Field of Screams (5 page)

Jeez Louise?
Man, these guys talked weird.

“Don't you remember?” Johnny continued. “Your house used to be in North Hills, but your folks moved last month. Now you're staying with Coach Johnson until the season's over.”

“Oh—thanks,” I said.

“Let's go, Gibson,” someone shouted.

I turned and saw Coach standing by a humongous blue car. He waved at me. Boog stood next to him.

“Get a move on. I'm hungry,” Boog bellowed.

I trotted over. Coach must be giving Boog a ride home.

Boog opened the front door.

“You get in back, son,” the coach ordered. “Let Buddy ride up front with me.”

Son?

That's when it hit me. Boog
Johnson?
Coach
Johnson?

I groaned. I couldn't believe it! I was staying at the coach's house—that meant I was staying with Boog. The kid who wanted to pound me.

Great. Just great.

I climbed in and tried not to notice the stare Boog gave me.

I tugged hard on the heavy door to get it shut. Then I settled into the seat. Whoa! The coach's car was built like a tank!

Whoops! Have to buckle up, I thought. I dug around in the seat cushions.

“What are you doing?” Coach Johnson asked.

“I'm looking for my seat belt.”

“Seat belt? What's a seat belt?” Boog scowled at me from the back.

Uh-oh . . . 1948 again. Maybe they didn't have seat belts in those days! “Heh-heh. Just joking,” I mumbled.

“Seat belts,” the coach snorted. “I've read about
them. Death traps, that's what they are. No, sir. I'm not letting anybody strap
me
into a car so I can't get away.”

We drove out of the school parking lot and headed down Hawthorne Drive. We made a right turn on Park.

Then the coach turned right again—on Fear Street.

I should have guessed that's where Boog would live.

We cruised up the street, then turned left into the drive of a rambling two-story house. I got out of the car and glanced across the street.

A familiar-looking house stared back at me. Then I realized how I knew it. It was the house from my own time. The house where I met Ernie Ames, the bus driver.

The house where everything started.

Only now it didn't look abandoned. It was a little shabby, maybe, but the paint wasn't peeling off or anything.

An old car pulled into the house's driveway. The engine died and the bus driver stepped out.

He waved to me. I waved back slowly.

Did he recognize me? I mean
me,
Buddy Sanders?

I've got to talk to him, I thought. Alone. I need to find out why he sent me here—and how I'm supposed to get back to my own time.

“Buddy,” Coach Johnson called. “Come on inside.”

“Sure,” I said. I walked slowly toward the Johnsons' house.

Everything is going to be okay, I told myself. All I have to do is stay calm.

Calm—hah! If I knew then what was about to happen to me, I would have run screaming down Fear Street.

Because my nightmare was just starting!

W
e tromped up the wooden steps to the front door. A lady who had to be Boog's mom stood in the doorway, waiting for us.

Her red hair hung to her shoulders, and her cheeks had a rosy glow. She wore a dark blue dress with a white lace collar.

“Don't take another step without taking those muddy shoes off! I just scrubbed these floors,” she scolded. Then she smiled. “So, how did we do today, boys?”

“A feast for your conquering heroes!” Coach Johnson teased.

Mrs. Johnson laughed. “I guess you won again.”

“Don't we always, Mom?” Boog asked.

“It was a close call though,” the coach said. “We almost lost our star player to a fastball to his head.”

Mrs. Johnson gasped. “Oh, no! Here, Buddy, let me see.” She tipped my head to the side and probed gently at the bruise. She made a soft “tsk.”

“It looks painful,” she told me. “But I think you'll live. Not a lot of swelling. Any dizziness, Buddy? Are you feeling sleepy?”

“I'm okay,” I mumbled.

“Good. Now, you boys run upstairs and wash up for supper. Everything's ready. Go on, scoot.”

I followed Boog up the stairs, thinking that people were sure a lot less careful in 1948. In my own time, Mom and Dad would have sent me to the doctor as soon as I was hit.

I stopped at the top of the stairs and looked around, confused. Boog stood in a doorway. “Well? You just going to stand there?” he snapped.

“I don't remember—”

Boog's eyes narrowed. “What's with you, Buddy?” He pointed to a door down the hall. “In there. I got dibs on the bathroom.”

He stepped into the bathroom and slammed the door. I heard water running. Good. He was out of my way. Now I could really check the place out.

I went down the hall and opened the door to the room Buddy Gibson was staying in. It was smaller than the one I had at home, but it looked nice and
cozy. It had a shelf filled with Hardy Boys and Tarzan books. Hey! I read those—way in the future. Gibson had a few of those Tom Swift books too.

I looked around for the stereo. It was nowhere to be found.

Maybe he's got a TV, I thought. But I couldn't find one of those either.

Duh—1948. Hardly anyone had TVs back then.

So what did people do for fun around here?

I spied a window at the far end of the room. I walked over to it and lifted the blinds.

Yes! The window faced the front. I could see Fear Street, and Ernie the bus driver's house.

I glanced down. A rose trellis clung to the side of the house—right below the window. Perfect for climbing out after dark. All right!

Someone knocked on the door. I dropped the blinds.

“I'm done in the bathroom. You're up, goofus,” Boog bellowed from the other side.

“Keep your shirt on, you big loser,” I muttered under my breath.

There was a chest of drawers positioned against the wall behind me. A mirror was placed over it.

I stooped to open one of the drawers, and caught my reflection in the mirror. There it was again. Buddy Gibson's face, with the blue eyes and the scar. I shuddered.

Looking like someone else—
being
someone else—was
the creepiest part about this whole nightmare. A guy just doesn't expect to see someone else in the mirror.

I opened one of the dresser drawers. Inside I found shirts and pants, neatly folded and sorted. The shirts were all plaid. That wouldn't have been so bad if they were flannel. But they weren't. They were this scratchy cotton material. They had short sleeves and narrow collars.

The pants were mostly jeans. Stiff, dark blue jeans that looked like they could stand up all by themselves.

I changed into fresh clothes, then glanced in the mirror again. Geek city! I wouldn't be caught dead in these clothes back home.

But this was 1948. I'd probably blend right in with all the other nerds here.

The door opened again, and Boog came in. “Come on, supper's waiting.” He jabbed at me with his fist. I jerked backward.

“Hah! Flinch!” he said, and grabbed my arm. “Frog!” Then he hit me hard in the muscle of my left arm.

“Ow!” I cried. “Hey, that hurt.” I made a fist.

When Boog saw it, his lips curled in a mean smile.

“You flinched, tough guy,” he reminded me. “So I get to frog you. That's the rule, and you know it. Or are you too big a sissy to trade licks?”

He sneered and pushed me backward. “Huh?” he challenged. He shoved me again. “How about it? You
too much of a baby? Or maybe you want to go outside and fight for real?” He shoved me again.

I had just about had enough of this guy. He was big. But I didn't care. Nobody pushes me around like that.

“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.

B
oog'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!”