Four Village Nuns Vanished in 1980 — 28 Years Later the Priest Makes a Shocking Discovery

In 1980, four village nuns from Northern California mysteriously vanished without a trace, leaving their close-knit community hollow with grief and uneasy speculation. But 28 years later, the priest makes a shocking discovery, uncovering the horrifying truth about what really happened to them. The morning sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows of St. Agnes of Mercy Catholic Church, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the polished wooden pews. Father Elias Maro stood at the altar, his voice solemn yet steady as he concluded the memorial prayer service. "May the souls of the departed through the mercy of God rest

in peace," he inoned, making the sign of the cross before him. "Amen," the congregation responded in unison. Father Elias looked out at the assembled faces, many elderly, some middle-aged, and a few younger parishioners. All had gathered on this somber day to remember the four nuns who had vanished without a trace exactly 28 years ago. The mystery had haunted the small town of Elden Hollow, North California, for nearly three decades now. As the service ended, Father Elias moved to the church entrance, greeting each member of the congregation as they filed out. Many offered condolences, though after

28 years, the words had taken on a ritualistic quality rather than carrying the raw emotion of fresh grief. "Thank you for coming, Mrs. Harmon," Father Elias said, clasping the elderly woman's wrinkled hands in his own. "Your presence means a great deal. I always come, father," she replied, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I can still remember Sister Mildred teaching my children their catechism, such a gentle soul." Father Elias nodded, feeling the familiar pang of sorrow. Sister Mildred Hayes had been 68 when she disappeared, a lifetime of service to God, cut short by whatever tragedy had

befallen her and the other three nuns. One by one, the parishioners departed, each carrying a different memory of the missing women. Sister Mildred Hayes, 68, Sister Joan Keller, 65, Sister Beatatrice Namora, 28, and the youngest, Sister Terz Maro, 23. For Father Elias, the wound ran deepest. Sister Terz had been his biological sister, and her disappearance had shaken his faith to its core. When the last of the congregation had left, Father Elias slowly made his way back through the now empty church. His footsteps echoed in the silence as he moved toward his private office at the

rear of the building. The space was modestly furnished with a simple desk, a bookshelf filled with theological texts, and a window overlooking the church cemetery. Alone at last, Father Elias sank into his chair and buried his face in his hands. The composed facade he maintained for his parishioners crumbled away, leaving only a man consumed by grief and unanswered questions. "Why, Lord," he whispered, his voice ragged with emotion. "I have served you faithfully all these years. My sister dedicated her life to you. Why have you not led me to them? What lesson am I failing to

learn from this trial?" Tears leaked between his fingers as his shoulders shook with silent sobs. He rarely allowed himself this moment of weakness, but the anniversary always stripped away his carefully constructed defenses. After several minutes, Father Elias drew a deep breath and wiped his eyes. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed a small wooden box. Inside lay several photographs preserved with loving care despite the passage of years. The first was of Teress on the day she took her final vows. Her young face beamed with joy and purpose beneath her veil, and Father

Elas felt both pride and a stab of guilt as he gazed at the image. He had been the one to nurture her faith to encourage her vocation. He could still remember their conversations when she was just 16. her eyes al light with conviction as she spoke of her calling. "I was so proud of you," he murmured to the photograph. "I still am." The thought that had haunted him for 28 years crept into his mind. "If he hadn't encouraged her religious vocation, would she still be here today? Would she be a mother, a teacher, alive and

well instead of? In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Father Elias said sharply, making the sign of the cross to banish the treacherous thought. He could not allow himself to question God's plan, even in his darkest moments. Setting aside Theresa's photograph, he reached for another, the last known image of the four missing nuns. They sat together on a wooden bench outside the small remote saint. DNA's chapel near the edge of Shasta Trinity National Forest. Sister Mildred and Sister Joan, the eldest, sat with their hands folded placidly in

their laps, their lined faces serene. Sister Beatatrice sat beside them, her posture more relaxed, but her expression reverent. And beside her was Teres, the youngest, her eyes bright with purpose even in the faded photograph. The photograph had been taken by a local visitor just days before the nuns disappeared. They had traveled to St. Dna's Chapel for a short spiritual retreat. 2 days of fasting, prayer, and silence before the feast of a Catholic saint. The dascese had also tasked them with assessing the old chapel's condition to determine whether it should be restored or decommissioned. Sister Terz,

with her eye for detail, had been asked to document the state of the structure. Father Elias stared at the image, his mind drifting to calculations he'd made countless times before. Sister Mildred would be 96 now. Sister Joan, 93. Even if by some miracle they had survived whatever befell them, they would be frail ancient women. But Beatatrice would be 56 and Teres just 51, still potentially in the prime of life. He remembered the frantic days and weeks after their disappearance. The police had searched the forest extensively, combing through underbrush, and scaling the nearby mountain sides. Search

