m well, thank you, Father Elias replied, though it wasn’t entirely true. Harold, I’m standing at what I believe to be the entrance to St. Dymphna’s, but the chapel appears to be … gone? Another pause, longer this time. That’s right, Father.

The diocese decommissioned the chapel years ago. It was sold in 1982 to a man named Silas Redwood. He demolished it.

Father Elias felt a chill despite the warmth of the day. I never heard anything about the chapel being sold, let alone demolished. Well, after what happened with the nuns? Attendance dropped off significantly.

Then there was that incident with the bell tower cracking and nearly injuring poor Thomas Farrell. The bishop decided it wasn’t worth the upkeep for such a small congregation. Father Elias found himself staring at the No Trespassing sign with growing unease.

This Silas Redwood? Does he still own the property? Oh, yes, Harold confirmed. He’s got quite a spread back there. His main house is a ways in, near where the forest gets thicker.

The chapel site is just part of his estate now. I see, Father Elias said slowly. I had hoped to visit the chapel today for personal reasons.

It’s the anniversary, you know. Harold’s voice softened with understanding. Of course.

It’s been twenty-eight years today, hasn’t it? I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing, Father. Do you know if Mr. Redwood is generally receptive to visitors? Perhaps if I explain the situation. To be honest, he’s not known for his hospitality, Harold replied cautiously.

Bit of a recluse, from what I hear. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t mix much with the locals.

Father Elias sighed, disappointment settling heavily on his shoulders. Well, thank you for the information, Harold. I appreciate it.

Listen, Father, Harold said, his tone brightening slightly. I still live nearby, not fifteen minutes from where you are now. I saved some items from the chapel when it was decommissioned.

The old altar cross, some prayer books, things like that. You’re welcome to come see them, if you’d like. That’s very kind of you, Father Elias replied.

Perhaps I will, but first I think I’d like to try speaking with Mr. Redwood. Do you know how I might reach his main house? Harold hesitated. Well, there’s the private road you’re looking at, but that gate’s always locked…