Field of Screams

  “Quit it!” I shouted. I shoved him back—hard—and caught him by surprise. He stumbled backward and tripped on the rug. He landed with a crash. Right on his rear end.

  He picked himself up. “Now you’re going to get it!” he snarled.

  I’d studied karate for two months when I was eleven. I took a stance, just like my instructor showed me.

  Boog didn’t know it, but I was about to become the Karate Kid.

  Then Boog stood up to his full height.

  Uh-oh, I thought. He’s really big, isn’t he?

  And he looks really strong.

  Boog came at me with his fist cocked back.

  Yikes! I thought. Here it comes!

  And then he swung—straight at my face.

  11

  Boog’s fist drove toward my face.

  I gritted my teeth.

  Then Coach Johnson’s voice roared up the stairs.

  “Knock off the roughhousing, you two. You sound like a herd of elephants up there!”

  Boog’s fist stopped—an inch from my nose. He grinned at me.

  “You got lucky, Gibson. But next time I’m going to pulverize you.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. I rubbed the sore place on my arm and glared at him. No way would I let him know I was scared.

  But I was.

  Boog went out of the room first. I stayed behind a second to calm down. And think.

  Being trapped in the past was bad enough. But now I had another problem. Boog.

  I had to get out of there before he pulverized me.

  I had to talk to Ernie. Tonight!

  * * *

  Dinner was incredible. Thick slabs of roast beef. Gravy. Mashed potatoes. Peas glistening with butter. Creamed corn. Slices of white bread smeared with more butter. Peach cobbler with cream for dessert.

  My mom cooks “heart-healthy” food. I think she would have fainted at the sight of all that fat.

  It tasted great. But by the time I worked through my second helping of cobbler, I was worried that I might burst.

  Did they eat like this every day?

  After dinner everyone sat in the living room and listened to the radio. Some guy named Fred Allen. The Johnsons all thought he was a riot. I couldn’t figure out what was so funny myself. Another thing that changed since 1948, I guess.

  I sat around with them as long as I could stand it. Then I stood up and stretched. “I think I’ll go to bed,” I announced.

  Boog curled his lip. “What are you, a baby? It’s only a quarter to nine.”

  “Buddy needs his rest,” Coach Johnson snapped. “Especially after that knock on the head. You go along, Buddy.”

  I didn’t miss the dirty look Boog shot me.

  I wished his dad had kept quiet. He was trying to help, I guess. But really, he made Boog hate me even more.

  I trudged up the stairs and into my room. Standing by the door, I listened for a moment. Good. They were all still laughing away at Fred Allen.

  Time to pay a visit to the bus driver.

  The window in my room was already open wide. I swung my legs over the sill. Then I let myself down until I dangled by my hands. I grasped the wooden rose trellis and began to climb.

  “Ow. Ouch!” I muttered under my breath. Thorns pricked through my plaid shirt and into my skin.

  When I reached the bottom, I crept across the lawn to the Johnsons’ hedge. I peered over its leafy top at the bus driver’s house.

  The lights on the first floor were still on. They cast a faint light over his overgrown lawn. It was a good thing, because all the streetlamps on the block were out.

  Just one more cheerful detail about Fear Street.

  I stole across Fear Street. I made my way up to the bus driver’s rickety porch. I climbed up to the door and knocked softly.

  Ernie opened the door. “Buddy! What are you doing here?” He smiled. “This is a nice surprise. I don’t get a lot of visitors. Come on in.”

  He didn’t have to ask me twice. I barreled past him into the house.

  He closed the door. “Would you like a soda pop, or—”

  “Listen,” I interrupted. “I don’t know why you sent me back here—or how. But this is not what I wished for—understand? I want to go home. You have to send me back!”

  Ernie’s eyebrows drew together. “Take it easy, Buddy. What are you talking about?”

  “I know you remember me,” I insisted. The words tumbled out of my mouth. “I’m Buddy Sanders—not Buddy Gibson. I’m from the future. You sent me here because of my wish. Because I wished to be on the best team ever. But I wanted my team to be the best team ever. I didn’t want to be here!”

  A strange look crossed Ernie’s face. “All right, Buddy,” he said in a soothing voice. “You want me to send you back? I’ll send you back. No problem.”

  “You—you will?” I stared at him. I didn’t think it would be so easy.

  “Just wait right there,” Ernie instructed. “I—uh—I have to get the time machine ready.” He shuffled out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Time machine? I never thought of that. It never occurred to me that I was brought here by a machine. But I guessed it made sense. How else could Ernie move people back and forth?

  Then in the other room I heard Ernie’s voice. He spoke softly. Who was he talking to? I thought he lived alone.

  I walked over to the door he went through. It was open a crack. His voice drifted through.

  “Get me the Johnson house, Eunice. . . . Yeah, I know it’s right across the street from me, but this is an emergency!”

  Wait a minute. What was he doing?

  “Hello, Mr. Johnson?” Ernie whispered. “I think you’d better come over here right away. Buddy’s here.” He paused. “How should I know how he got here? All I know is, he’s here, and he’s talking crazy. Saying he wants me to send him back to the future. And believe me—he’s not kidding. That fastball did more damage than you think!”