parties had spread out through surrounding farms, villages, and towns. But not a single clue had emerged. No scraps of clothing, no personal effects, no signs of struggle. It was as if the four women had simply vanished into thin air. The official theory had eventually settled on a bear attack. The Shasta Trinity National Forest was known for its wildlife, including black bears that could become aggressive if threatened. Perhaps the sisters had wandered too far into the woods and encountered a predator. But the complete absence of evidence had always made this explanation feel hollow to Father Elias

and to many others as well. Over the years, uglier rumors had circulated, whispers that the nuns had abandoned their vows and run away to start new lives. Father Elias and the church had worked tirelessly to quash such speculation, but the seeds of doubt had been planted in the community nonetheless. Theres would never have done that," he whispered, tracing his sister's face in the photograph. "She would never have left without telling me." As he continued to gaze at the photograph, his eyes drifted to the chapel in the background. St. Dnas had been a simple structure constructed

in the 1920s to serve the scattered Catholic population in the area. Its white walls and modest bell tower were visible behind the nuns, surrounded by the looming trees of the forest edge. Something tugged at Father Elias's heart as he studied the building. He hadn't visited Saint DNA in over 20 years, finding the memories too painful to bear. But now, on this anniversary, he felt a strange urge to see it again, to walk where his sister had walked, to pray where she had prayed. Perhaps it was mere sentimentality, a desire to feel close to Theres on

this difficult day, or perhaps a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. There was still something to be discovered there, some clue overlooked in the initial investigation. The latter thought was almost certainly foolish, what could possibly remain to be found after 28 years. Yet the pull was undeniable. Father Elias carefully replaced the photographs in the box, except for the one of the four nuns at St. Denes, which he slipped into his pocket. He rose from his desk, collected his Bible and rosary, and left his office with purpose in his stride. In the church

parking lot, he slid behind the wheel of his modest sedan, placed the photograph on the passenger seat beside him, and said a brief prayer for guidance. Then he turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from St. Agnes heading toward the forest and the ghosts of his past. The winding road leading from Elden Hollow to the Shasta Trinity National Forest carried Father Elias through changing landscapes. The town's neat houses and businesses gave way to scattered farms which eventually surrendered to the encroaching wilderness. Tall pines and cedars crowded the roadside, their shadows dappling the asphalt

as he drove. The journey took approximately an hour and a half, giving Father Elias ample time to reflect. He found himself recalling the numerous times he had made the same drive in the weeks following the nuns disappearance. Back then his car had been filled with missing person flyers bearing Teresa'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. DNA'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 ridgeeline. This was indeed the correct location. But where was St. Denus 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 longtime caretaker of St. Denes. 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 Maro from St. Agnes in Elden 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. Das, but the chapel appears to be gone. Another pause, longer this time. That's right, father. The dascese 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 Frell. 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 Silus 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 28 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 15 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. 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. 20 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 disqued

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 60s, 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's 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. Silus 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 Maro from St. Agnes of Mercy Church in Elden 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. Den'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 Dascese 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 mllified, 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. 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 Elden Hollow and stopping at Harold Gibbons's home, as the man had invited him to do. Perhaps seeing some of the preserved items from St. Dnas 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 sight 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. Dnas 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 Elden 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 heir 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, 8 ft 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. Dnas'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 route, 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 Saint DNA 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. Something near the ground, partially hidden by decorative shrubbery. Curious, Father Elias moved closer and parted the branches to reveal a metal grate set into the earth. an air vent of some kind. It appeared old and weathered, its iron bars rusted with age. Father Elias frowned, perplexed. If the chapel had been completely demolished, why would an old air vent remain? And why would a landscaped area with no structures

need ventilation at all? He crouched beside the vent, examining it more closely. The design was vintage, possibly dating back to the 1930s or 40s, with ornate scrollwork around its edges. It seemed inongruous with the modern minimalist aesthetic of Redwood's property. As he leaned closer, a sound drifted up through the great, so faint that at first, Father Elias thought he had imagined it. But then it came again, a soft, melodic humming followed by what sounded distinctly like a human cough. Father Elias's blood ran cold. The humming was reminiscent of the Gregorian chant he had heard on

his car radio, but this was no electrical glitch or figment of his imagination. Someone was below ground beneath what had once been St. Da's Chapel. "Hello," he called softly through the great, but the humming continued uninterrupted, suggesting the person couldn't hear him from their subterranean location. Father Elias straightened up, his mind racing. The implications were disturbing. Why would there be an underground space beneath the former chapel site? And more importantly, who was down there? He looked around, half expecting to see Silus Redwood approaching with fury in his eyes, but the property remained quiet and apparently

