Sidney Hooper's Dilemma

Sidney Hooper’s Dilemma—George Davis

  I looked across the street. There he was, big as day; smiling at me.

  “What the—it can’t be. I murdered you five years ago, and buried your body in a shallow grave behind the Beaver Pond.”

  “Well, guess what? I, John Phillips, have returned. You can’t keep a good man down, Sidney.” His laugh, the most calling sound I’ve ever heard, filled the vacant air, causing my blood to curdle.

  “I’m seeing things. I need to call my doctor,” I said.

  “You’re not crazy, Hooper. It is your old buddy, John. I have come back from the grave to haunt you for the rest of your pitiful life.”

  “We’ll see about that. I’ll take a couple of alka-seltzers and be rid of you.” 

  “In your dreams, Hooper. You will never get rid of me. Ever.” 

  I went into Ned Blake’s barbershop for my once-a-month haircut. “Hey, Ned.” 

  “How’s it going, Sid?” 

  “Not sure. I seem to be—well; I'm fine, I guess, Ned.” 

  “Is something bothering you, Sid?” 

  “I could tell you what it is, but you wouldn’t believe me.” 

  “Try me.” 

  “Nah, it’s nothing.” I didn’t want to tell him I killed John Phillips and buried him over behind the Beaver pond. “Okay, don’t tell Uncle Ned. The usual?” 

  “Yep.” He cut my hair the way he has done it for the last twenty years, short, but not too short. 

  I left Ned’s shop and drove over to Thompson’s Drugstore. I needed a pack of cigarettes. I gave them up two years ago. However, seeing John Phillips today muddled my brain. 

  I got in my car and drove over to the Beaver pond. I thought, 'it was here somewhere’. I found the spot. With my hand, I swept the leaves that covered the grave. He was not here. I panicked. My breathing was rapid, and the pounding in my chest was so loud I thought the neighbors would hear my heart beating. I ran back to my car and drove home. 

  It was later that day; I met Phillips again at the Wayfarer Diner on Main Street. “Going in for lunch, Hooper?”

  “Look, Phillips. I don’t know how you managed to come out of that grave, but you are not a ghost. You are real. And, you have determined to make my life miserable.”

  “Bingo. I am here in the flesh.”

  “Why don’t you report me to the police?”

  “What, and spoil all the fun. I don’t think so. I am going to make your life miserable. And then when you can’t take it any longer. I am going to kill you. You know, just like you killed me.”

  I was shaking visibly; I tried to maintain calm but failed. 

  “Good, I see you are already shaking in your shoes. Ha ha.” 

  “Leave me alone. Go away, stop bothering me, or I’ll…” 

  “You’ll what, Hooper, call the police?” 

  “Yes. If you are not dead, I’ll have no fear of the police.” 

  “Wonder if I tell them you attempted to murder me?” 

  “They won’t believe you. You have no evidence to say I killed you.” 

  “Even if you go to the police, that won’t stop me from hounding you.” 

  “I’ll get a restraining order.”   

  “Again, Hooper. You have no evidence. Have a nice day.”

  I went into the diner, still shaky, unsteady on my feet.

  “Morning, Sid,” Winnie the waitress said. “The usual?”

  “Sure, and plenty of coffee, Winnie.”

  “Coming up, handsome.” 

  Returning, Winnie asked, “Is something bothering you, Sid? You look frightened.”

  “I’m fine, got some bad news today.”

  “What kind of news?”

  “My cousin, out in Oklahoma died yesterday.”

  “Oh, I sorry to hear that, Sid. Were you two close?”

  “Yes, when we were kids we played together at my grandmother’s.”

  “Well, at least, he’s in a better place, Sid.” 

  “I hope so.” 

 Winnie delivered my two over medium, home fries, rye toast and crisp bacon while they were still hot. 

  I finished breakfast; paid my bill and left Winnie a good tip. She smiled as she picked up the three one-dollar bills, stuffing them into her uniform pocket. 

It was another week before I ran into Phillips again. He was sitting outside the Double-Dip Ice Cream parlor, eating a chocolate cone, the sides dripping from the high humidity of a Maine summer. 

  “Hello, Hooper. How’s it going?”

  “It was going just fine until I ran into you.”

  “Get used to it, Hooper. I am going to stick to you like glue. You won’t be able to step outside your door without my being right there.”

  “It’s okay, Phillips. I can ignore you; go about my business.”

  “You think so, Hooper? You won’t have a minute’s peace until I drive you crazy, or—kill you.”

  I was sure Phillips would follow through with his threat. I’ve known him since first-grade. He is a vindictive, cruel miscreant. One time, years ago when we were in the seventh-grade, he tied a firecracker to a cat’s tail and set it free. The bomb exploded and killed the cat, and put a smile on his face. He is a sadist.

  “Remember, Hooper. I will be at your side until you die.” He laughed.

  It is time to plan Phillips’s death again. This time he won’t escape. I shall get him alone at the Beaver pond on some pretense. And there I will end his miserable life.

  Over at the Blue Jay motel, John Phillips was also planning a murder, mine.

  After several hours of non-sleep. I settled on murder by sword. I will take my great-grandad’s Civil War saber and thrust him through.

