Kelly's House

M. Chandling
The inside of M. Chandling's tent is something to
behold. The man is barefoot and shirtless, and the smell makes Fred gag twice as he looks around, marveling at everything the man has dragged inside. It is a veritable
junkyard of stuff. Things thrown away by campers, complex-looking electronics wired together and powered by leaky car batteries... reams of dot-matrix computer readouts... not less than about fifty old flip phones and smartphones.
It's the roof of the tent that's most special. Fred was half-expecting it, but it's
literally one big tinfoil hat. It's a patchwork of aluminum, to be sure, but the bearded weirdo has full coverage. Wendy's burger wrappers. Gyro foil. Wrinkled sheets of used tinfoil, some with evidence of the cookies baked on them. Gum wrappers. Shiny, colorful foil from chocolates and a dozen other suspect sources. And in many places a mesh of wire with a few strategically placed pieces of duct tape seals the deal.
The two settle in to the disturbingly damp and humid bedding that lines the floor, and Chandling offers Fred an old pop tart.
"Delicious! I have mores if you're hungries!" the woodsman says, biting into his own breakfast pastry.
"Now," he continues around bites,
"you says you wants to talk about the lights, yeah? Fews nights ago, during the storms. Big light in the sky, lit up the forest likes it was day! And thens... thens it fookin' hit the ground! Somethings crashed in the woodses!"
Finishing his pop tart, the man reaches up and adjusts a few of the knobs and dials he somehow has afixed to the silver roof.
"Theres we go. The Greys was trying to snoops! Anyways. And so offs I goes, the other night. To investigates, to sees what it was!"
Lowering his voice to a whisper, Chandling leans closer to Freddie and nods vigoriously.
"That's rights. It was. A space ship!"