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

I can be there in ten minutes. Father Elias thanked him and ended the call, then settled into his car to wait, fingering his rosary beads and murmuring prayers for whoever might be trapped beneath the earth where St. Dymphna’s had once stood. Father Elias sat in his parked car, fingers moving methodically over the smooth beads of his rosary as he recited the familiar prayers.

The ritual brought a measure of calm to his troubled mind, though questions continued to swirl beneath the surface of his concentration. Who could possibly be below ground at the former chapel site? What purpose could an underground chamber serve in such a remote location? And most disturbing of all, could there be any connection to the disappearance of the four nuns twenty-eight years ago? The last question seemed far-fetched even to Father Elias. Twenty-eight years was an impossibly long time for anyone to remain concealed, yet the timing of his discovery, on the very anniversary of the disappearance, struck him as more than mere coincidence.

A vehicle approaching from the direction of town interrupted his thoughts. It was a battered pickup truck that Father Elias recognized as belonging to Harold Gibbons. The former caretaker pulled up behind his sedan and emerged from the cab, his weathered face etched with concern.

Father Elias, Harold called as he approached. Any sign of the police yet? Not yet, Father Elias replied, stepping out to greet him. Thank you for coming so quickly.

Harold nodded, his eyes scanning the road and the gated entrance to Redwood’s property. Been thinking about what you told me. It makes no sense.

If Redwood built something underground where the chapel stood, people would have noticed the construction. You can’t exactly dig a basement without heavy equipment. Unless it was done gradually over time, Father Elias suggested, or perhaps there was already some natural cavity in the ground that he expanded.

Harold shook his head doubtfully. This area doesn’t have caves or anything like that. It’s mostly solid bedrock beneath a few feet of soil.

Before they could speculate further, the distinctive sound of approaching sirens reached them. A police cruiser rounded the bend, lights flashing but siren fading as it pulled up in front of Father Elias’ car. Two officers emerged, one older with graying hair at his temples, the other younger and lean with an alertness in his movements that suggested military background.

Their badges identified them as officers from the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department. Father Moreau, the older officer asked, approaching with a professional but not unfriendly demeanor. Yes, officer, thank you for coming.

Father Elias gestured to his companion. This is Harold Gibbons, the former caretaker of St. Dymphna’s Chapel that once stood on this property. The older officer nodded in acknowledgment.

I’m Deputy Williams, and this is Deputy Reynolds. Dispatch says you reported hearing sounds coming from an underground location on private property. Can you walk us through exactly what you discovered? Father Elias explained the circumstances that had brought him to the area, his accidental breaching of the fence, and the discovery of the air vent with sounds emanating from below.

He was careful to emphasize his contrition for the trespassing, which Deputy Williams acknowledged with a small wave of his hand. Let’s focus on the potential welfare issue first, the deputy said. If someone is indeed trapped or being held against their will, that takes precedence over a minor trespassing incident.

Harold interjected. I maintained St. Dymphna’s for over 20 years before it was sold. There was never any underground structure associated with the chapel.

Whatever’s there now was built after Silas Redwood took ownership. The younger officer, Deputy Reynolds, who had been quietly taking notes, looked up. Mr. Redwood is a prominent landowner in these parts.

These are serious implications. I understand that, Father Elias said solemnly. I’m not accusing Mr. Redwood of anything.

I’m simply reporting what I heard, and expressing concern for whoever might be down there. Deputy Williams nodded thoughtfully. Fair enough.

Let’s take a look at this air vent you discovered. Mr. Gibbons, since you’re familiar with the property, would you mind accompanying us? Not at all, Harold agreed. The four men walked toward the damaged section of fence.

Father Elias pointed out the gap he had inadvertently created, and they carefully made their way through onto Redwood’s property. Father Elias led them to the ornamental shrubbery that partially concealed the air vent. Here it is, he said, parting the branches to reveal the rusted grate.

Deputy Williams crouched beside it, examining the vent with a practiced eye. This is old craftsmanship. Doesn’t match the modern landscaping at all.

Deputy Reynolds joined him, shining a flashlight through the grate. Can’t see much. The shaft angles off after about six feet.

Listen, Father Elias urged. Just be quiet for a moment. The four men fell silent, straining to hear any sound from below.

For nearly a minute there was nothing but the ambient noise of the forest, birds calling, leaves rustling. Father Elias began to worry that whoever had been below had either moved away from the vent or had fallen silent upon hearing voices above. Then, faintly but distinctly, a woman’s voice began to hum.

The melody was haunting, archaic, a fragment of sacred music that Father Elias instantly recognized despite its broken, wavering quality. Salve Regina, Deputy Williams whispered, a flicker of recognition crossing his weathered features. Harold nodded in confirmation.

Yes, the Marian antiphon, sung in monasteries and convents for centuries. The humming continued for several more seconds, then faded, replaced by the sound of labored breathing and a dry, rasping cough. The officers exchanged significant glances….