The Return. Dinah McCall

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      At first he caught only a word or two of what she was saying, but when she shouted, “There is no one out here but me,” he froze. Even though he didn’t want to know her, at that moment, he knew how she felt.

      The wind began to rise, wailing through the trees in a high, mournful sound. His stance became motionless. He tilted his head to listen, as he had done so many times before. Would this be the time? Would his search finally come to an end? His breathing became shallow, his pulse all but nonexistent, as he willed himself to an unnatural quiet.

      There! He heard it again—the high-pitched cry of a newborn child. His eyes narrowed, his jaw setting as he disappeared into the night.

      Luke tossed aside the latest file on the thefts and then stood up from his desk, stretching wearily as he strode to the window to look outside. Moths and other night bugs made kamikaze runs at the streetlight outside his office as he stared into the dark. But his mind wasn’t on what lay before him. Instead, he kept thinking of the thief, who, like a pack rat, stole one thing, only to leave another in its place. Added to that were the oddities of what he stole—anything from foodstuffs to a pair of overalls drying on a clothesline, as well as odds and ends of small tools. If memory served, the thief had once taken a handsaw rather than the more expensive chainsaw hanging beside it, and left a hand-carved bowl in its place. Another time he’d obviously watched a farmer cutting firewood, waited until the man went inside to eat a meal, then took the ax he’d left in the stump, leaving behind a small, wooden stool. Dogs never barked a warning of his arrival, and to date, no one had even gathered a glimpse of his face. Rumors were starting to spread that it was a ghost. Only Luke knew better. Ghosts had no need of earthly things, and ghosts didn’t wear shoes, especially shoes with a notch in one heel.