  Meanwhile, Phillips, sitting on his bed in the motel, chose a gun to kill Sidney Hooper.

  Why is it, I have decided to kill my best friend again? We’ve been through so much together; K-12, the Army, dating sisters. John married Philomena Penna. I remained unmarried. When he got married it was the end of our companionship. We drifted apart over the years. Six years ago his wife, died of cancer, and John was beside himself; bitter. He returned to his sadist ways. The ways I’ve put up with for all these years. His wife was his rudder. She kept him from his own misery. 

  When Philomena died, it was the end of a perfect marriage. He couldn’t cope, and he made everyone around him miserable. He was no fun to be with. He was malicious in his behavior toward anyone who tried to help him.

  I met Phillips downtown on Tuesday morning. I was coming out of the Wayfarer when he stopped me. “Well, Hooper, it’s time we had another talk.”

  “Fine with me. Name the place. How about the Beaver pond,” I said.

  “Suits me. Near my grave, Hooper?”

  “Yes, good a place as any.”

  “How about tomorrow morning at this time?”

  “Sure, Hooper, see you then. At the Beaver pond.”

  My mouth tasted of tin, my nerves were taut like fine violin strings. The anticipation, and the waiting were intensifying. 

  Where is he? The clock on the Congregational church across the pond says, eight-fifteen.

  As I was about to leave, Phillips drove into the drive on top of the small knoll. He parked his car, got out and waved. I returned his gesture. I was ready, though very uptight.

  “What’s that at your side, Hooper?”

  “I’ll show you.” I drew out the Civil War sword and in one move, thrust it through his abdomen. He smiled, tottered on his feet, and then fell to the ground. I felt for a pulse. He had none.

  The hole beneath the leaf-covered ground was empty. I placed his body in the shallow grave where nobody would ever find him. I drove back to the wayfarer for a late breakfast.

  Winnie met me at the door. “Morning, Sid. How’s it going this fine morning?”

  “Great, Winnie. Just great.”

  “You look so much better today than yesterday, Sid.”

  “I am on top of the world, Winnie. I just got rid of my biggest problem.”

  “That’s good, Sid. You sure do look finer today.”

  The first time since John came back to life; I enjoyed my breakfast. I was, at last, free of that maniac.

  Saturday morning I mounted my Toro moving machine. It was time to mow my hayfield. As I was coming back toward the house, I saw someone standing by the fence. It can’t be. It was John Phillips.

  “Hello again, Hooper. Glad to see me?”

  “You are the product of something I ate. Go away.”

  “I assure you, Sidney. This time, I am a ghost.” 

  “I don’t believe in ghosts.” 

  “Watch this.” He disappeared. Then I heard him speak. I turned, and he was behind me. 

  “Want to see a neat trick, Hooper?” He swiveled, like a spinning top; It then disappears again. “Are you convinced yet?” 

  “No, I can fix you with two Tylenol and a glass of alka-seltzer.” I went into the house and took the medicine. “There, that should take care of that apparition. 

  Outside, Phillips was still standing by the fence. “Did you take your medicine, Hooper? Did it help?” He laughed, that awful blood-curdling howl. 

  “Go away. Leave me alone.” 

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Hooper. You see. I have been assigned to you, to haunt you the rest of your life.” 

  I appealed to him, but he wouldn’t listen. He just laughed. I will have to put up with his heinous behavior until the day I die. I can’t bear that. I cannot let him spoil my life. 

  For the next six weeks, John Phillips didn’t stop appearing to me, especially in my dreams at night. His specter was a hundred nightmares rolled into one. 

  The Bickford Gazette’s main headline read: On Monday, July first, Sidney Hooper passed from this life to the next. Hooper, a local man hanged himself in his garage. He left no note. But, it was surmised by some who knew him, he was bearing some unknown long-time mental plague.

  Winnie, the waitress said, “So, John Do you miss your old pal, Sidney Hooper?”

  Phillips smiled. “He was a good friend to me. I shall always miss him,” he lied.

  “It’s awfully dark in here. Who is that over there by the light? It is strange. I didn’t walk over to the light. I drifted, like the new-fallen snow. “Who are you?” I could now see; the lithe figure was a man. Strange, I could see through him as if he were a window.

  “Welcome, Sidney Hooper.” And then he let out the most horrible scream I have ever heard. I shook, moved away from him. I floated to another area where a woman was sewing a dress. The fabric seemed to stretch for miles. She looked sad, lonely and in great anguish.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “In life, I was a homemaker. The one thing I hated most was sewing. And now, I shall be sewing for all eternity.”

  “Are we in—you know—hell?”

  “Yes, and my plight is not as bad as yours is going to be.” With that, she laughed and drifted away.

  Still dark, a voice spoke to me. “Sidney Hooper, you attempted to kill your best friend, twice. Murder, or attempted murder is a sin. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Yes, but I—I thought I killed him.”

  “No, you see, he convinced you, he was a ghost. In fact, John Phillips, your one-time friend did not die the second time either. He got up out of that grave and came looking for you, determined to drive you crazy. Looks like he succeeded.” The voice Sidney heard screamed, ‘Welcome to hell.’

  “All hope abandon, ye who enter here.” Dante’s Inferno.