Greta the Climate Goblin - Episode Two: The Beast in the Barn (Just a Normal Weekend)

Saturday Morning, 05 October 1985

KMEL-13 Public Television Station

     Harold Jenkins walked into the break room, coffee in one hand, doughnut in the other, with a newspaper tucked under one arm. He put the coffee down and with his now free hand, tossed the paper onto the table.

     "Congratulations, Bob. You made the front page again."

     Bob Mercer, a local insurance salesman and president of the Fairhaven Historical Society looked up and smiled. "Oh, um, yeah. We bought the old barn on the Josephson property. We're going to restore it as an example of early pioneering history. It should be an interesting project."

     Harold nodded, "Good for you. Will the barn be part of your show this week?"

     Bob shook his head, "Oh, um, no. Not this week. We're going to have to do quite a bit of work on it before it can be presented as part of 'Fairhaven's Historical Corner.'"

     "Well, let me know how it goes." Harold turned his attention to the rest of the staff. "Alright, Saturday Morning lineup kicks off in ten minutes. Lionel, you're up first. Bob, you're after Lionel. Max, after Bob. If any of you run long, you're stealing time from the next guy, not from cartoons."

     Max looked up. "What if I need another thirty seconds?"

     Harold looked at him. "You don't."

     "Ok, yeah," Max started, "but what if?"

     "Then talk faster." Harold said, turning away from the young man. "Chet, you're after Max."

     Dusty ambled in. The pins on his denim vest clicked together as he reached for the doughnut box. He paused, hand hovering above the remaining choices. "Awww man, who took the jellys?"

     Chet raised his hand. "Right here, Chief."

     Dusty looked at him. "How did you take the only jelly?"

     "I was here first," Chet replied, smiling.

     "That's fair," Dusty sighed.

     Professor Avery folded the notes he had been reviewing and slipped them into the breast pocket of his shirt. "My demonstration requires precisely eleven minutes and forty seconds."

     Harold looked at him.

     Lionel adjusted his glasses. "Twelve minutes."

     "Thank you."

     Chet glanced at the clock. "I need fifteen."

     "For what?" Harold asked.

     Chet smiled,  "Chili."

     Harold stared at him. "You need fifteen minutes to make chili?"

     "Nope," Chet answered, shaking his head, "I need fifteen minutes to show people how to make chili. The chili takes three hours."

     Harold pinched the bridge of his nose. "Then how are you going to finish it on the show?"

     Chet pointed toward the refrigerator. "Made one last night."

     Harold nodded slowly. "See? That's television."

     At the counter, Greta poured herself a cup of coffee and stared suspiciously into it.

     Harold noticed. "Problem?"

     "I think this coffee was made yesterday."

     "It was."

     Greta looked at him.

     Harold took a drink from his own cup. "It gets stronger."

     "That's not how coffee works."

     "Twenty years in television says otherwise."

     From somewhere down the hall came a sharp burst of electronic feedback followed by Max shouting, "I didn't do that!"

     Harold closed his eyes.

     Nobody moved.

     A moment later Elliot appeared in the doorway carrying a screwdriver. "Max did that."

     "I knew it," Harold said.

     "I touched one thing!" came a voice from the hallway.

     "You touched three things," Elliot replied.

     "How do you know?" Max whined.

     Elliot sighed. "I saw you."

     Max hurried past him into the hallway.
Elliot watched him go, then reached into the doughnut box.

     Dusty pointed at him. "Jelly's gone."

     Elliot withdrew his hand. "Then I have no reason to be here."

     He disappeared back into the hall.

     Greta watched him leave. "Does he ever eat anything?"

     Dusty shrugged. "Never seen him do it."

     She shook her head. "That's weird."

     Dusty took another bite of his doughnut.
"Kid, everybody who works here is weird."

     Harold picked up his coffee. "Some of us are professionals."

     Greta looked pointedly at the day-old coffee. "Riiiight."

     Bob laughed.

     Harold pointed toward the hallway. "Avery. Studio D. Five minutes."

     Lionel stood and gathered his materials.

     Harold looked toward Bob. "You're next."

     Bob nodded and picked up his folder.

     The station manager paused, "Chet, I don't want that chili anywhere near the control board."

     "It won't be, Chief." Chet said with a reassuring smile.

     Harold turned toward the hall, "And Max--"

     "I know, I know. Don't touch anything." Max called back.

     "No. Go help Elliot fix whatever you already touched," Harold grumbled.

     Max sighed.

     Harold finally looked at Greta. "And you don't have to be here until tonight."

     Greta smiled. "I know."

     "Then why are you here?" Harold sighed.

     Greta lifted her coffee. "Apparently I hate myself."

     Dusty nodded solemnly. "Now she's learning television."

     Harold shook his head and headed for the door.

     Behind him, forgotten among the coffee cups and doughnut crumbs, the newspaper lay open on the table.

     Above the fold was a photograph of Bob Mercer shaking hands beside a weathered old barn.

