Field of Screams Read Free Page A

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.
    â€œCome on, Buddy,” Eve continued. “Fear Street? An abandoned house? A disappearing old man? Hello? You figure it out.”
    â€œWould 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.”
    â€œWhoa. 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.
    â€œGotta 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.
    â€œRun!” I shouted.
    The Oneiga shortstop ran back for the ball, buthe 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.
    I felt pumped up as I approached the plate. My teammates cheered me on from the dugout. “Do it, Buddy!” “Go for it, Buddy!”
    I stepped into the batter’s box, ready to send this sucker downtown. Over the fence. Never to be seen again.
    I grinned at the pitcher and waggled my bat a few times over the plate. He wiped some sweat from his brow.
    Getting nervous? I taunted the pitcher in my mind. You better be. I’m going to mail this ball to Mars!
    The first pitch was way outside. I let it go and moved closer to the plate, crowding it.
    â€œTry to give me an outside pitch now, chicken,” I muttered.
    The pitcher wound up again. I tightened my grip on the bat.
    Then, from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a familiar face.
    Ernie Ames. The old man from the house on Fear Street.
    He stood at the fence. Watching me.
    His eyes burned into mine. I felt as if I couldn’t tear my gaze away from him.
    What did he want?
    â€œDuck!” someone yelled.
    My head whipped around. Oh, man!
    The ball was speeding straight toward me!
    Whack! The ball hit me and knocked me down. My head smacked into the ground.
    Even though I was wearing a helmet, pain exploded in my head. I saw a huge flash of white light. Little stars danced in front of my eyes.
    Then everything went black.

6

    T he next thing I heard was somebody calling my name.
    â€œBuddy. Buddy, talk to me,” someone called.
    I opened my eyes slowly. Man, did my head hurt!
    My vision was blurry for a second. As it cleared, I made out faces peering down at me. Strangers.
    â€œYou okay, Buddy? That pitch hit you square in the head.”
    The man speaking was tall. And he had dark hair he wore slicked back with some sort of shiny oil.
    How does he know my name? I wondered. I’ve never seen him before.
    â€œOooh!” I groaned and sat up slowly. My head throbbed where the ball hit me. I felt a little dizzy.
    â€œThatta boy. Can you get up?”
    Without