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

If they’re not gone in two minutes, I’ll file trespassing charges against all of you. Recognizing the impasse, Deputy Williams nodded to Father Elias and Harold, indicating they should return to their vehicles. The officers followed, walking back to their cruiser with measured steps that suggested this retreat was strategic rather than final.

As they reached the police car, Deputy Williams spoke quietly to Father Elias. Don’t worry, Father, this isn’t over. I’m going to contact dispatch and request information on the property deed, ownership history, and any prior complaints or incidents at this location.

I also want to review the file on those missing nuns from 1980. Something’s not right here. Father Elias nodded gratefully.

Thank you, Deputy. I know how strange this must seem, but I truly believe someone needs help down there. I believe you.

We all heard something, the deputy replied. Whether it’s exactly what you think, we’ll determine that with proper investigation. Head back to Harold’s place for now.

We’ll be in touch. The drive to Harold’s home was brief but tense, with both men lost in their thoughts about the mysterious voice beneath the former chapel grounds. Harold’s house proved to be a modest cabin set back from the main road, surrounded by towering pines that cast long shadows in the late afternoon sun.

Not much, but it’s home, Harold said as he led Father Elias inside. The interior was simply furnished but comfortable, with well-worn furniture and walls decorated with fishing memorabilia and a few framed photographs. It’s very welcoming, Father Elias replied sincerely, noting the cross hanging prominently above the stone fireplace.

Harold busied himself in the small kitchen, preparing tea while Father Elias settled into an armchair. I kept several items from St. Dymphna’s when it was decommissioned, Harold called over his shoulder. They’re in a trunk in the spare room.

I’ll show you after we’ve had our tea. Father Elias nodded, his mind still preoccupied with the air vent and the haunting voice that had emerged from it. Harold, why do you think the diocese never informed me about the chapel being sold? I was at St. Agnes all those years ago, and my sister was among the missing nuns.

Surely someone should have consulted me. Harold returned with two steaming mugs, handing one to Father Elias before taking a seat opposite him. The decision came from the bishop’s office in Sacramento.

I don’t think it was handled well, to be honest. After what happened with the nuns, attendance dropped significantly. Then there was that incident with the bell tower.

What exactly happened? Father Elias asked, sipping the hot tea gratefully. Structural failure, Harold explained. The chapel was built in the 1920s, and maintenance had been minimal.

One Sunday morning in 1981, the bell tower developed a large crack. The old bell, must have weighed 300 pounds, came crashing down. Nearly killed poor Thomas Farrell, who was filling in as caretaker while I was laid up with a broken leg.

Was anyone hurt? By the grace of God, no. But it was the final straw for the diocese. They declared the building unsafe and closed it immediately.

By early 1982, they decided to decommission it entirely, rather than pay for repairs. Father Elias frowned. And Silas Redwood purchased it soon after? That’s right.

Paid cash, from what I heard. More than the land was worth, which raised a few eyebrows. But the diocese needed funds for renovations at the cathedral, so they didn’t ask questions.

What did Redwood do with the property immediately after purchase? Harold’s brow furrowed in recollection. Demolished the chapel right away. Had a crew out there within days.

There were some protests from locals who thought the building could have been saved, but legally there was nothing they could do. After that, he started landscaping the grounds, but he never built anything substantial on the chapel site itself. Did you notice any unusual construction activity? Anything that might suggest he was building something underground? Nothing obvious, Harold replied, then paused…