unmonitored, at least in this section. The main house was hidden from view by a stand of trees, and no security cameras were visible in the immediate vicinity. Drawing his cell phone from his pocket, Father Elias dialed 911, his hand trembling slightly as he raised the device to his ear. "911, what's your emergency?" a dispatcher's voice answered. My name is Father Elias Maro, he said, keeping his voice low despite the apparent solitude. I'm at the property of Silus Redwood near the former site of St. Dnner's Chapel off Route 37. I He hesitated, suddenly aware of how

strange his report would sound. I believe someone may be trapped underground. I can hear singing and coughing coming from an air vent. There was a brief silence on the other end. Sir, are you saying you suspect someone is being held against their will? I don't know, Father Elias admitted, "But there appears to be an underground space of some kind, and someone is definitely down there. Given the remote location and the fact that this property is private, I'm concerned." "Are you on the property legally, sir?" the dispatcher asked, a note of skepticism entering her voice. Father

Elias winced. I accidentally damaged a section of fence and found myself on the property. I realize I'm trespassing, but this seemed like an emergency situation. I understand. What is your exact location on the property? Father Elias described his position as best he could, explaining that he was near where St. Dna's Chapel had formerly stood. We'll send officers to investigate, the dispatcher assured him. Please remain where you are until they arrive unless you feel you're in danger. Thank you, Father Elias replied, relief washing over him. I'll wait by my vehicle, which is parked on the roadside

near the main gate. After ending the call, Father Elias took one last look at the mysterious air vent. The humming had stopped, but as he listened intently, he could still hear occasional sounds of movement from below. Someone was definitely down there, and the thought sent a chill down his spine. He made his way back to the broken section of fence, carefully squeezing through the gap and returning to the public road. As he walked toward his parked car, he dialed Harold Gibbons's number, feeling an urgent need to gather more information before the police arrived. Harold, it's

Father Elias again. I need to ask you something important. When St. Dnas was still standing, was there any kind of basement or underground room beneath it? Harold sounded surprised by the question. No, father. The chapel was built on a simple slab foundation. No basement, no crypt, nothing like that. Why, do you ask? Father Elias explained what he had discovered. the air vent and the sounds coming from below ground. That's impossible, Harold said firmly. There was never any underground structure at St. Deness. I maintained that property for 20 years. I would know. Then the only explanation

is that someone built it after the chapel was demolished. Father Elias concluded when Silas Redwood took ownership. That's disturbing, Harold admitted. What are you going to do? I've already called the police. They're sending officers to investigate. I'll come too, Harold decided. I know that property better than anyone. I can be there in 10 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. Dnes 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 28 years ago? The last question seemed far-fetched even to Father Elias. 28 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's 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 Maro," 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.

Dna's Chapel that once stood on this property. The older officer nodded in acknowledgement. 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? A 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 Saint Dyenas 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. 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 great. Can't see much. The shaft angles off after about 6 ft. "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. "Salv Regina," Deputy Williams whispered, a flicker of recognition crossing his weathered features. Harold nodded in confirmation. "Yes, the Marian antifon 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. Deputy Reynolds straightened up, his expression now grave. That's definitely someone down there, and from the sound of that cough, they may need medical attention. We need to speak with Mr. Redwood immediately, Deputy Williams decided. This is now a welfare check at minimum. I don't understand, Harold said, shaking his head in bewilderment. This air vent wasn't here when the chapel stood. And there was never any basement or underground room. How could anyone be down there? That's what we aim to find out, Deputy Williams replied, his tone suggesting he had shifted fully into investigative mode. Let's

head to Redwood's residence. The four men made their way back to the road and their respective vehicles. Following the deputy's cruiser, Father Elias and Harold drove the short distance to Silus Redwood's main house. The imposing structure seemed more forbidding than ever as they approached. Its many windows like watchful eyes surveying their arrival. Deputy Williams instructed Father Elias and Harold to remain by their vehicles while he and Deputy Reynolds approached the front door. Father Elias watched as the officers knocked and waited, tension evident in their postures despite their professional demeanor. Several moments passed before the door

opened. But it wasn't Silus Redwood who emerged. Instead, the group saw him approaching from the rear of the property, still dressed in his exercise clothes and leading a large German Shepherd on a leash. His expression shifted rapidly from polite inquiry to barely contained fury when he spotted Father Elias and Harold standing near the officer's cruiser. "What is the meaning of this?" Redwood demanded as he reached the front steps. "Why are these trespassers on my property again?" Deputy Williams introduced himself and his partner, explaining the purpose of their visit in measured tones. We received a report

of sounds coming from what appears to be an underground structure at the former chapel site. We'd like to ask you a few questions about that, sir. Redwood's face flushed with anger. This is outrageous. First, this priest shows up uninvited, trespasses through my fence and on my land, and now he's making wild accusations and wasting police resources. No one is making accusations, Mr. Redwood. Deputy Reynolds said calmly, "We're simply following up on a welfare concern. Someone appears to be in an underground space on your property, and they sound like they may need medical attention." "That's absurd,"

