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

There’s a public road that loops around, though. It’ll take you near enough to the property. After receiving directions from Harold, Father Elias thanked him and ended the call.

He returned to his car, conflicted about his next move. Part of him felt he should respect Silas Redwood’s privacy and head straight to Harold’s home instead. But a stronger impulse propelled him toward the public road that would lead to Redwood’s estate.

Twenty minutes later, Father Elias found himself driving along a narrow lane that skirted the edge of what must have been Redwood’s property. Through gaps in the trees, he caught glimpses of manicured grounds and eventually a substantial structure that resembled a mountain lodge more than a conventional house. The building was impressive, three stories of natural stone and timber with expansive windows and multiple terraces overlooking the forest.

It spoke of wealth that seemed at odds with the modest rural surroundings. Father Elias located a small parking area near what appeared to be a service entrance to the property. He parked his car, straightened his clerical collar, and approached the imposing residence with a mixture of determination and apprehension.

As he neared the front entrance, a stone pathway led him past carefully tended gardens and a small decorative pond. The craftsmanship of the place was undeniable, yet Father Elias couldn’t help but feel a sense of disquiet as he mounted the steps to the front door and knocked firmly on the heavy oak panel. The door swung open almost immediately, revealing a tall, athletic man in his sixties dressed in expensive exercise attire.

His silver hair was neatly trimmed, and in one hand he held a leather dog leash. The man’s expression shifted from neutral expectation to unmistakable displeasure as he registered Father Elias’ clerical attire. Yes, he asked, not bothering to disguise the impatience in his tone.

Good afternoon, Father Elias said with a warm smile. Are you Mr. Silas Redwood? The man’s jaw tightened. I am, and you are trespassing on private property.

I apologize for arriving unannounced. My name is Father Elias Moreau, from St. Agnes of Mercy Church in Eldon Hollow. He extended his hand, but Silas Redwood made no move to take it.

What do you want? Redwood demanded, his fingers tightening around the dog leash. Father Elias lowered his hand, maintaining his calm demeanor despite the hostility. I was hoping I might have a few minutes of your time.

You see, I visited the site where St. Dymphna’s chapel used to stand, and I was surprised to find it gone. If you already saw it’s not there, why come bothering me? Redwood’s voice had taken on an edge that was almost a snarl. I spoke with Harold Gibbons, the former caretaker.

He mentioned you had purchased the property. I simply wanted to—to what? Blame me for buying land that was for sale? Redwood stepped forward aggressively, causing Father Elias to take an involuntary step back. Are you one of those who thinks that ground is somehow sacred? The diocese didn’t think so when they sold it.

No, no, Father Elias said quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. I don’t blame you at all. I was just curious about the circumstances.

The chapel held personal significance for me, and I wasn’t aware it had been demolished. Redwood seemed momentarily mollified, though his expression remained cold. Well, now you know.

It’s gone, and good riddance. I sleep better now that I don’t have to hear that blasted bell ringing three times a day and giving me migraines. Father Elias couldn’t help but respond to this.

The Angelus Bell is a beautiful tradition, Mr. Redwood. It calls the faithful to recite the Lord’s Prayer and honors the Incarnation of God. It’s meant to be a reminder of holy things, of our freedom from sin and death.

Oh, spare me the sermon, Redwood scoffed. People can set alarms on their phones if they need reminding to pray. They don’t need to disturb the entire countryside with medieval noise pollution.

The conversation was clearly not progressing in a positive direction. Father Elias decided to try a different approach. I understand you value your privacy, Mr. Redwood, and I’ve intruded on your time.

I apologize for that. Perhaps we could speak another day when it’s more convenient for you? There won’t be another day, Redwood said flatly. I have no interest in discussing a building that hasn’t existed for decades with a priest I’ve never met before.

Now I suggest you leave before I call the sheriff and report you for trespassing. Father Elias nodded, recognizing the futility of continuing. Very well.

Thank you for your time, Mr. Redwood. Peace be with you. Redwood’s only response was to close the door firmly in his face.

With a heavy sigh, Father Elias turned and made his way back down the stone path toward his car. The encounter had left him feeling both disappointed and unsettled. There had been something in Redwood’s manner, beyond mere rudeness, that suggested a deeper antipathy toward the church and its representatives…