Rebecca's Return by Jerry S. Eicher

dare move now. That might only invite further trouble, if whoever this was saw her dashing into her house, perhaps falling down on her own front porch.
    Isabelle held still, after moving to stand close to the wall of the house. The headlights streamed down Wheat Ridge, lighting up her front yard. Her fear made her forget why she was out on the porch. Then the car passed, its lights dimly reflecting back. Suddenly remembering, Isabelle looked to see what might have been thrown into her yard.
    Little could be seen, but Isabelle was sure she saw something. A large object or at least a large bag was lying against the far wall of the house, near the corner facing Mr. Urchin’s yard.
    Everyone called him Bill, a nice enough fellow. He lived there with his wife, Eunice. Their children, like hers, were long grown and gone. He would see the bag come morning, Mr. Urchin would. Bill would be up early, walking over to see what the object was, knocking on her door for an explanation. An explanation she wouldn’t have.
    Sighing, the last of the light from the passing car’s headlights disappearing down Wheat Ridge, she opened her front door, stepped back inside, and headed toward the phone. There really seemed to be no other option. Calling it in might be problematic with Beatrice, but not calling it in could cause problems at the hand of Mr. Urchin. Added to that was a feeling Isabelle couldn’t quite shake. Something about the shape of the object against her house, seen so dimly in the car’s light, troubled her.
    She reached for the phone on the wall. Wallace had wanted to have a cordless model installed the last time the nursing home subject came up, but she would have nothing of that either. It smelled of coming doom, especially when Wallace had told her, “What if you fall down—the stairs maybe—a cordless phone might be closer. Now you have to reach all the way up the wall. That might be hard to do depending what happens.”
    “No,” she had said. And “no,” it would remain. Anything to stave off this approaching dread in whatever manner possible.
    Holding up the phone, its large numbers lighted, she dialed the number by heart. Sally, the night receptionist, answered, “Adams County Sheriff.”
    Isabelle cleared her throat, wishing all this wasn’t necessary. “Ah, Sally,” she half whispered, “I think something—a little bit ago—was thrown against my house. Sorry to bother you, but could you have someone drive by?”
    “Any idea who it was?” Sally’s voice sounded clipped.
    “No,” Isabelle replied, wishing again she was not making this phone call. Sally sounded just like Isabelle figured she would when a call came in from an old woman. So Isabelle added quickly, “Could you keep this from Beatrice? Maybe it’s nothing…But it made a loud noise.”
    “Have you checked outside?” Sally asked, ignoring the question about Beatrice.
    “Yes—I stepped outside the front door. There’s something there.”
    “I’ll send someone out, okay?” Sally responded, her voice not as clipped anymore. “We’ll see what it is.”
    “Could you keep this from Beatrice?” Isabelle asked again, her voice strained.
    “I can’t promise, Isabelle,” Sally said. “Beatrice’s on call tonight, and the deputy nearest you is the one that stops by.”
    “Okay,” Isabelle said in resignation. The world tonight seemed to be working against her. The walls of the nursing home were moving in closer. She could feel it all for sure.
    “Lord, help me,” she whispered, hanging the phone on the wall, reaching for her childhood faith in God. “You will have to help me. This may be a bigger cross than I can carry. Maybe You can take me home before they carry me to that place.”
    Struggling with her emotions, she walked into the living room to wait.

     
    In town Sally pressed the mike down. “Base one to mobile units. Possible disturbance reported in Unity. Anyone in the area?”
    “I’m near Manchester, down by the