The Heir of Middle Manor

Part 2: Cooper's Car Wash

This car wash felt like some kind of altar of craziness. The inside was whitewashed, but the outside was painted black with faded, child-like images of tiny antique-looking trucks floating atop clouds filled with tiny toads. Below the trucks was painted a large cemetery where ghosts hovered near headstones holding skulls. At the gate of the cemetery, three black hairy monsters with bright red eyes stood guard. Just inside the car wash, a rusted metal box was welded to one wall with the word "Tickets" nearly faded off over a small slot, and more strangely an old candlestick phone covered in layers of dust and webs sat on top of the box. Stranger still was the shelf that held a box of old soap flakes, a tin pail of dried mushrooms, and a metal oil lamp in the shape of Santa Claus with a smile of pointed teeth.

While Ryan did not believe Old Man Cooper was dangerous, he did believe the town of Wrenoak was filled with crazy people and he did not want to become one of them. Whatever parts of him might be broken, he intended to keep to himself while he found a way to fix them. He would certainly not be telling his Aunt Hattie about this new bout of sleepwalking. She would likely attribute it to ghosts, magic, or some kooky paranormal thing as she always did.

Ryan had to figure out what was going on in his subconscious that would make him come here. He couldn't be crazy. He was too logical for that, he thought. He was the outlier in this town that made their business selling paranormal lies to stupid tourists.

He was going to install a lock on the inside of his bedroom door today so he could lock himself in his room. That would solve the sleepwalking problem.

Having a plan made him feel more in charge. He blew in his hands to warm them up and jumped around in the car wash a bit to get warm. He was going to get this day going and do what needed to get done.

Then he smelled the faint smell of a fire wafting in and carrying a hint of bacon cooking.

He furrowed and peered out of the car wash, jerking himself back inside when he saw the familiar figure sitting by a campfire tending to a pan of bacon just yards away.

"I thought you were going to sleep longer," she called out to him. "The bacon's not done yet."

Ryan peered back out of the car wash and watched the tiny, ancient-looking woman adjust a coarse gray blanket over her bony shoulders. She smiled a crooked smile that bunched the wrinkles up around her eyes and waved a gnarled hand at him beckoning to the fire.

She was one of the town's oddities, never seen without the tin funnel she wore over her ragged gray hair. She had knitted a floppy brim out of green yarn with two long strings that she tied under her sagging chin. This strange tin funnel hat along with her layers of tattered skirts, grass-green heavy boots, and her habit of wandering the town in the dead of night carrying a broom had earned her the title of "The Tin Witch" among the residents.

She was Mary Devlin to him. She was the eccentric friend of his Aunt Hattie. She lived a mile from the Bramble Farm, her worn little shack surrounded by an army of small mannequins painted orange and dressed in capes. She was a frequent visitor at the Bramble Farm, and she had watched Ryan with her stealthy, watery blue eyes for as long as he could remember.

Ryan knew there was no avoiding her, so he stepped out of the car wash and made his way across the clearing and stood by the fire.

She had stepped away to stack bits of the rubble from the collapsed barn to create a small, makeshift table. She placed a tattered basket and atop it and fished out small tin plates, cups, and a thermos. Her familiar ragged broom was propped against a nearby tree with a yellow flower tied to the handle.

"What are you doing here?" Ryan snapped.

"You've got leaves in your hair," she commented in a friendly voice.