Redwood snapped. "There's no one on my property except me and my dogs. I would know if someone were living in a what, a secret underground bunker? Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?" "Nevertheless, sir, we're obligated to investigate." Deputy Williams said firmly. We'd like permission to check your home and the grounds, including any basement areas. Absolutely not. Redwood's hand tightened on the dog's leash, causing the animal to shift restlessly. This is private property. You have no right to search without a warrant. Mr. Redwood, Deputy Reynolds began, his tone reasonable but insistent. If there's someone in

distress on your property, even a trespasser you're unaware of, wouldn't you want to know about it? This could be a squatter who's found their way into some old structure you don't even know exists." Redwood's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "There are no old structures I don't know about. I've owned this land for over 25 years. I know every inch of it." "Then what about the air vent near the former chapel site?" Deputy Williams asked. the one that appears to ventilate an underground space. For a fraction of a second, something flickered in Redwood's expression, a momentary faltering that

Father Elias caught before the man's face hardened once more into obstinate refusal. "I installed a drainage system when I landscaped that area," Redwood said dismissively. "What you're calling an air vent is probably just a decorative grate covering a drain pipe. There's nothing sinister about it. A drainage system doesn't sing hymns or cough, Mr. Redwood, Deputy Williams observed dryly. Redwood turned his glare toward Father Elias. This man has clearly orchestrated this entire situation. He probably brought some device that plays recorded sounds and planted it near the drain. He's harassing me because he resents that I bought

church property. I would never do such a thing, Father Elias protested, crossing himself. As God is my witness, I heard a woman's voice coming from that vent. We all heard it just now. Redwood scoffed. A priest invoking God while trespassing and lying. How very typical. That's enough, Mr. Redwood, Deputy Williams said sharply. We're asking for your voluntary cooperation. If you refuse, we'll have no choice but to pursue other legal avenues. Then pursue them, Redwood replied coldly. In the meantime, I want these people off my property immediately. If they're not gone in 2 minutes, I'll file

trespassing charges against all of you. Recognizing the impass, 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. "Herald busied himself in the small kitchen preparing tea while Father Elias settled into an armchair. "I kept several items from St. DNA 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 dascese 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 lb, came crashing down, nearly killed poor Thomas Frell, 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 dascese. 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 dascese 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. "Although, there was a period in 1983 when people reported hearing strange noises at night, machinery running, that sort of thing, and some folks complained about tremors." Father Elias leaned forward. His interest peaked. Tremors

like earthquakes. That's what the authorities concluded. Minor seismic activity. But it seemed odd that it was localized to that specific area. Some people wondered if Redwood was doing some kind of excavation work. And no one investigated further. Harold shrugged. A deputy came out, looked around, found nothing suspicious, and that was that. Redwood has always been well connected. Donates to the right causes, knows the right people. The conversation drifted to other topics, the changes in Elden Hollow over the years, the declining congregation at St. Agnes, and theological discussions that reflected both men's deep faith. Time passed

swiftly and Father Elias was surprised when his phone rang, breaking the comfortable rhythm of their conversation. "Father Maro speaking," he answered. "Father, this is Deputy Williams." The officer's voice sounded energized, purposeful. "I've made some progress. I spoke with Judge Martinez, who's sympathetic to our concerns. She's granted an emergency warrant for a welfare search based on the reasonable suspicion of unlawful confinement. Father Elias felt a surge of hope. That's excellent news, Deputy. We'll be heading back to Redwood's property within the hour. I wanted to let you know, though I must advise you to stay away for

safety reasons. This is now an official police operation. I understand, Father Elias replied, though his desire to be present was powerful. But, Deputy, if you do find something or someone, "You'll be the first civilian I call," Williams promised. This whole situation began because of your persistence, father. "I respect that." After Harold overheard the conversation, he insisted they should at least be able to observe from a distance, arguing that their spiritual presence might be important if something significant was discovered. With some reluctance, Deputy Williams agreed they could remain in their vehicle at a safe distance, but

strictly as observers. An hour later, Father Elias and Harold parked along the public road near the entrance to Redwood's property. From their position, they could see multiple police vehicles arriving, including a forensic van and an ambulance staging nearby, a precaution that sent a chill down Father Elias's spine. Deputy Williams approached their car briefly. "We're going in with the warrant. I've set up my body camera to stream to this channel." He showed them how to access the feed on Father Elias's phone. You can watch from here, but do not approach under any circumstances. Is that clear?