HISTORICAL SOCIETY PURCHASES JOSEPHSON BARN

     Nobody looked at it twice.

LATER THAT NIGHT...

     Greta flipped the switch on the fog machine. A cloud of vapor rolled out along the floor as Elliot counted down "3...2...1..." and pointed to Greta, signaling that the camera was rolling.

     Greta stood in the middle of her set, surrounded by cardboard tombstones, plastic skeletons, and fake cobwebs. Behind her, a crooked wooden sign read "GRETA THE CLIMATE GOBLIN PRESENTS..."

     She waited until the fog had curled around ankles to before turning towars the camera.

     "Good evening, my little goblins!" She spread her arms dramatically. "Have you ever wondered what lurks beneath your feet? Down in the damp, dark, and disgusting depths of your city's sewer system?"

     She leaned toward the camera and lowered voice, "I mean besides the rats, cockroaches, and whatever your neighbors flushed down their toilets last Tuesday?"

     She straightened and smiled. "Tonight, we're going underground for a particularly nasty piece of a cinematic shame from 1965 - "The Devil in the Drainpipes!"

     She gestured toward a length of corrugated drainpipe that someone had propped against a cardboard wall.

     "Construction workers discover something ancient and hungry beneath the city streets. Something with claws! Something with teeth! Something that has absolutely no respect for municipal plumbing!"

     A low, ominous gurgling sound came from somewhere off-camera.

     Greta glanced toward the drainpipe. "Oh, dear. I think our guest has arrived."

     "Now, remember, my little goblins, what you pour down your drains doesn't just disappear! Oil, paint, household chemicals—all those nasty things can end up polluting our rivers and streams."

     The drainpipe rattled again and made a groaning sound.

     Greta took a step backward, making sure to plant her foot on the push-button switch concealed beneath the edge of the set. A tiny electric fan began inflating a green rubber tentacle, causing it to slowly emerge from the drain opening.

     At least, that was the plan.

     The tentacle rose several inches, bent sideways, and began wobbling uncertainly.

     She stared at it for a second, "Well, that's not up to code."

     The tentacle wiggled around.

     Greta reached into a pocket, produced a small can labeled "DRAIN CLEANER", examined the label, and shook her head.

     "Nope. Definitely not environmentally friendly." She tossed the can aside and picked up a toilet plunger.

     "Sometimes, you've just got to do things the old-fashioned way!"

     She raised the plunger above her head, "Let’s roll the film while I deal with this mess, my Goblins and Goblinettes. So turn down the lights, lock the bathroom door, and whatever you do... Don't. Flush. Twice. Because tonight, the terror is coming from BELOW!"

     Elliot stood. "You're clear, Greta. Movie's playing."

     Greta lowered the plunger and looked toward him. "How'd I do?"

     Elliot smiled, "Pretty good."

     "Really?" Greta practically beamed.

     "Yeah. You almost lost it when the tentacle came out, though." Elliot said, shaking his head.

     Greta laughed. "I know! It didn't work the way I thought it would."

     She stepped off the concealed switch and crouched beside the drainpipe. The little fan stopped, and the rubber tentacle slowly collapsed.

     "It was supposed to come out like this." She demonstrated with one hand, making a slow, serpentine motion. "You know, like it was feeling around for something. Instead, it looked like a balloon somebody forgot to tie."

     Greta giggled. "I think we need a bigger fan."

     Elliot crouched beside her and examined the mechanism. "Not necessarily. The air's escaping somewhere. See?"

     He pinched the rubber near its base. "There's a leak."

     Greta leaned closer. "Oh. Probably fix it with some rubber cement. Think we can do that before the next break?"

     Elliot glanced at his watch. "We've got about twenty minutes. Maybe."

     "Great!" She raised one hand for a high-five.

     He looked at her. "Greta, we're not doing the tentacle bit again during the next break."

     She frowned, "Why not?"

     "Because you wrote down that the next segment is supposed to be about the actors," he replied.

     She considered that. "Oh. Right."

     Elliot shook his head, smiling. "Besides, you already killed the monster with a plunger."

     "I did, didn't I?" She looked down at the deflated tentacle. "Poor little guy."
- - - - -
     On the television monitor, a terrified sewer worker was desperately trying to escape a creature that appeared to consist of several rubber hoses attached to a large, wet sack.

     The creature roared. The sewer worker screamed. The creature roared again.

     The phone rang.

     Harold Jenkins, who was reviewing some paperwork, didn't even look up. The telephone rang. He reached over and picked up the receiver.

     "KMEL, Jenkins speaking."

     There was a moment of silence.

     "Hello?" Harold said, speaking slightly louder than before.

     A man's voice came through the receiver, breathless and frightened. "Is this the television station?"

     Harold started to nod but caught himself, "Yes, sir. How can I help you?"

     The voice asked, "You people got somebody who knows about monsters?"

     Harold slowly lowered his pen. "I'm sorry?"

     "Monsters! You got that green-haired girl on television right now, don't you? The one who talks about monsters?" the voice said over the line.

