Field of Screams (8 page)

W
e won the game seven to three. Boog was a maniac in the outfield. He made one incredible play after another.

As for me, I kept trying my best to lose the game. But the harder I tried, the more I looked like a star.

My plays seemed impossible. The other guys started to stare at me as if I were some kind of wizard or something.

I couldn't blame them. The plays were totally impossible. The ghost made them all happen. I had nothing to do with it.

If I tripped over my own feet, something would make me sail gracefully through the air and snag a line drive like a Hall of Famer.

If I threw wide, the ball would curve like a Frisbee and smack solidly into the first baseman's glove.

If I hit a fly ball, it would just keep going—and going—until it soared over the fence and vanished.

I could have played standing on my head and never missed a lick.

It was horrible!

After the game, Coach Johnson drove Boog and me into town. He dropped us off at a little grocery store. “I've got to do some errands,” he explained. “Why don't you boys get yourselves a few goodies? My treat.” He reached into his pocket.

Excellent! I thought. I'd really love a can of soda right now. And maybe a candy bar.

Then coach handed each of us a quarter.

A quarter! I stared at the coin. What could I possibly get for twenty-five lousy cents?

“Thanks, Dad!” Boog said happily. “Let's go, Buddy.”

I followed him into the tiny store. It was crammed with old-fashioned-looking cans and bottles, stacked on wooden shelves. Jars of hard candy lined the counter. Below them lay rows of candy bars and gum.

A big red cooler stood by the counter,
COCA-COLA
was written on the side. Boog walked over to it and opened the lid.

I peered inside and saw rows of bottles hanging from racks by their tops. Boog slid a Coke free. I watched closely and did what he did.

When I opened it, the drink was just a little bit frozen. It tasted really good. Even better than Coke usually tasted.

And the best part was, I bought the Coke, a bag of gum, and a Three Musketeers bar for only eleven cents! Also, the candy bar was definitely bigger than the ones in my own time.

I guess 1948 did have its good points.

Boog and I sat on a bench in front of the store. We ate our candy while we watched the cars go by.

Boog was obviously feeling good. “Did you hear what Dad told me?” he asked, trying to sound casual. “He said it was the best he'd ever seen me play.”

“You had a great game,” I agreed glumly.

“Not as good as yours though,” Boog said generously. He drained his soda and belched. “I feel like I hit my stride today. I just wish the season wasn't almost over.”

“I know. I wish it would go on too,” I agreed.

Boy, did I wish!

But tomorrow was the championship. Do-or-die time.

No joke!

Boog leaned back on the bench and took a deep breath. “Just smell that summer air, Buddy. That's baseball air. And tomorrow will be the best day. We'll win the championship and everyone will know we're number one. Man, life is sweet.”

His words made me feel miserable. The best day? Hardly. The
last
day was more like it. The
worst
day.

There had to be something more I could do to stop the accident!

I could run away, I thought. Then I could hide long enough to stay off that bus. To stay alive.

But what about everybody else on the team? What about Johnny Beans? And Boog?

Maybe I should try to tell Boog what I knew. Then he would know to stay off the bus too.

Forget it. He would just think I was crazy—like everyone else did. “Been there, done that,” I muttered.

“What?” Boog asked.

“Nothing,” I answered, sighing.

No. There was nothing I could do but run away. Save myself—and hope that I could find my way back to my own time someday. I couldn't worry about the rest of the team.

And then I got an idea.

It was so simple, I almost didn't believe it could work. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.

Yes!

A stupid grin crept across my face. “You know what?” I said.

“What?” Boog glanced at me.

“We
are
going to win that game tomorrow,” I declared.

He laughed. “Sure we are!” He punched me on the shoulder. “We're the Doom Squad! We have to win!”

You are so right, I thought. We
have
to win!

If we win, we'll go to the party after the game. We won't get right on the bus to go home.

And we won't be on those tracks when the train comes to squash us.

And I know how to win the game! I know what the last play will be! Ernie told me about it before I ended up in the past.

All I have to do is hug the foul line and grab that last line drive. And I'll save the whole team!

I'll change history!

Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Now that I knew what to do, I wondered if I could pull it off. Everything had to go just right. I had to play the best game of my life!

All I knew was, I'd
better
have what it takes.

Then I remembered my other little problem.

That ghost. It told me it was coming back. Coming for me.

Would I still be around for tomorrow's game?

T
hat night, as I brushed my teeth in the bathroom, I got the feeling someone was watching me.

I stopped mid-brush. Toothpaste ran from my mouth. I glanced up into the mirror.

No one there.

After a second, I spat out the rest of the toothpaste and reached for the towel.

Wait—did I glimpse something in the mirror?