Both men nodded in agreement and Deputy Williams returned to his colleagues. They watched as the assembled officers approached Redwood's front door, warrant in hand. Through the phone screen, they observed as Redwood answered the door, his face contorting with rage at the sight of the officers and the document they presented. The audio was muffled, but clear enough to hear him protesting vigorously, threatening lawsuits and calls to his attorney. Despite his objections, the officers executed their search warrant, methodically examining the main house while Redwood was kept under supervision in his living room. After approximately 45 minutes, Deputy

Williams reported through the body camera that the house and conventional basement had yielded nothing suspicious. Moving on to the forest road and outuildings now, Williams narrated for the benefit of those monitoring the feed. Mr. Redwood has confirmed there's a storage shed along the private road connecting his main house to the former chapel site. Father Elias and Harold watched intently as the officers, accompanied by a visibly furious redwood, made their way along the forest road. The path was well-maintained but narrow, winding between ancient trees that created a tunnel-like effect in the fading daylight. After about 15

minutes of walking, the camera showed a modest wooden structure, the storage shed Redwood had mentioned. It was larger than Father Elias had expected, perhaps 20 ft square with weathered siding and a metal roof. This is just a tool shed, Redwood could be heard saying. Garden equipment, maintenance supplies, that sort of thing. Complete waste of your time. The officers methodically searched the building, which did indeed contain an assortment of tools, lawn equipment, and gardening supplies. The space was dusty and appeared seldom used with cobwebs in the corners and a musty odor that one officer commented on.

As the search was nearing completion, there was a sudden noise. One of the officers had dropped a heavy wrench, which landed on the wooden floor with an unexpectedly hollow sound. The camera panned down to show Deputy Reynolds kneeling, tapping experimentally on the floorboards. "This section sounds different," he observed, removing his flashlight to examine the area more closely. "These boards look newer than the others." Despite Redwood's renewed protests, the officers began to remove the suspicious floorboards. Beneath them, they discovered a stone staircase descending into darkness. Mr. Redwood, Deputy Williams said, his voice carrying clearly through the

body camera's microphone. Would you care to explain this? Redwood's face had gone pale, his earlier bluster replaced by tense silence. When he refused to comment, Williams instructed several officers to remain with him while he and Deputy Reynolds prepared to descend the staircase. "Switching to tactical lights," Williams narrated as he activated a powerful flashlight. We're proceeding into the underground passageway. The camera showed a narrow stone staircase that appeared to have been carved directly into the bedrock. The steps were worn in the center, suggesting regular use over a period of years. At the bottom of the stairs,

a heavy wooden door blocked further progress. Locked, Reynolds reported, examining the ancient looking iron mechanism. Mr. Redwood, we need the key to this door. From above, Redwood's voice called down, still defiant. I don't know anything about any door. This must have been here when I bought the property. The officers exchanged skeptical glances, and Williams instructed his colleagues to search for a key. One of them noticed a small hollow in the wall beside the staircase, partially concealed by shadow. Inside was an iron key, green with age, but apparently functional. Found a key," the officer reported, handing

it to Williams. The deputy inserted the key into the lock, which turned with a loud metallic groan. The door swung inward, revealing a dark tunnel beyond. "We're entering what appears to be a man-made tunnel," Williams narrated, his voice now hushed and tense. "Approximately 6 ft high, 3 ft wide. Walls are stone and earth supported by wooden beams at regular intervals. evidence of relatively recent construction despite attempts to make it appear older. The officers proceeded cautiously through the tunnel which extended for what appeared to be several hundred ft. The passage curved slightly and Father Elias realized

with a jolt that it must lead in the direction of the former chapel site. After a few minutes of walking, the tunnel widened into a small chamber. The camera's light revealed crude furnishings, a thin mattress on the floor, a bucket in the corner, a small table with the remains of what looked like food, and then from the shadows came a whispered voice. Help! Is someone there? Deputy Williams directed his light toward the sound, and the camera revealed a frail, elderly woman lying on the mattress. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sunken, but alert. Her gray

hair was closely cropped, and she clutched what appeared to be a handcarved wooden rosary. "Ma'am," Williams said gently, approaching slowly to avoid frightening her. "I'm Deputy Williams from the Shasta County Sheriff's Department. We're here to help you. Can you tell me your name?" The woman's cracked lips moved, forming words with visible effort. Sister Terrace Terrace Maro. In Harold's car, Father Elias gasped, his hand flying to his mouth. Tears sprang to his eyes as he whispered, "My sister, it's my sister." Harold placed a steadying hand on his arm, his own expression one of shock and disbelief.

