by R. L. Stine
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!”
18
“This 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!
19
We boarded the bus the next day for our trip to the big game. The guys were all in high spirits. They clapped each other on the back and said things like “Reety-do!”
Reety-do?
I didn’t think I would ever get used to this time.
I held my hand up for a high five, but all I got was a blank stare from Johnny Beans.
I took a seat beside Boog. He spent most of the ride bragging about how we were going to clobber the other team.
“We’ll murderize them!” he announced. “Right, Buddy?”
“Uh—right,” I agreed with a weak grin.
All I could think about was how hard I had to play. Was it really possible for one guy to make the difference in winning and losing?
What if I couldn’t do it?
While the other kids told jokes and laughed, I thought about how this was probably the next to last bus ride for all of us.
It was really depressing.
Finally we arrived. We tumbled off the bus. A big crowd had gathered for the game. The ballpark felt like a county fair. The air was filled with the good smells of hot dogs and hamburgers. Some guy was wandering around selling cotton candy.
We had a little batting practice. Boog slammed one pitch after the other over the fence. He was dead-on! Watching him, I started to feel a little more hopeful. If we all played like him, we might have a chance to turn things around!
I scanned the crowded bleachers. My eye stopped on Ernie, the bus driver. He sat in the top row. A big grin was plastered across his face.
“Be careful what you wish for,” I muttered. “You just might get it.”
Finally it was time to start. Our two teams lined up on opposite sides of the field while a high school band screeched through what was supposed to be The Star-Spangled Banner. The way they played it, it sounded more like a bunch of yowling cats.
After the song, one of the umpires flipped a coin. We won the toss. That meant we were the home team. And we were up second. The coaches handed in their lineups to the plate umpire and shook hands.
The umpire raised his hand in the air. “Play ball!”
I sucked in a deep breath.
This was it!
* * *
By the fifth inning, the score was four to three. We were losing. And I was starting to get really scared.
I kept blowing easy plays. Like when one of the Wildcat batters popped a high one right to me.
“I got it!” I yelled. I danced back and forth as the ball came down. It was an easy out. Until the ball hit the edge of my glove and bounced over the foul line.
My whole team groaned.
“Hold it like a basket, Gibson!” Boog roared at me.
I ran after the ball. My face felt as if it were on fire.
I knew how the game was supposed to end. But I was starting to wonder. What if things didn’t go the way they were supposed to? I mean, history was already different—because I wasn’t really Buddy Gibson. I was in his body, sure, but how did I know how he would have played the game?
Maybe I had already messed up so badly that there was no way we could win.
Maybe I blew my chance to change history—and get back home.
No! I couldn’t think that way!
The Wildcats had a second baseman who was just amazing at the plate. He was a skinny, short kid with glasses. But boy, could he swing a bat! No matter what he did, he couldn’t help but get a hit.
By the seventh inning, the score was five to three. The Wildcats had two outs and runners on second and third. When the second baseman stepped in the batter’s box, I groaned.
I was beginning to seriously hate that kid.
For the next few minutes, Wade, our pitcher, kept hurling strikes right over the inside corner of the plate. But the Wildcat batter kept fouling them off. Wade must have thrown him ten pitches, and the count was still no balls and two strikes.
At last Coach Johnson came trotting out to the mound. We all moved in.
“Walk him,” Coach ordered.
“Oh, come on, Coach. I know I can get this guy,” Wade protested.
Coach shook his head. “It’s not worth it. He’s too good. If he gets a hit, it’ll be a homer—and then the Wildcats will score three runs. Walk him.”
Suddenly I remembered something I’d seen once in a pro game.
“Hey, Coach. I have an idea,” I whispered. Quickly I told him my plan.
Coach’s eyes flashed. “I like it,” he said quietly. He glanced at the catcher, then the pitcher. “Billy? Wade? You’re the ones who have to make this work. Do you think you can do it?”
Billy and Wade nodded eagerly.
“Are we going to play ball here?” t
he umpire yelled.
Coach clapped his hands. “Okay, you heard me,” he called loudly. But I saw him wink at Billy and Wade.