  Oh, no! I realized. Ernie thinks I’m nuts!

  I had to get out of there—fast. Or they would stick me in some hospital for sure.

  I didn’t want to go to a hospital. I just wanted to get back home—to my own time.

  I raced to Ernie’s front door and threw it open.

  Coach Johnson strode up the walk outside.

  “No!” I gasped. I tore into Ernie’s kitchen. I knew there was a back door in there—I remembered Ernie using it when I met him the first time.

  There! I darted over and slid the bolt.

  Then I ran into the night. Through Ernie’s backyard. Around the side of his house. And down Fear Street—in the dark.

  Coach Johnson’s voice rang out behind me. “Buddy! Stop!”

  I sprinted down the street. Heavy steps pounded after me.

  I had no idea where I was going. I just ran.

  Then, directly in front of me, I saw a patch of deeper darkness. It was just . . . black. Like the deepest shadow on a bright, sunny day.

  It lay across my path. A wave of cold washed toward me.

  The hair rose on the back of my neck.

  I didn’t even slow down. I just veered to my left. I ran toward a tall iron gate. Through it I glimpsed shadowy trees and a lot of whitish rocks. Maybe I could hide in there.

  It wasn’t until I passed through the gates that I began to guess where I was. The white rocks—why did they all have the same shape? Sort of rectangular, with rounded tops.

  Uh-oh.

  They weren’t plain old rocks.

  They were gravestones.

  I was in the Fear Street Cemetery!

  12

  The Fear Street Cemetery!

  My skin crawled. I wasn’t about to hide in there. I had to find a way out!

  I slowed to a jog, peering right and left.

  “Buddy!” Coach Johnson called again. “Where are you going? Come back!”

  His voice sounded close. I risked a glance over my shoulder.

  The next thing I kn
ew, I was flying through the air. I must have caught my foot on a root or something.

  I whacked my head hard on a low branch.

  Then I hit the ground.

  And everything went black.

  * * *

  When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I saw was Mrs. Johnson’s worried face. She bent over me, biting her lip.

  I couldn’t help groaning. And not just because my head was killing me.

  I was right back where I started! At the Johnsons’ house. In Buddy Gibson’s bedroom.

  Another face came into view. A silver-haired man with a white coat. He peered deep into my eyes as I lay in bed. “Can you hear me, son?”

  “Yes,” I mumbled.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Buddy. My name is Buddy.”

  “What’s your last name?” he wanted to know.

  There was no point telling the truth. I already found that out. Nobody believed me.

  I gritted my teeth. “Gibson,” I replied.

  “Good, good. And what year is this?”

  “It’s 1948,” I muttered.

  Then the doctor shined a light in my eyes and asked me to follow his finger as he moved it around. I did what I was told.

  The doctor straightened up. “He’s all right,” he told Mrs. Johnson. “No sign of concussion. And he doesn’t seem confused anymore. My guess is, that second knock on the head knocked his wits back into order.” He laughed.

  I glared at him from my bed. I didn’t think it was funny at all.

  “Keep an eye on him for the next few days, and let me know if you notice any more strange behavior,” the doctor advised. “But I think he’ll be just fine.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Mrs. Johnson breathed a sigh of relief. The doctor left the room.

  Mrs. Johnson leaned down and touched me on the forehead. “You gave everyone quite a scare, Buddy,” she told me. Then she smiled. “But you’re okay now. Try to get some rest.”

  “I’ll try. Sorry for all the trouble, Mrs. Johnson,” I said, closing my eyes.

  She snapped off my lamp and went out. I lay there in the dark, thinking.

  What went wrong with Ernie? He definitely didn’t know what I was talking about. Did that mean he wasn’t the one who brought me to the past?

  Then I thought of an explanation that made my skin prickle.

  There was a good reason Ernie didn’t know what I was talking about. To him, the bus crash was still in the future. How could he know about something that hadn’t happened yet?

  That meant the Ernie that I met in my own time—the one who asked me what my wish was—really was a ghost. Eve was right.

  I swallowed hard. So a ghost sent me into the past.

  But why? Why?

  The question echoed in my brain until I finally fell asleep.

  I don’t know how much time went by. It felt like only a second passed before I was jerked awake. I lay in bed, listening.

  What woke me?

  I shivered. The room was strangely cold—even though it was the middle of summer. I gathered the sheet tighter around me.

  I glanced at the alarm clock. With the moonlight from the window I could just make out the time. Three in the morning.

  I swept my eyes around the room. Everything seemed normal, but the hairs on the back of my neck bristled. I had a feeling there was someone else there. Even though I could see no one.

  A shadow moved across from me.

  I sat up in bed. My heart thudded. “Boog? Is that you?” I demanded.

  No answer.

  “This isn’t funny, man.” I tried to keep my voice steady.

  Still no answer. But the shadow seemed to drift in front of the window. The moonlight suddenly grew dimmer.

  I strained my eyes in the darkness. All I could see was—black. Like the patch of inky shadow I saw on Fear Street earlier that night.

  “Wh-who’s there?” I stammered.

  The darkness seemed to stretch toward me.