Through the body camera, they could see that the small chamber was lined with religious carvings, crosses, saints, biblical scenes, all apparently created from scraps of wood and stone. A single candle stood on the makeshift table, long since burnt out. On one wall, a large cross had been meticulously etched into the stone. "Sister," Deputy Williams was saying, his voice professional but kind. We're going to get you medical attention right away. Can you tell me if there's anyone else down here with you? The woman's gaze shifted to a dark corner of the chamber where the camera's light

had not yet reached. Beatatrice, she whispered, but she's gone to God now many years ago. The camera panned to reveal what appeared to be human remains. A skeleton lying on a similar mattress partially covered with a tattered blanket. We need the medical team down here immediately, Williams said into his radio, his voice tight with controlled emotion. And notify the forensic unit that we have human remains as well. Unable to contain himself any longer, Father Elias bolted from the car, ignoring Harold's protests. He ran toward the police perimeter where an officer attempted to intercept him. "Please,"

Father Elias begged. "That's my sister," they found. I'm Father Elias Maro. She's been missing for 28 years. I must see her. The officer, recognizing the name from the earlier briefing, spoke into his radio. After a brief consultation, he escorted Father Elias through the perimeter to where the forensic team and paramedics were preparing to enter the tunnel. "Wait here, Father," the officer instructed. "They'll be bringing her out soon." Time seemed to stretch as Father Elias waited, alternately praying and attempting to process the reality of what was happening. After what felt like an eternity, activity at the

shed entrance increased. Officers emerged, followed by paramedics carefully carrying a stretcher. On it lay Sister Terz, so thin and fragile she barely made an outline beneath the blanket covering her. As they passed where Father Aaliyah stood, her head turned slightly and their eyes met. Despite the ravages of time and suffering, he recognized his sister in those eyes. Eyes that had once sparkled with youthful devotion, now wells of unfathomable experience. Her lips moved, and though no sound emerged, Father Elias could read the words she formed. "God never left me." As the paramedics rushed her toward the

waiting ambulance, another group emerged from the shed carrying a body bag, the remains of Sister Beatatrice, Father Elias presumed. The sight sent a new wave of grief through him, tempered by the miracle of his sister's survival. In the midst of the activity, he spotted Silas Redwood being led away in handcuffs, the man's earlier arrogance replaced by a sullen, defeated expression. As Redwood passed where Father Elias stood, he suddenly lunged forward and spat directly at the priest, the spittle landing on his cheek. "Proud of yourself, Father?" Redwood snarled before officers yanked him back. Father Elias wiped

his face calmly, his voice steady as he replied, "I count it for joy that I have suffered just like my lord." As Redwood was led away, Father Elias overheard fragments of conversation between officers discussing what they had found. One mentioned the discovery of a second set of skeletal remains in another chamber, speculating it might be the remains of Sister Beatatrice, who had been roughly the same age as TZ when she disappeared. Harold appeared at Father Elias's side, having followed at a more cautious pace. "The ambulance is ready to leave," he said gently. We should follow

them to the hospital. Father Elias nodded, his heart too full for words. Together, they returned to Harold's car and followed the ambulance as it sped away from Silas Redwood's property. Sirens wailing, carrying the miraculous survivor of a 28-year nightmare toward the light of freedom at last. The lights of the emergency room entrance cast harsh shadows across the ambulance bay as the paramedics wheeled Sister Terres through the sliding doors. Father Elias and Harold had arrived moments behind them, parking hastily and rushing toward the entrance only to be intercepted by hospital staff. I'm sorry, Father, a nurse

said firmly but compassionately. You can't go with her right now. The medical team needs space to work. She's in extremely fragile condition. I understand, Father Elias replied, though every fiber of his being yearned to stay by his sister's side. But I am her only living family. She's been missing for 28 years. I thought she was dead until today. The nurse's expression softened. The doctors will do everything possible for her. There is a waiting area just down that hallway. I promise someone will come speak with you as soon as possible. Reluctantly, Father Elias allowed Harold to

guide him to the waiting room, a sterile space with uncomfortable chairs and outdated magazines. The two men sat in silence for several minutes, the magnitude of the day's events too overwhelming for casual conversation. Finally, Harold spoke. "It's a miracle, Father, after all these years to find her alive." "A miracle indeed," Father Elias agreed. his voice thick with emotion. "Though I fear what she must have endured to survive." "She had her faith," Harold said simply. "Sometimes that's enough." Father Elias nodded, drawing comfort from the thought. He recalled the religious carvings that had lined the underground chamber,