I took my base and watched Billy tug his mask back on. He stood behind the plate and held his right hand out wide.
“Are you guys going to chicken out and walk me?” the batter sneered.
“Wait and see,” I answered under my breath.
Wade calmly threw the ball way wide of the plate.
“Ball one!” the umpire yelled.
Billy tossed it back.
Calls of “Chicken!” and “Braawk!” came from the Wildcats’ dugout. Wade ignored them. He threw another way wide and Billy sent it back. Then again. The umpire called ball three.
Now was the time.
“Pay attention, ump,” I muttered under my breath.
Billy still held his arm out wide. The batter glanced back at his jeering teammates and laughed. Wade threw again.
But instead of a wide one, he threw a fastball straight down the middle of the plate!
Billy squatted to catch it. The batter never even started his swing. His mouth fell open as the umpire yelled, “Stee-rike three! You’re out!”
“Hey, no fair!” the batter yelled. “They can’t do that.”
Billy tossed the ball to the umpire. “We just did it, Einstein,” he retorted. “Side retired.”
Whooping with glee, we raced to the dugout. Coach stood grinning. “That was terrific, boys!”
I threw my glove on the bench. I felt much better, even though we were still behind two runs. There was a lot of game left. Plenty of time to make it up.
“Buddy,” the coach called. “You’re last at bat. Run out to the bus for me, would you? I left a pack of cigarettes on the front seat. Get them for me.”
“Sure, Coach,” I agreed.
I really should throw them away, I thought. But he would just buy more.
I ran out to the bus quickly. I didn’t want to miss the game. As I got there, the doors folded open.
The bus driver must be in there, I thought.
But when I jumped up the steps, I was brought up short by the sight in the driver’s seat.
Buddy Gibson!
There he was, right in broad daylight. Waiting for me. He looked strong. Solid. Not like a negative anymore.
“Oh, no!” I gasped.
He grinned.
“Oh, yes,” he rasped. “And I’m not going away this time. You are!”
20
“Wait!” I cried. “You’ve got to listen to—”
That was all I got out. Then Gibson threw himself at me.
I fell backward. The air whooshed out of my lungs when I hit the ground. Gibson jumped down and sat on my chest. I struggled like crazy, trying to throw him off. But he was too strong.
“I’ll teach you, you jerk,” he panted. “I’ll show you what it’s like to be kicked out of your own body!”
He put his hands on my head. I felt the horrible wave of coldness again.
Then his fingers slid into my flesh.
They actually dipped into my skull!
“Noooo!” I yelled.
Icy fingers probed at my brain. Numbness stole over me. The world started to go dark.
This is it! I thought. I’ve had it!
Then I guess Buddy Gibson and I. . . merged.
It was the weirdest thing I ever experienced. All at once, I felt—bigger. Stronger. Faster.
I flexed my fingers. My hands felt as if I’d just taken off a pair of thick gloves.
For the first time, I really fit into Gibson’s body.
I lay there on my back, breathing deeply. Energy pulsed through me.
Suddenly I felt a jolt of panic. Somehow I knew it wasn’t coming from me.
“You’re really from the future?” Gibson’s voice gasped. “And we’re really going to be in a bus crash this afternoon?”
His voice echoed off the inside of my skull. It wasn’t a very comfortable feeling.
But at least I finally got someone to believe me!
“That’s right. We all die—unless we win this game,” I told him. I spoke out loud. It just seemed like the thing to do.
He didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell whether he was even still in there.
“Gibson? Are you still there?” I asked.
There was no answer.
I climbed cautiously to my feet and brushed myself off.
From the distance I heard Boog shout, “Get a move on, Buddy!”
The game! I grabbed the coach’s cigarettes and ran. Maybe Gibson believed me. Maybe he didn’t—and he was going to try to get me again.
But I couldn’t worry about him now.
I still had a game to win!
21
I raced back to the ball field. “What’s up?” I asked Johnny Beans.
“We got our third out already,” he told me, shaking his head. “This game isn’t going so well.”
I grabbed my glove and hustled out to third base. I felt nervous. Antsy. I stalked around my base. “Come on, hit it my way,” I muttered.