No. It was only
me.
Or, rather, Buddy Gibson. His face looked back at me from the mirror. It still freaked me out. That blond crew cut. The scar. They didn't belong to me!

Shivering, I turned away from the mirror. I went into my room and slid into bed. I switched off the lamp. Darkness surrounded me.

I listened to the sounds of the house settling down. I had to stay awake. I didn't want that ghost to catch me by surprise. Once I was sure the adults were in bed, I would switch the lamp back on.

But even though I was terrified, I was wiped out. After a while I drifted off.

When I opened my eyes again, it was hours later. I lay in bed, tense.

The last time I woke like this, I had a visitor.

I stared around. I saw nothing unusual.

Moonlight poured through the window. My desk chair cast a long shadow on the wall.

Very slowly I sat up, careful to make no sound. I studied the shadows.

Did this one move? Did that one?

“You're just working yourself up,” I whispered.

But
something
woke me. I was sure of it.

And something was different about this room. What was it?

The closet door. It was closed. Wasn't it open when I went to bed?

Mrs. Johnson probably came in and shut it while I was asleep, I thought. That's all.

But I couldn't convince myself. The more I stared at the door, the more nervous I got.

I licked my lips. I felt my heart stepping up its rhythm. I had to do something before I scared myself to death.

I reached for the lamp switch and turned it.

The bulb blew out with a loud crackle.

“Great,” I muttered. “Just great.”

I eased out of bed and tiptoed to the door. I flipped the switch for the overhead light. I sighed with relief as light flooded the room.

The shadows vanished.

Now, with the light on, my fears felt foolish. Just my imagination running away with me. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.

Now I could go back to bed.

Wait. Not just yet.

I had to see if there was anything behind the closet door.

I padded over to the closet and put my hand on the doorknob. I turned it.

CRACKKKKK!

The overhead bulb blew out.

I tried to slam the door shut. But it was too late. It swung open with a slow creak. I couldn't hold it closed.

I gasped. The moonlight fell across a figure in the closet. It was dark, smoky. It seemed wrapped in shadows. But this time I could make out features.

Human features. A head. A neck. A face.

I backed away from the closet. Cold sweat prickled on my forehead.

The ghost floated forward. Its arms rose and
reached for me. Now I could see its features more clearly. I felt as though I were looking at a photo negative. A walking negative—of a kid about my age.

I could make out a small nose. Glittering eyes. A hot white scar above one brow.

Wait.

I knew this kid!

“Gibson!” I whispered.

“That's right,” the thing snarled. “It's me. The real Buddy Gibson. You stole my body from me. And I want it back!”

“T
his can't be happening!” I moaned.

But it was. The glowing form of Buddy Gibson lurched toward me. I turned to run.

Something tripped me. I fell on my face.

“Give me my body back!” The ghostly voice was stronger than before.

I rolled over onto my back. Buddy Gibson loomed above me. He was easy to recognize now. He looked solid. Terrifyingly real.

He grabbed me by the collar of my pajamas and lifted me off the floor. He was so strong!

“Give it back,” he snarled. “Give it back!”

“Please, Buddy. I don't know how this happened!” I tried to explain. “It wasn't me. I didn't do it.”

“Liar! You're trying to trick me!” Gibson grinned nastily. “But it won't work.”

He held out his hand. He reached toward my chest. Waves of cold flowed over me. He moved his hand closer.

It began to disappear.

It was sinking slowly into my chest!

“What are you doing?” I gasped in horror.

“It's my body!” Gibson cried. “I'm taking it back!”

Panicked, I shoved him with all my might. He must not have been ready for it. He stumbled backward to the floor.

So did I. I scrambled quickly to my feet. Then I got into my karate stance. It was the only thing I could think of.

But Buddy Gibson wasn't getting up. He lay on the floor, thrashing as if he were fighting an invisible enemy. His figure dimmed. Flickered—like a light-bulb that was about to burn out.

Whatever was happening, now was my chance to talk to him. I had to make him understand!

I wiped my face. I was sweating from fear.

“Listen, Gibson,” I babbled. “You've got to believe me. I didn't do this on purpose. Someone. . .
something
did it to me. I don't know how it happened. I don't want to be here at all. Really!”

Gibson crawled away from me. He raised himself shakily against the wall. He was so dim now that I could barely see him.

“Not strong enough yet,” Gibson whispered. “Next time. Next time I'll be stronger. I'll teach you to steal my life from me.”

“But—”

Too late. Gibson disappeared.

And I was left standing there in his stupid cowboy pajamas.

I climbed back in bed, pulled the sheet up to my chin, and lay there, shivering. I was wide awake. No way I was going to close my eyes.

I could never stand up to another attack like that. Not if Gibson would be even stronger next time. I
had
to win that game tomorrow.

Before Gibson came back—and finished me off!