Free The Winslow Incident by Elizabeth Voss

the
library. Just as he feared, she stopped to stare straight at him as he
approached. He could turn around—but Uncle Jim was back there. So he rode
faster, racing past the lady before she could sprint down the walkway and
embrace him in her bloody arms.
    What are they doing out here? Aaron wondered, both amazed and horrified. How’d they
get loose? Then, an even more disturbing thought: Did someone let them
out on purpose?
    At least he was almost home. But when
he popped onto Ruby Road, his relief gave way to terror. He turned his bike
sideways, nearly laying it down, and skidded to a stop.
    Less than ten feet away, a red-haired
wolf blocked the road. The creature lowered his huge head and started for Aaron,
orange eyes glowering at the boy, big paws slapping the street.
    Aaron glanced over his shoulder,
desperate for an escape route.
    His heart froze midbeat.
    Not only was the gurgling lady
coming up fast behind him, so was Uncle Jim’s ghost. Worse still, the other
lady had joined them, the one who looked like Patience Mathers except her white
skin was wrinkled and her dark hair and long dress were sopping wet.
    Aaron did the only thing he could
do. He closed his eyes. He closed his eyes and willed them all to go away.
    It didn’t work; he could still
hear them, growing louder, getting closer: the wolf’s claws scraping loose
blacktop, the bloody lady gurgling, the drowning woman dripping, and his Uncle
Jim asking, “Whatsamatter, boy? Don’t you wanna ride?”

The Winslow
    W hen Hazel arrived at The Winslow, she was
relieved to spot Aaron’s bike at the base of the porch steps, carelessly pitched
on its side, handlebars askew. Apparently Aaron had made it home safe, if not
entirely sound.
    Jinx bounded down the steps from
the porch to join her. The red dog looked guilty somehow, his eyes a little too
gleeful, his tail wagging a bit too hard.
    “What have you been up to?” Hazel
asked.
    Jinx kept mum, choosing instead to
sniff at Aaron’s front bike tire.
    “I better not find out you were
chasing Aaron on his bike,” Hazel warned the Irish setter. “Or terrorizing Ajax
or Boo or any other cat.”
    The dog’s expression changed to
one of such profound innocence it was impossible to argue with him. “Okay, I
believe you,” Hazel said, quickly adding, “this time.”
    Since she needed to unload the
groceries, Hazel walked through the side yard and then directly into the
kitchen, where she found her grandmother at the big stove working over her cast
iron Dutch oven, pulverizing apples into applesauce. Sarah Winslow glanced up
wearing the same look of delight she always donned to greet her only
grandchild.
    “Aaron’s not feeling well,” Hazel
said, feeling uneasy herself because she’d rather be any kind of sick than sick
to her stomach. She plopped the grocery sack onto the butcher-block countertop
before remembering that Tiny had packed the eggs on the bottom.
    “I know,” Sarah made a sympathetic
face. “He barely made it through the front door before he got sick in the
lobby. Didn’t you see Honey cleaning it up?”
    “Luckily, no.”
    “Honey’s under the weather too.
Maybe the entire Adair family ate something off.” Sarah glanced around the
kitchen as if the guilty dish might reveal itself.
    “I don’t know about Honey,” Hazel
said, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if Aaron got sick from eating one too many
treats this morning.”
    “That boy’s sweet tooth is out of control.” Her grandmother spied the box of candy peeking out from the
front pocket of Hazel’s shorts. “Like somebody else we know.”
    “ Please ,” Hazel said. “Lemonheads
are practically fruit.” She stuffed the carton of ice cream into the freezer of
the large fridge, shoving vegetables and fish to their proper place in the
unreachable back.
    Her grandmother came over and
pulled the ice cream back out, squinting to read the label because she didn’t
have her glasses on. “Why’d you buy me