  “You! Why did you do this to me?” a thin, cold voice whispered.

  No way was that Boog’s voice! Chills raced down my back.

  “Who—who are you?” I croaked.

  The shadow moved closer. It looked like a cloud of thick black smoke—with burning white holes for eyes!

  Was it a ghost?

  It loomed right in front of my face. “You’ll pay!”

  “Wh-what did I do? What do you want?” I managed to ask.

  No answer. The shadow bulged toward me.

  I shrank back. Numbing cold seeped into my bones.

  Then the thing was on top of me. Covering my face. Pressing me down.

  “Help!” I tried to shout. But I couldn’t make a sound.

  I couldn’t breathe!

  The shadow was crushing me!

  13

  I was being smothered—by a shadow!

  I gasped and strained for air. Fingers of cold dug deep into my veins. It felt as though my blood was turning to ice.

  I pushed against the shadow.

  My hands passed right through it!

  The horrible cold weight was crushing the air right out of my lungs. And I couldn’t even touch it!

  I grasped desperately at the thing. But my fingers closed on nothing.

  This is it, I thought. I’m finished!

  Then, suddenly, I could breathe again.

  No more horrible weight on my chest.

  No more icy chill.

  I was struggling with my own sheets.

  I peered around the room. My breath rasped loudly in the stillness. Moonlight poured in through the open window.

  I lay there, shaking. Was it a dream? A horrible nightmare?

  Then a ghostly voice whispered in my ear.

  “I’ll be back,” it said. “I’m coming for you. And next time I’ll be stronger.”

  I gasped. No dream. It was no dream!

  A ghost attacked me!

  A ghost from the Fear Street Cemetery.

  Okay. I was ready to admit it.

  “I believe in ghosts,” I whispered.

  But what did it want with me? What did I do to it?

  I didn’t have a clue!

  Gradually, the numbness bled from my veins. My breathing returned to normal.

  My hand trembled as I flicked on the lamp. I swung my feet down to the floor and sat up. I glanced over at the mirror.

  Buddy Gibson’s square face stared back at me.

  “Why?” I asked the reflection. “Why did you have to be living on Fear Street, of all places?”

  Now things were even worse than before!

  Not only did Boog want to pound me into the ground. Not only was I trapped in the past.

  Now I had some crazy Fear Street ghost after me!

  What was next? Plagues? Floods? Other natural disasters?

  I remembered the ghost’s words. It said it was getting stronger. And coming back.

  What was I going to do?

  There was only one answer. I had to get out of there before the thing came back.

  But once again I had a basic problem: How?

  Wishing didn’t work. Neither did hitting my head again, the way I did in the cemetery. Not that I planned that!

  And I knew now that Ernie wasn’t going to help me. He didn’t even know what I was talking about.

  “Use your brain, Buddy,” I told myself. “Think.”

  What did I know about time travel?

  Not much! Until yesterday I never even believed it was possible.

  I thought of all the TV shows I’d seen with time travel in them. In most cases, people traveled through time on purpose.

  But then I remembered this one show where the guy couldn’t control his travel. Like me.

  In the show he could move on only if he changed history for the person whose body he was stuck in.

  I thought about that. Change history.

  Maybe I was supposed to change history!

  But change what?


  Then I slapped my forehead. Of course. The answer was obvious!

  “The bus crash!” I said aloud.

  Maybe I was supposed to save Gibson and his teammates from dying!

  Maybe I was supposed to be a hero!

  Cool.

  But how could I do it?

  Hmmm. Maybe if we lost our last game—tomorrow’s game.

  Yeah! I thought. That’s it!

  I paced around the room, excited. “If I throw the game—if I make Shadyside lose—the team won’t make the championships,” I whispered. “Then they won’t be on that bus when the train comes by. Everyone would be saved!”

  And maybe I would get to go back to my time.

  The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I was supposed to change history. That had to be it.

  Okay. It was up to me to see we never played that championship game. One game to go, and all I had to do was make sure we lost it.

  I hated the idea of throwing a game. Whenever I played baseball, I played to win. But really, what was more important—playing your best, or saving about twenty lives?

  The answer was obvious. I knew what I had to do. Tomorrow the Shadyside team would be playing a crucial game.

  And their big star, Buddy Gibson, would be doing his very best—to lose!

  14

  The next day was cloudy and muggy. I broke a sweat just getting out of bed. Why didn’t someone turn on the air-conditioning?

  Oh, yeah, 1948. No air-conditioning.

  Still, the rotten weather had its good points. I lifted the blinds on the bedroom window and cheered on the clouds.

  “Come on, guys. Rain us out,” I whispered.

  If we didn’t play the game tonight, it would have to be played tomorrow. When we were supposed to be at the championships. History would change!

  Then I remembered. In the past this game wasn’t called because of rain. Shadyside played as scheduled. The weather was going to clear up—whether I liked it or not.

  I sighed and went down to the kitchen. I began looking through the cabinets for some cereal or a Pop-Tart.

  Mrs. Johnson pushed through the swinging doors from the dining room. “Buddy!” she cried. “How are you feeling?” She held me by the shoulders, studying my face. Her blue eyes were full of concern.