Field of Screams Read Online Free PDF

them!”
    â€œYeah!” everybody yelled.
    â€œI want them shaking in their shoes when we run out on that field!”
    â€œYeah!” the team replied.
    â€œAnd why?”
    â€œBecause we’re the Doom Squad!” the team roared.
    â€œYou bet we are.” Coach nodded, looking satisfied.
    Wow. My coach—my real coach, back in 1997—never talked like that. He said stuff like “Just remember, we’re all out here to have fun.”
    Weird.
    Coach put a hand on my arm as I was climbing off the bus. “How’s the head, Buddy?” he asked. “Feeling better?”
    â€œYeah, Coach. I’m fine.” I answered quickly.
    I didn’t want anyone to send me to a doctor. Who knows what medicine was like in 1948? What if they still used leeches to suck your blood or something?
    â€œGlad to hear it,” Coach said, smiling. “We can’t afford to lose you. We might manage with somebody else hurt, but you’re the star. We need you.”
    Out of the corner of my eye I saw Boog Johnson glaring at me. What was his problem?
    As he walked past me, he leaned close to my ear and growled, “You think you’re so hot.”
    â€œForget him. He’s just jealous,” Johnny Beans whispered.
    â€œI’d like to forget him, but I think he’s going to pound me!” I said, worried.
    â€œHe wishes. I don’t think he’d dare. Not until after the season anyway. His dad would kill him.”
    I started to walk toward my house on Spring Street. Then I remembered.
    In 1948 I didn’t live on Spring Street.
    I wasn’t even born yet.
    My parents weren’t even born yet!
    I turned back to Johnny Beans. “Uh, I forgot where I live,” I mumbled.
    He shook his head. “Jeez, Louise, you do have amnesia!”
    Jeez Louise? Man, these guys talked weird.
    â€œDon’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.”
    â€œOh—thanks,” I said.
    â€œLet’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.
    â€œGet a move on. I’m hungry,” Boog bellowed.
    I trotted over. Coach must be giving Boog a ride home.
    Boog opened the front door.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Coach Johnson asked.
    â€œI’m looking for my seat belt.”
    â€œSeat 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.
    â€œSeat belts,” the coach snorted. “I’ve read aboutthem. 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