Icon #32 Regan (Poltergeist)

#32

The cardboard packing crate was huge. Fly-man stared at it a long time, glancing up and down the street, but nothing moved. No one had found it before he had, and the alley was deserted. He worked quickly. The flaps had to be unstapled at the bottom so he could fold it, but he didn’t want to damage the structural integrity. It was a hell of a find – maybe the shed skin of a some heavy appliance, or gorgeous wooden furniture ensemble – bigger than he’d seen in years.

He managed to wrangle it flat and fold it once, then, with all the feeble strength remaining to him, he levered it up onto his cart. It rested precariously, but he managed to balance it between two old iron rods he carried. He didn’t know why he carried them until that moment. Junk was like that — life was like that. They were there now, when he needed them.

With the carton secured, he rolled up out of the alley as quickly as he could, turned on Maple, and headed off the main drag. He had been eying a particular vacant lot for a while, and he thought it was time to stake a claim, such as it was. The place had a fence that would give him some shelter form prying eyes – and police.

He rolled through the main gate of the fence, oddly broken and canted to one side, and turned into the yard. There had been a home there, he knew. He’d see it a few years back – and he’d seen what was left of it after. A pit. They said it was a sinkhole, but they said other things too. Crazy things that made no sense. No one else built there…no one went into that yard. To Fly-man (so named for his single pair of dungarees, stapled together where the zipper had long given up the ghost) it sounded like home.

He managed to get the carton set back up and sealed the roof with a hard-won half roll of duct tape. He backed that open and re-sealed end up against the fence, and crawled inside. There was room to sleep, and room for junk. He didn’t have to leave it all in the cart.

Deep inside the carton, he saw a piece of paper that he’d overlooked. He picked it up and glanced at it. It was a flier for a television – a very large television. The carton was dark, but the picture on the TV screen seemed to glow. He stared at it, meeting the gaze of a young girl. He knew he’d seen that face – knew the movie from a previous life – another world He thought, and as he did so the paper seemed to hum. The interior of the carton lit up with its glow. Things moved in the picture.

He watched in fascination. It had been a long time since Fly-man watched TV, and he could almost make out the sound over the low hum. He leaned closer. The voice was faint, but as the words arranged themselves, he smiled in recognition.

“Knew I’d seen that damn flick” he muttered.

Small hands reached from the flier to grip his beard. He screeched and backpedaled, but hit the fence. The floor of his carton rippled. Hands broke through and scrabbled blindly at the cardboard, reaching for him.

The voice was clearer now.

“Come into the light.”