Field of Screams (2 page)

He stuck his whole head underneath.

Maybe the spiders would get him, I thought. It would serve him right for scaring me.

He reached a hand back toward me, his head still under the porch. “Fetch me that rake by the wall.”

I brought the old iron rake and put the handle in his hand. He stuck it under the porch and began to poke around.

“As I was saying, these old houses are dangerous, boy,” he called up to me. He was under the porch up to his shoulders now. His bony rear stuck up in the air. “There's all kinds of stuff under here. Old rusty metal, black widow spiders . . . ”

“Tell me about it,” I muttered under my breath.

The old man started backing out. He drew out the rake. My baseball came with it. “There you go, son,” he said, handing me the ball. “Next time, try fishing the ball out like I did, instead of diving under a stranger's porch without thinking.”

I felt embarrassed now. Maybe he wasn't such a bad old guy after all.

“I guess you're right,” I admitted. “Uh—thanks for getting my ball.”

“What's your name, son?” the old man asked.

“Buddy Sanders,” I answered.

“Ernie Ames. Call me Ernie,” the old man said. He extended his hand to shake.

I grabbed it. It felt hard and scratchy, like sandpaper.
I pulled my hand away fast. I hoped he didn't notice.

I glanced back at the fence. Was Eve still watching?

“So you're a ballplayer, eh? You on a team?” he asked.

“Sure. I play third base for the Shadyside team.”

Ernie grinned. “That's not a team. That's a joke.”

“Aw, we do all right.” I felt myself blush.

“Really? Won any games lately?”

I stared down at the dirt and dug around with my toe. “Well—not really.”

“That's what I thought,” he said.

I scowled. Okay, so it was a bonehead move for me to crawl under the guy's porch. But he didn't have to insult my team.

“So what?” I argued. “Just because the team isn't very good doesn't mean it isn't fun. And I can be a good third baseman even if my team doesn't always win.”

Ernie's lips curled in a mean smile. “So you think you're pretty good, huh? Aren't you kind of short for a ballplayer?”

He was making me mad! I guess that's why I started bragging.

“Maybe I am short. But I'm good,” I declared. “Coach thinks I'm the best third baseman he's ever had. Maybe the best ever to play for Shadyside.”

“Impossible!” Ernie snorted. “Gibson was the best third baseman ever to play for Shadyside. Buddy
Gibson. He had it all—the glove, the bat. . . ” He stared off into the distance as if he were remembering.

“Oh, yeah? Then how come I never heard of him?” I sneered.

The old man's gaze snapped back to mine. His eyes suddenly looked like two holes. Dark. Empty.

“Because for all his talent, Buddy Gibson was unlucky.”

His voice sent chills through me. “Wh-what do you mean?”

Ernie leaned in close and whispered, “Buddy Gibson—and his whole team—were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“And now they're buried in the Fear Street Cemetery!”

B
uried in the Fear Street Cemetery?

I sucked in my breath. “You—you mean they all. . . ”

Ernie Ames nodded.

“What happened to them?” I asked.

His face twisted as if he were in pain. “They were called the Doom Squad,” he said slowly. “Folks called them that because they beat everybody. To play them meant doom. But once I—I mean once
they
had their accident, well—then they really
were
the Doom Squad. They all died. Every single one of them.”

I shuddered. A whole baseball team—dead!

“What accident?” I asked. “How did it happen?”

Ernie turned without answering. He shuffled to the porch steps. “Wait here,” he said.

“But—” I started to say.

Too late. He'd already gone inside. I ran over to the fence.

“Eve? Eve? Are you still there?” I called.

No one answered. Eve must have run off.

“Weenie,” I muttered.

Should I take off myself? Ernie kind of gave me the creeps. On the other hand, I was curious about this Doom Squad.

Before I could make up my mind, Ernie came back out of the house. He shuffled down the porch steps, holding a shoe box. “Here we go,” he said. “I've been saving these for years.”

He pulled an old, creased paper from the box. I took it from him and stared at it. An old black-and-white picture of a kids' baseball team. Twelve guys—no girls. All about my age, twelve.

“That's the Doom Squad,” Ernie explained. He moved behind me and pointed over my shoulder to different players.

“That one's Jimmy Grogan, the first baseman. Wade Newsom—he was the pitcher. Fielders Boog Johnson, Chad Weems, and Johnny Beans. Catcher, Billy Fein.”

I checked the picture out. Everyone looked funny in their baggy, pin-striped uniforms. Their hats had little crowns with long bills. They look more like the
duck
squad than the Doom Squad, I thought.

“Which one is this Gibson kid?” I asked.

“That one.” The old man's finger trembled as he pointed. “That's Gibson.”

Buddy Gibson stared out of the photograph with a wide grin. He seemed more comfortable than the others, like he'd been born in that uniform.

Ernie must have guessed what I was thinking. “Looks like he belongs on a baseball card, doesn't he? Well, he did. Every player on that team was good, but Buddy was special. He had the real stuff. He was going to the majors.”

I shifted uncomfortably. Did Ernie have to stand so close? His clothes had a funny, musty smell. Like they'd been sprinkled with soil or something.