     Harold, a little confused by this line if questions, answered slowly, "Greta the Climate Goblin?"

     "Yeah! Her!" The voice was excited now.

     Harold glanced through the control-room window toward the studio, where Greta was preparing for her next segment. "Sir, she's a horror movie hostess."

     "I know what she is! I watch her show!"

     "Well, that's very nice of you, but—"

     "There's something out at the old Josephson place!"

     Harold stopped. "The Josephson property?"

     "Yeah! Out past County Road Six! Near the old barn!"

     Harold looked toward the newspaper lying on the corner of his desk. Bob Mercer's smiling face stared up from the photograph. "What exactly did you see?"

     The man on the other end of the line began to sound annoyed, "I don't know what the hell it was!"

     Harold pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can you describe it?"

     "Big. Bigger'n a man. A lot bigger," the man said.

     "What else?" Harold asked.

     There was a pause, "It had horns."

     Harold picked up his pen again. "Horns?"

"Yeah! Like a bull!" The voice was clearly excited now.

     "Was it a bull?" Harold asked.

     The man on the other end of the line scoffed, "Do bulls walk on two legs?"

     Harold didn't answer immediately and the caller continued. "I was coming back from my brother's place. Took the old road past Josephson's. Something came out from behind that barn and walked right across the road in front of my truck!"

     "Could you have mistaken a deer for—" Harold started to ask.

     "It looked right at me!"

     The sudden shout made Harold pull the receiver away from his ear. "All right, sir. Calm down."

     "It had a face! Like a bull, but standing up like a man! And it was carrying a club, only bigger!"

     Harold wrote LARGE ANIMAL? on his notepad. "Have you been drinking tonight, sir?"

     "No! Well, yeah, I had two beers at my brother's, but that was hours ago and that's beside the point!"

     "I see." Harold replied.

     "Listen, mister, I know what I saw!"

     "I'm not saying you didn't."

     "Then send somebody out there!"

     "Sir, we're a television station. Have you called the sheriff?"

     "..."

     "Perhaps you should."

     "Yeah. Yeah, maybe I should."

     "Are you somewhere safe?"

     "I'm home. Got the doors locked."

     "Good. Stay there, and call the sheriff's department. Tell them exactly what you told me."

     "Okay."

     Harold was about to hang up when the man spoke again. "Mister?"

     "Yes?"

     "That thing... it wasn't no costume."
The line went dead.

     Harold stared at the receiver for a moment before replacing it. Harold picked up his pen. "Probably some kids messing around in costumes. Halloween's coming up."

     Memories of the "possessed cornfield" his staff had insisted was real back a couple months ago came back to him, "Probably."

     The telephone rang again. Harold sighed and picked it up. "KMEL, Jenkins speaking."

     A woman's voice answered. "Are you people aware that your horror movie program is encouraging children to pour toxic chemicals into the sewer system?"

     Harold closed his eyes. "No, ma'am. Quite the opposite, actually."
- - - - -
     After Greta's next segment, Harold appeared in the doorway. "Greta, got a minute?"

     "Sure. What's up?"

     "Had an interesting phone call."

     "Somebody complain about the sewer jokes?"

     "Not that one. Although we've had that call, too."

     Greta grinned.

     Harold held up his notepad. "Some fellow says he saw a monster near the old Josephson barn."

     Greta's grin widened. "Really?"

     "Don't get excited."

     "Too late."

     "Greta."

     "What kind of monster?"

     Harold looked at his notes. "Big. Horns. Walks on two legs."

     Greta stared at him. Then she slowly smiled. "Like a minotaur?"

     Harold sighed. "Of course you'd know what that is."

     "Harold, I host a horror movie show."

     "I am painfully aware."

     "Did he get a picture?"

     "No."

     "Footprints?"

     "Didn't ask."

     "Did it attack anybody?"

     "Not according to him."

     "Did he call the police?"

     "I told him to."

     Greta considered this. "Maybe we should check it out."

     "No."

     "Just drive by?"

     "No."

     "From a safe distance?"

     "Greta."

     "What?"

     Harold folded his notepad. "You're twenty years old, you're in college, and you're hosting a television program that involves waving rubber monsters at people. You are not going monster hunting in the middle of the night."

     Greta opened her mouth.

     Harold raised a finger. "And before you ask, no, we're not taking the station van."

     Greta closed her mouth. A moment later, she smiled, "What about Dusty's van?"

     "Good night, Greta."

     Harold walked away.

     Greta watched him go.

     Then she looked toward Elliot. "Did you hear that?"

     Elliot continued coiling a cable. "Every word."

     "What do you think?"

     He considered the question. "Well..."

     He glanced toward the darkened studio doorway. "I think you should listen to Harold."

     Greta frowned. "You're no fun."

     Elliot smiled faintly. "That's what people tell me."

     He picked up his toolkit and headed for the control room.

     Greta looked at the rubber tentacle in her hand. "A minotaur," she murmured. "That would be so cool."