What was going on? I didn’t usually feel like this.
“Wake up, man!” a voice snapped in my head. “We’ve got to win this game!”
“Gibson!” I exclaimed.
“No, it’s the tooth fairy. Of course it’s me! What, did you think I was going to skip the big game?”
He was still with me! Right there in my head!
At least he wasn’t attacking me.
Not yet anyway.
“Heads up!” Gibson yelled. I jumped and glanced around wildly.
The ball whizzed past, near second base. A line drive. Straight to the hole in our outfield. This was bad. The Wildcats could get a triple.
Then I saw Boog. He raced across the field as if his shoes were on fire. He dove—and scooped the ball with his glove just before it hit the ground.
“Do it, Boog!” I yelled. What a play!
For the rest of the inning, Gibson kept quiet. I didn’t know whether he was there inside me or not. But I didn’t have much time to worry about it. I had to concentrate on the game!
At the top of the ninth, the score was five to three. We had two outs, and runners on first and second. I was on deck.
Then Billy Fein singled. Bases were loaded, and I was up.
As I stepped to home plate, I felt a surge of determination. I swung the bat and stared out at the pitcher.
I knew, I knew I was going to nail it.
That was Gibson inside me, I realized suddenly. He had a kind of confidence I’d never felt before. But I could feel it now.
He was working with me! Helping me!
The pitcher came at me with a hanging curveball. I grinned and clobbered that sucker.
I didn’t even bother to watch it. I just tossed the bat aside and trotted the bases.
“Grand slam homer!” Boog roared from the dugout. “Gibson! Gibson!”
The batter after me struck out. Our side was retired. “So what?” Boog remarked as we trotted out to the field. “We’re two runs up. The trophy is ours!”
But I knew differently. I remembered Ernie telling me how Shadyside led by two in the bottom of the ninth.
Just the way it was now.
History was repeating itself!
“Don’t start celebrating yet,” I cautioned.
“Win. We have to win!” said the voice in my head.
Gibson was so determined. It was like a fire inside me. I felt powerful. Alive.
But would it be enough? Would it change history?
And would that save the team and get me home?
22
The bottom of the ninth didn’t start out well. Wade was tired, I guess. Anyway, the first Wildcat batter—that skinny second baseman with the glasses—hit a triple on the first pitch.
I winced. Not good. Definitely not good.
The next batter singled. So did the one after that. But at least I was able to keep the runner at third from goi
ng home.
The bases were loaded. Just the way Ernie described it.
The next batter stepped up. He hefted the bat with his left hand.
My stomach did a flip. “This is it,” I said. “This is where it all happens!”
“Shut up and look sharp,” Gibson warned in my head.
I was too scared to get annoyed.
I hugged the third baseline, but the rest of the team shifted over toward right field. “Move it, Buddy!” Coach Johnson yelled.
I ignored him.
“Buddy!” he yelled again.
I waved at him, but I didn’t budge.
Coach called time and ran over to me.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
Oh, boy.
“I’m playing third,” I replied, trying to sound innocent.
“I see. Are you playing third on my team?”
I gulped. “Uh—yes, sir.”
“So why don’t you move where I tell you to move?” he barked.
“He’s going to push the ball to the left, Coach. I just know it,” I argued.
“Oh, you know it, do you?” Coach snapped. “How do you know? Do you have a crystal ball or something?”
“Kind of,” I mumbled.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Coach sounded disgusted. “If you’re not moving toward right in three seconds, I’ll take you out of the game!”
I groaned, but I moved. What else could I do? I stood there halfway to second, gazing tensely at that third base line.
The runners took their leads. The guy on second took such a big jump, he ended up only a few feet away from me.
The second the pitcher threw, I sprinted to the right.
WHAP! The batter cracked a line drive straight down the baseline.
“Go!” Gibson yelled in my head.
The ball screamed through the air. I’d never reach it! I’d never make it.
But then something swelled inside me. It couldn’t get by. It wouldn’t get by!
I leapt through the air. My arm stretched out so far, I thought my shoulder was going to pop.
“I got it!” I screamed.
The ball hit the tip of my glove.
And stuck. I squeezed my fingers around it.