evidence that even in the darkest captivity, his sister had maintained her devotion to God. I should call Saint Agnes, he realized suddenly the congregation should know she's been found. As he reached for his phone, it rang in his hand. The screen displayed Deputy Williams' number. Deputy, Father Elias answered, "I'm at the hospital." "My sister is being treated now." "That's good to hear, Father." Williams replied, "I'm calling to update you on the investigation. We've secured Silus Redwood in custody, but he's refusing to speak without his attorney present. However, we found something significant when we searched his

house more thoroughly. A journal. It appears he's been keeping detailed records for decades. Father Elias felt a chill. What kind of records? It's disturbing content, Father. The journal contains extensive writings about his hatred of the Catholic Church and religious women in particular. There are entries dating back to the late 1970s describing his obsession with the nuns at St. Denes. But why? Father Elias asked, struggling to comprehend the depth of hatred necessary to commit such crimes. What possible motivation could he have had? There was a brief hesitation before Williams continued. According to his writings, Redwood's mother

abandoned him as an infant, leaving him with his grandmother. She later became a nun. He never knew her, never even saw her. His grandmother, who raised him, was apparently a strict Catholic who physically abused him in the name of religious discipline. He developed a pathological hatred of nuns in particular, seeing them as women who abandoned their natural duties to families. Father Elias closed his eyes, a wave of sadness washing over him. Such brokenness, he murmured. Such twisted thinking. There's more, father, Williams continued, his voice grim. The journal details what happened to the other nuns. The

two older sisters, Mildred Hayes and Joan Keller, apparently died within the first year of captivity. Given their age and the conditions they were kept in, it's not surprising. May their souls rest in peace, Father Elias whispered, crossing himself. Sister Beatatrice survived longer, nearly a decade, according to Redwood's entries. She died in the early 1990s from what appears to have been an untreated respiratory infection. And my sister, how did she survive when the others didn't? Williams hesitated again. Father, there are aspects of Redwood's journal that are particularly distressing. He seems to have developed a fixation on

Sister Terres. He kept her separate from the others, especially after Sister Beatatric's death. There are photographs in the journal that suggest he subjected her to degrading treatment. Father Elias gasped, a surge of nausea rising in his throat. Dear God, no. I'm sorry, father. The evidence indicates he was physically and psychologically abusive toward her for years. It's remarkable she maintained her sanity under such conditions. "My sister didn't sin," Father Elias said firmly, as much to himself as to the deputy. "She was a victim. The sin belongs entirely to her captor." "Of course, Father." Williams agreed solemnly.

No one would suggest otherwise. Harold, who had been listening to Father Elias's side of the conversation, placed a supportive hand on his shoulder. "There's one more thing you should know," Williams continued. "The journal details how he managed to abduct four nuns without anyone finding them. It was a meticulously planned operation. Redwood had been watching St. Dnas for months, learning the nuns routines. When he learned they would be alone during their retreat, he saw his opportunity. "How did he get them out without leaving evidence?" Father Elias asked, recalling how the investigation had been hampered by the

complete absence of signs of struggle or forced entry. "According to his writings, he posed as a friendly neighbor, bringing tea and supplies to the chapel. The tea was drugged. The two older nuns drank it and became drowsy. When the younger nuns helped them to bed, Redwood entered and overpowered them one by one. He started with the older nuns, who were frail and easier to subdue. Your sister nearly escaped. She fought back and almost made it to the door, but he knocked her unconscious and later drugged her as well. Father Elias winced, imagining his sister's terror.

He removed them through a servants's corridor in the old chapel, loading them into his vehicle during the night. Afterward, he meticulously cleaned the chapel, burning all trace evidence, their bags, letters, bedding. He even washed the floors with lie to destroy any evidence. By the time the alarm was raised, there was nothing to find. And the police investigation, Father Elias asked, remembering the frustration and helplessness he had felt during those early weeks. Rural investigations in 1980 weren't what they are today, Williams explained. Resources were limited, forensic techniques were less advanced, and recordkeeping was spotty at best.

