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

As he reached his vehicle, Father Elias glanced back at the imposing house. Was it merely his imagination, or was Redwood watching him from one of the upper windows? The sensation of being observed prickled at the back of his neck. He slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, torn between returning to Eldon Hollow and stopping at Harold Gibbons’ home, as the man had invited him to do.

Perhaps seeing some of the preserved items from St. Dymphna’s would provide the closure he had sought by coming here today. As he drove away from Redwood’s estate, Father Elias found himself taking the road that would pass near the former site of the chapel. He couldn’t explain the compulsion.

After all, he now knew there was nothing to see, but something drew him back in that direction. The car rounded a bend, bringing him within view of the approximate location where St. Dymphna’s had once stood. Through a gap in the trees he could make out a cleared area where the small building had been, now landscaped with ornamental shrubs.

Suddenly the car’s radio crackled to life, emitting a strange, haunting sound. Father Elias started, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. The sound was unmistakable.

Gregorian chant, the ancient, ethereal music of monastic worship. But the radio was off. He distinctly remembered turning it off when he left Eldon Hollow.

Father Elias pulled the car to the side of the road and stared at the radio in bewilderment. The chanting continued for several seconds, then faded away as abruptly as it had begun. What on earth? he murmured, reaching out to touch the radio dial.

He turned it on and then off again, but the mysterious chanting did not return. Had he imagined it? A trick of an exhausted mind, perhaps? Or some strange electrical malfunction in his aging vehicle? Yet as he sat there, a peculiar sensation washed over him, the same feeling he had experienced earlier while looking at the photograph in his office. A tugging at his heart, an inexplicable certainty that he was meant to be here, now for a purpose he did not yet understand.

The hair on his arms stood on end, and a warmth spread through his ears, physical sensations he had experienced before in moments of intense prayer or spiritual insight. In seminary, his spiritual director had taught him to recognize these as potential movements of the Holy Spirit. Once more, the faint chanting emanated from the silent radio, and this time Father Elias was certain he wasn’t imagining it.

It was as if an otherworldly voice was calling to him, guiding him. Without fully understanding his own actions, Father Elias executed a careful U-turn and drove back toward the gate that blocked access to the former chapel site. Whatever was happening, he felt compelled to investigate further, even if it meant risking another confrontation with the unwelcoming Silas Redwood.

Father Elias parked his car on the side of the road, near the gate that marked the entrance to Silas Redwood’s property. The no trespassing signs loomed before him, their warnings clear and unambiguous. He sat for a moment, hands still on the steering wheel, questioning the wisdom of what he was contemplating.

Lord, guide my actions, he whispered. If I am about to err in judgment, show me the right path. But the strange sensation of spiritual prompting persisted, and after a final moment of hesitation, Father Elias exited his vehicle.

He approached the gate cautiously, fully aware that he was considering trespassing on private property, an action difficult to reconcile with his moral obligations as a priest. Yet the mysterious chanting from his radio had awakened something in him, a conviction that transcended ordinary concerns. Rather than attempting to breach the gate itself, Father Elias began to walk along the perimeter fence, seeking a vantage point from which to view the former chapel site.

The fence was substantial, eight feet of ornate but sturdy metal, but it followed the contours of the uneven forest terrain, occasionally dipping closer to the ground where the land rose beneath it. As he walked, Father Elias closed his eyes briefly, trying to visualize the layout of St. Dymphna’s as it had once been. If his memory served him correctly, the wooden bench where the nuns had been photographed had stood to the east of the chapel, near a large oak tree.

Opening his eyes, he scanned the property beyond the fence, attempting to locate landmarks that might have survived the demolition. The oak tree was gone, presumably removed during Redwood’s renovations, but a cluster of pines that had stood behind the chapel remained, providing a reference point. Father Elias continued along the fence line, moving toward the area where he believed the chapel had stood.

As he walked, his foot suddenly caught on an exposed tree root, sending him stumbling forward. He reached out to catch himself, his hands grasping the metal fence, but the momentum of his fall caused his weight to press against a section where the fence posts were set in uneven ground. There was a sharp cracking sound as the weakened joint of the fence gave way, creating a gap large enough for a person to squeeze through.

Father Elias found himself sprawled partially onto Redwood’s property, the broken section of fence beneath him. Oh, dear Lord! he muttered, picking himself up and brushing soil from his clothes. He had not intended to damage the fence, let alone create a means of entry onto the private land.

Yet here he was, faced with an unexpected opportunity or temptation. Father Elias glanced back toward the road, ensuring no one had witnessed his accidental vandalism. The area was deserted, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the afternoon breeze.

He looked down at the broken fence, then at the clearing beyond where St. Dymphna’s had once stood. Forgive me, he whispered, crossing himself before carefully stepping through the gap in the fence. Once on Redwood’s property, Father Elias moved swiftly but cautiously toward the former chapel site.

The area had been landscaped with non-native ornamental plants that seemed out of place against the backdrop of the natural forest. Nothing remained to indicate that a place of worship had ever existed here. No foundation stones, no cross, no memorial of any kind.

The absence struck Father Elias as particularly sad. It was as if Silas Redwood had deliberately erased all traces of the chapel’s existence, removing not just the building but its very memory from the land. As he stood contemplating this, a flash of reflected light caught his eye…