“What year was this taken?” I asked.

“Nineteen forty-eight. Their last year. Right before the championship game.”

“Did they win?” I asked.

“That's where the unluckiness comes in. They lost,” the old man explained. “It was the bottom of the ninth. Bases were loaded and there were two outs. Shadyside led by two runs.”

I nodded. I could picture it.

“A left-handed hitter came up to the plate. The coach moved everybody over, expecting him to hit the ball to the right, but he didn't. He hit a line drive to the left, down the third base line. It was a triple. Three runs scored. And Shadyside lost.”

“Wow! That is a tough break,” I agreed. “But why did it land them in the cemetery?”

“Losing the championship was only the beginning. There was supposed to be a party after the game for everyone—the winners and the losers. But the Doom Squad was so disappointed, they just left. On the way home their bus stalled on the railroad tracks. An oncoming train hit the bus. Killed them all.”

“That's awful!” I gasped.

Ernie's lips were clamped tight. I didn't know what to say. He probably knew these guys.

Then he seemed to shake himself. “So tell me, what do you want, Buddy? What do you really want out of baseball?”

What a weird question. I shrugged. “Gee, I don't know. I want to be a pro ballplayer someday, I guess. Doesn't everybody?”

“No, I mean right now. What do you want most in the world?”

He stared at me. His burning gaze made me nervous. I guess that's why I suddenly blurted out the truth.

“I—I want to play on a
good
team for once. No—it's more than that. I want to play on the best Shadyside team ever!”

Ernie nodded slowly. Without another word he turned and walked back to his house. He opened the door to go inside.

He suddenly turned around. “I guessed that might be your wish,” he said. “Who knows? Maybe it will come true.”

A smile crossed his lips. He started to chuckle.

Then he ducked inside.

“What's so funny?” I called through the screen door.

Ernie didn't answer.

I waited there for a minute. But he never returned.

“Weird,” I muttered to myself. I glanced around the mess of a yard. Might as well leave.

I peeked through the hole in the fence. Eve was long gone.

The shortest way home was down Fear Street, so I walked around to the front of Ernie's house. And bumped right into a policeman. The officer clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked me.

“I'm fine,” I answered, startled. “Is something wrong?”

Eve ran up behind him. “I called the police, Buddy.”

“You what? Why'd you do that?” I demanded. Eve was sort of a scaredy-cat. But calling the cops? That was ridiculous.

“I saw that weird old man grab you when you were under the porch,” Eve explained. “I thought you were in trouble.”

Another voice called behind me, “I checked it out. There's no sign of anyone. The house is empty, just like it should be.”

I turned and saw another policeman walking down
the front steps. He looked older than the first officer, maybe in his fifties.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Some old guy lives there.”

“I don't think so, son,” the first officer told me. “This house is abandoned.”

What? The place
was
shabby, but abandoned?

I turned and stared up at the old house.

Whoa!

Cream-colored paint hung down in long curls from warped old boards. The shutters dangled crookedly from rusty hinges. All the windows were boarded up. Ivy grew thickly over the whole thing.

“But—I don't get it. I just met the guy who lives here,” I said.

“Not possible,” the older police officer told me. “No one has lived here since 1948!”

T
wo days later we played the Oneiga Blue Devils. By the fourth inning we were behind five to one. It was another runaway. As usual, I had the only run on the team.

“I'm telling you, that old man was a ghost!” Eve insisted.

She sat beside me in the dugout, munching sunflower seeds. She thought it made her look like a pro. I hated to break it to her. But she looked about as much like a pro as my cat, Foster.

“Come on, Buddy,” Eve continued. “Fear Street? An abandoned house? A disappearing old man? Hello? You figure it out.”

“Would you get off it?” I snapped. “That was two days ago. And besides, we're playing a
game
here,
remember? Maybe you should pay more attention to that.”

“Whoa. What's your problem?” She spat out the shell of a sunflower seed.

I frowned. I shouldn't have yelled at her like that. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I just can't stand losing—again.”

Inside, I knew that wasn't the only reason I yelled. Really, I didn't want to think about the whole Fear Street thing. I mean, what if Eve were right? What if that old guy
was
a ghost?

Not that I really believed in that stuff. But still. . .

It was a relief when I noticed that I was next at bat.

“Gotta go,” I said. “I'm on deck.” I trotted to the on-deck circle, grabbed a bat, and swung it around to loosen up.

My teammate Scott Adams stood at first. He made it there on an error. Glen Brody was up at the plate. Maybe we could actually get some runs this inning.

Seeing Scott and Glen reminded me again of Fear Street. Scott lived there. Glen went over to his house all the time. Nothing weird ever happened to them.

Or did it? I remembered Glen telling some wild story at school once. Something about a monster from Fear Lake—

I stopped thinking about it when Glen popped the ball up into short left field.

“Run!” I shouted.

The Oneiga shortstop ran back for the ball, but
he collided with the left fielder. Scott was already rounding second base. Heading for third. Glen made it to first and then chugged toward second.

Safe!

Two runners in scoring position. All right! I told myself. Time to show these suckers a little something.