Once the initial searches yielded nothing, the case quickly went cold. Redwood himself was never considered a suspect. He was wealthy, respected in the community, had no criminal record. And then he bought the chapel through a proxy company. Father Elias concluded the pieces falling into place. Demolished it to ensure no one would ever search there again. Exactly. After purchasing the property, he constructed the underground chambers and the tunnel connecting them to his storage shed. That explains the reports of nocturnal construction noises and tremors in 1983. How could no one have noticed? Harold interjected, his voice raised

in indignation. Father Elias relayed the question to Williams, who sighed audibly. It's not something I'm proud to report, but Redwood's journal suggests he bribed certain officials to ignore complaints and look the other way during the construction. We'll be investigating those allegations thoroughly. The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a doctor in scrubs who approached with a clipboard in hand. Are you Father Maro? Sister Teresa's brother. Father Elias quickly ended his call with Deputy Williams, promising to speak again soon and turn to the doctor. Yes, that's me. How is my sister? The doctor, a woman

in her 40s with kind eyes but a serious expression, took a seat across from them. I'm Dr. Chen. Your sister is in stable condition, but I want to be frank with you. Her health is extremely compromised. She's severely malnourished, has significant muscle atrophy, vitamin D deficiency from lack of sunlight, and shows signs of healed fractures that were never properly treated. Father Elias nodded, trying to absorb the clinical assessment of his sister's suffering. "The most immediate concern is reintroducing her to normal environmental conditions," Dr. Chen continued, "After decades underground, her immune system is severely compromised. We

need to be careful about potential infections, and her eyes will be sensitive to normal light levels for some time." "When can I see her?" Father Elias asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "She's being settled in the ICU now," Dr. Chen replied. "We need to be extremely cautious about visitors. Anyone who enters must wear protective gear, mask, gown, gloves to minimize the risk of introducing pathogens. Even with those precautions, I can only allow very brief visits initially. I understand, Father Elias said. Though the prospect of further delay was agonizing. I've waited 28 years. I can

wait a few more hours to ensure her safety. Dr. Chen smiled gently. She asked for you. You know, one of the first things she said was her brother's name. She knew you would find her eventually. Tears welled in Father Elias's eyes at this revelation. She never lost faith. Apparently not, Dr. Chen agreed. The paramedics reported that she was clutching a rosary made from what looked like wood scraps and threads from clothing. She refused to let them take it even during treatment. That sounds like the Father Elias said, a sad smile crossing his face. Her faith

was always stronger than mine, even when we were children. You'll be able to see her in about an hour, Dr. Chen promised, rising to her feet. A nurse will come get you when she's ready for visitors. As the doctor departed, Father Elias turned to Harold. Would you mind if I spend some time in the chapel? I need to pray. Of course, Harold replied. I'll wait here in case there's any news. Father Elias made his way to the small hospital chapel, a modest space designed to accommodate various faiths. Finding it empty, he knelt before the simple

altar and bowed his head. "Thank you, Lord, for this miracle," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "Thank you for preserving my sister through her ordeal. Thank you for leading me to her after all these years. He continued in silent prayer for some time, wrestling with the complex emotions that surged within him. Joy at his sister's discovery, grief for her suffering, anger toward her captor, and lingering questions about why God had allowed such evil to persist for so long. Eventually, a sense of peace settled over him. The mysteries of God's ways remained, but Father Elias

found himself accepting that some questions might never have satisfactory answers in this life. What mattered now was that his sister had been found, and somehow, through unimaginable darkness, her faith had endured. When he returned to the waiting room, Harold was speaking with a nurse who had come to escort Father Alas to the ICU. After dawning the required protective gear, he followed her through a series of doors to a private room where his sister lay surrounded by medical equipment. The figure in the bed barely resembled the vibrant young woman who had disappeared 28 years ago. Sister

Teresa's face was gaunt, her skin palid from decades without sunlight. Yet when her eyes opened and found his, Father Elias recognized immediately the inner light that had always defined his sister, a spiritual radiance that even the darkest captivity had failed to extinguish. "Elias," she whispered, her voice thin but clear. "You found me." "Tess," he replied, tears streaming beneath his protective mask as he gently took her frail hand in his gloved one. I never stopped looking, never stopped praying. A ghost of a smile touched her cracked lips. "I knew you wouldn't. I told Beatatrice. God would

send you to us someday." "I'm so sorry it took so long," Father Aliyah said, his voice breaking. Sister Terz shook her head slightly. "God's timing. Perfect. Always perfect." The nurse touched Father Elas's shoulder, indicating his visit needed to end. He nodded in understanding. "I'll be right outside," he promised his sister. "I won't leave the hospital. We have so much to talk about when you're stronger." "Tell me one thing," Sister Terz whispered as he prepared to leave. "The church, is it still strong?" Father Elias smiled beneath his mask. The gates of hell have not prevailed against

it, he assured her, quoting Christ's promise in the Gospel of Matthew. Rest now, sister. God is with you, and so am I. As he left the room, Father Elias felt a profound sense of wonder at his sister's first concern being for the church rather than herself. Despite everything she had endured, her priorities remained steadfastly aligned with her vocation. It was a testimony to a faith that transcended circumstances, a faith that had sustained her through 28 years of darkness and would now guide her return to the light.